e out of his senses. It
seemed so awful to him, because he had been so much, the very day
before, with poor Hallberg."

"Ay," answered Edward, whose suspicions were being more and more
confirmed every moment. "And did he see the corpse? did he go into the
chamber of death?"

"No," replied the captain; "he assured us it was out of his power to do
so; he could not bear the sight; and I believe it. People with such
uncontrolled feelings as this D'Effernay, are incapable of performing
those duties which others think it necessary and incumbent on them to
fulfill."

"And where was Hallberg buried?"

"Not far from the Castle where the mournful event took place. To-morrow,
if we go to the iron foundry, we shall be near the spot."

"I am glad of it," cried Edward, eagerly, while a host of projects rose
up in his mind. "But now, captain, I will not trespass any longer on
your kindness. It is late, and we must be up betimes to-morrow. How far
have we to go?"

"Not less than four leagues, certainly. D'Effernay has arranged that we
shall drive there, and see it all at our leisure: then we shall return
in the evening. Good night, Wensleben."

They separated: Edward hurried to his room; his heart overflowed. Sorrow
on the one hand, horror and even hatred on the other, agitated him by
turns. It was long before he could sleep. For the third time the vision
haunted him; but now it was clearer than before; now he saw plainly the
features of him who lay in bed, and of him who stood beside the
bed--they were those of Hallberg and of D'Effernay.

This third apparition, the exact counterpart of the two former (only
more vivid), all that he had gathered from conversations on the subject,
and the contents of Emily's letter, left scarcely the shadow of a doubt
remaining as to how his friend had left the world.

D'Effernay's jealous and passionate nature seemed to allow of the
possibility of such a crime, and it could scarcely be wondered at, if
Edward regarded him with a feeling akin to hatred. Indeed the desire of
visiting Hallberg's grave, in order to place the ring in the coffin,
could alone reconcile Wensleben to the idea of remaining any longer
beneath the roof of a man whom he now considered the murderer of his
friend. His mind was a prey to conflicting doubts: detestation for the
culprit, and grief for the victim, pointed out one line of conduct,
while the difficulty of proving D'Effernay's guilt, and still more, pity
and cons