"Sit down," she reiterated: and Karl took his elbow from the mantel-piece, and obeyed her. He did not seem very much impressed with what he was about to hear: at least not to the extent that her preparation seemed to justify. Each leaned forward, looking at the other. Mrs. Andinnian had her arms on the elbows of her chair; Karl's were crossed. "First of all, Karl, you will take an oath, a solemn vow to God, that you will never disclose this secret to any human being without my consent." "Is this necessary, mother?" "It is necessary for you and for me," she sharply answered, as if the question vexed her. "I tell you nothing unless you do." Karl rose, and took the oath. Resuming his seat as before, he waited. No, she could not say it. They sat, gazing at each other, she in agitation, he in expectancy; and for a minute or two she literally could not say what she had to say. It came forth at last. Only four words. Only four words. But Karl Andinnian as he heard them sprang up with a cry: almost as the ill-fated man Martin Scott had sprung, when shot to death by his brother. "Mother! This cannot be true!" Mrs. Andinnian went over to him and pushed him gently into his chair. "Hush, Karl; make no noise," she soothingly whispered. "It would not do, you see, for the household to be alarmed." He looked up at his mother with a kind of frightened gaze. She turned away and resumed her seat. Karl sat still, tumultuous ideas crowding on him one after another. "You should have disclosed this to me before I engaged myself to marry," he cried at last with a burst of emotion. "But don't you see, Karl, I did not know of your intended marriage. It is because you have informed me of it to-night that I disclose it now." "Would you have kept it from me always?" "That could not have been. You must have heard it some time. Listen, Karl: you shall have the story from beginning to end." It was one o'clock in the morning, before Karl Andinnian quitted his mother's room. His face seemed to have aged years. Any amount of perplexity he could have borne for himself, and borne it calmly; but he did not know how to grapple with this. For what had been disclosed to him ought to do away with his proposed marriage. He did not attempt to go to bed. The whole of the rest of the night he paced his room, grievously tormented as to what course he should take. The wind, howling and raging around the house--for it was one of the most turbulent of nights--seemed but an index of his turbulent mind. He knew that in honour he was bound to disclose the truth to Colonel Cleeve and Lucy; but this might not be. Not only was he debarred by his oath; but the facts themselves did not admit of disclosure. In the confusion of his mind he said to his mother, "May I not give a hint of this to Lucy Cleeve, and let her then take me or leave me?" and Mrs. Andinnian had replied by demanding whether he was mad. In truth, it would have been nothing short of madness.