The Prince looked at the old man in astonishment; he had greeted him with marked respect, in consequence of the many things Gotthold had told him about him; but it seemed like a fairy tale that any one now in existence could have gone hunting with Malte von Prora, who had lived in the times of Frederick the Great, and been sent to Berlin on a diplomatic mission by the Swedish government before the Seven Years' War. "It is impossible for me to give you so much trouble," said he, "quite impossible." But the old man did not seem to notice the polite refusal; he had already taken his staff, and with long regular strides led the way out of the garden, where this conversation had taken place. The Prince, with a smile, hurried after him. "At least your Highness will allow us to follow you," said Gotthold. "I beg you to do so," replied the Prince, "for the sake of the old man, who might not be satisfied with my company for any length of time," and then drawing Gotthold a few steps aside, he continued: "We have an hour, don't let it be passed unused. Since I have seen this lady, I understand all you have not told me, you most silent of men. May God take these mute lovers under His gracious protection!" Gotthold walked slowly back to the spot where he had left Cecilia, and saw her still sitting in the same thoughtful attitude. Would she speak to-day, or would she keep silence as she had done hitherto--let him go in silence? He went up and took the hand that hung by her side. "Cecilia?" She slowly raised her dark lashes, and looked at him with an expression of touching entreaty. "I am not to bid you speak, I am to leave you in silence, Cecilia! And yet it must be uttered; so let me say it for you. You could tell the secret only to a woman, and to a woman you would not need to do so; she would understand you without words. Was it not so? Should love be less clear-sighted than the eyes of a sympathizing friend? I do not know, I can only tell you what I read in your heart. And it is this, Cecilia: you love me, but dare not yield to your feelings; nay, you shrink from the thought of becoming my wife, as if it were a sin--against whom? It sounds cruel, Cecilia, and yet I must say it: against your pride. That is what you fear--yourself, not me. You know as well as that the sun is setting yonder to rise again to-morrow, that no day, no hour will come when I shall reproach you by word or look for having been--so unhappy, so unspeakably wretched; you know that I--as I think--have nothing to forgive you. But you, Cecilia, think you can never forgive yourself; you think, because when you were an inexperienced girl of sixteen you made a mistake, repentance and shame must follow you all your future life; repentance and shame would frighten you from my arms if you ever obeyed the impulse of your heart and threw yourself into them."