She had allowed her hand still to remain in his, she had led him to the door, which she opened herself. Surprised, subdued, the Count obeyed the impulse; but he paused on the threshold, when a slight noise caught his quick ear. He looked in its direction, and from one of the ballustrades of the winding gallery, saw a face looking down. It was but a glance, yet he recognised the coarse though fine features, and the black hair, of one of the Elector’s favourites. At once he felt the prudence of retreat, and he obeyed the sign to depart, while Sophie leant, white as a corpse, and almost as inanimate, on the threshold.
"Farewell," murmured she, "farewell, Count Koningsmarke, for ever."
The words had only died on the pale lip which scarcely moved to utter them, when she saw the ground open beneath Koningsmarkds feet. A trap door, purposely left unfastened, had yielded to his weight; he disappeared, and the arches of the gothic gallery reverberated to one last and fearful cry of human agony. Sophie sprang forward—a natural impulse of horror induced her to start back from the dark abyss that yawned at her feet. Surely, far down in the darkness, she saw the glitter of jewels, and she heard one low groan—and then all was silent as the grave. She cast one desperate glance to heaven, and dashed herself forward, when her progress was arrested by a slight figure that threw itself between her and the brink of the chasm—Mimi had saved her mistress.
PART III.
Years, long dreary years, had past in the old castle, to which the jealousy of the Elector had consigned his consort. For years, the eyes of Sophie had never looked beyond the battlemented walls, and had dwelt only on the faces of her jailors.
