and nobly counselled me; I have since thought of it
with wonder. You have a noble heart.'

'Otto,' she said, 'spare me. Was it even right, I wonder? I have
duties, too, you poor child; and when I see you they all melt--all my
good resolutions fly away.'

'And mine still come too late,' he replied, sighing. 'O, what would I
not give to have resisted? What would I not give for freedom?'

'Well, what would you give?' she asked; and the red fan was spread; only
her eyes, as if from over battlements, brightly surveyed him.

'I? What do you mean? Madam, you have some news for me,' he cried.

'O, O!' said madam dubiously.

He was at her feet. 'Do not trifle with my hopes,' he pleaded. 'Tell
me, dearest Madame von Rosen, tell me! You cannot be cruel: it is not in
your nature. Give? I can give nothing; I have nothing; I can only plead
in mercy.'

'Do not,' she said; 'it is not fair. Otto, you know my weakness. Spare
me. Be generous.'

'O, madam,' he said, 'it is for you to be generous, to have pity.' He
took her hand and pressed it; he plied her with caresses and appeals.
The Countess had a most enjoyable sham siege, and then relented. She
sprang to her feet, she tore her dress open, and, all warm from her
bosom, threw the order on the floor.

'There!' she cried. 'I forced it from her. Use it, and I am ruined!'
And she turned away as if to veil the force of her emotions.

Otto sprang upon the paper, read it, and cried out aloud. 'O, God bless
her!' he said, 'God bless her.' And he kissed the writing.

Von Rosen was a singularly good-natured woman, but her part was now
beyond her. 'Ingrate!' she cried; 'I wrung it from her, I betrayed my
trust to get it, and 'tis she you thank!'

'Can you blame me?' said the Prince. 'I love her.'

'I see that,' she said. 'And I?'

'You, Madame von Rosen? You are my dearest, my kindest, and most
generous of friends,' he said, approaching her. 'You would be a perfect
friend, if you were not so lovely. You have a great sense of humour, you
cannot be unconscious of your charm, and you amuse yourself at times by
playing on my weakness; and at times I can take pleasure in the comedy.
But not to-day: to-day you will be the true, the serious, the manly
friend, and you will suffer me to forget that you are lovely and that I
am weak. Come, dear Countess, let me to-day repose in you entirely.'

He held out his hand, smiling, and she took it frankly. 'I vow you h