"My last indirect news of Ferdinand I had about ten years ago. He had married some time before a very beautiful girl of an ancient and noble family. This second wife, however, whom he was said to have loved most devotedly, also died after a short time, leaving him an only child,--a daughter. He had been inconsolable for her loss, and was leading a more retired life even than before, scarcely ever leaving his castle, Reifenstein. Buried in his books, he repelled all advances from his neighbours, and was regarded in all the country round as a proud, inaccessible aristocrat. He had become a Catholic, and observed with great rigour all the duties and fasts of his church, although, in accordance with a promise made to her Protestant mother, he brought up his daughter in the Protestant faith. "After this indirect intelligence, which I had some time since from a friend visiting in the Tyrol, I heard nothing farther of my brother until I received a letter from himself, about a week ago. At first I was undecided whether to break the seal or to return it to him unopened, as I had done by the first I had from him. At last I opened it, and yet, after I had read it, I was more undecided than before. The memory of the disgraceful past prompted me to burn it, while reason bade me give it to you. Since I received it I have always carried it about with me. Now I am glad that I did not burn it, since that has happened which I never could have anticipated. "I was convinced that an honourable career was assured to you; that, without any outside aid, you would have attained the highest military honours. All that is past. Here is your uncle's letter; read it yourself." Leo took the letter which his father handed him, and eagerly ran through it. It was as follows: "More than thirty years have passed since that miserable evening which exiled me forever from my native country. Are you still implacable, Hans? My first letter to you, begging your forgiveness, was returned to me unopened. Will this one share the same fate? If it should, we are parted forever. For humbled as is my pride I cannot, for the third time, offer in reconciliation a hand that has been twice rejected. But no; I know you will read these lines. These long years must surely have softened your hard judgment. You will remember sadly, as I do, the happy days of childhood, and no longer think with hatred and aversion of the brother whom you once loved so tenderly. "Let us now, as old men, Hans, forget what occurred in that wretched night. Let us reflect that we, brothers, are the last of the noble race of the von Heydecks, and resolve together to do what we can to revive the half-extinguished lustre of our ancient name. "Daring the thirty melancholy years which I have passed in exile,--by my father's curse an outcast from my family,--the consciousness of being a Heydeck has upheld me and saved me from much degradation to which want might have compelled me.