of the fir forest yonder. It was a pleasanter scene than that ghostly parlour, and Magda felt, an irrepressible longing to go forth into the moonlight; to stand, but for five minutes, on that bridge under the clear vault of Heaven, to be so much nearer to Albrecht for a little space, before going to her bed—for in this room she felt it would make her too nervous to sit up any longer. She touched a hand-bell, and Hanne entered.
"Can I" . . . faltered the young Gräfin, annoyed to find her summons thus answered. . . . "Can I step out upon the bridge for a few minutes? Can the castle-gate be unlocked?"
For a second it seemed as if Hanne hesitated.
"The gracious lady's commands shall be obeyed."
She left the room, and a minute or two afterwards Bettine brought in the queer old hat and spencer.
"I want nothing," she said; but she threw the spencer over her arm; "it is so warm. Come with me, Bettine;" and, passing through the unlocked door of the tower, they traversed the long passage, and descended to the hall. The gate had been unbarred by the old servants, who stood one on each side of it, rigidly erect, as their young mistress passed out.
It was as though a great weight were lifted from her head when she felt the warm night wind blow upon her face, and the myriad stars of Heaven above her, instead of the low-beamed roof and worm-eaten panels of that oppressive room. She stood, flooded in moonlight, upon the bridge, and, leaning over the parapet, looked down at the stars in the water, and up at the schloss, on which the moon fell slantways. She could examine its exterior now more leisurely. There was her tower, with its low parlour window below, and the wide-mouthed oriel above, casting a sharp projection of black shade upon the building. Her eye wandered over the many other windows of the schloss, no two of the same size, or at the same level, but set irregularly over the face of the building at uncertain intervals.
One of them, and one alone, stood open; and even now, as Magda looked, a strange thing came to pass.
The fancy seized her that she caught sight of a white face at this window, staring down at her with eyes that glittered in the moonlight.
It was a delusion, no doubt. There was a thin white curtain at this window, which the night breeze fluttered now and again. And, more than this, Hanne's hard grey-haired head appeared, unmistakeable in the clear moonlight, a moment later. To either of these causes it was possible to refer the strange impression produced on Magda; and then the excited state of her nerves rendered her singularly susceptible to such a fancy as this.
While she argued thus with herself, the spencer, which had been gradually slipping from her arm, fell on the parapet, its black arms flying in the breeze, and dropped into the water with a heavy splash. Bettine gave a little cry, but it was echoed by one louder and shriller, and this certainly came from the open window!
"What was that?" said Magda, startled.
Bettine made as though she heard not, but began calling lustily to one of the men to bring a boat-hook, and fish up the gracious lady's mantle.
"Did you not hear a very peculiar sharp cry?" asked Magda, again. "Who could it be?—not Hanne?"
"Yes, begging the Frau Gräfin's pardon—that is the Hanne's room . . . no doubt it was the Hanne's voice . . . it is somewhat shrill, by times."
The face was turned away, and it seemed to Magda that she spoke with a certain hesitation; but these were her words, and she added nothing to them, busying herself thenceforward with the recovery of the garment, which had been carried by the current half way round the moat. Magda felt by no means satisfied or reassured. There, at the window, was the stern grey face of Hanne, watching her, she knew; it seemed difficult to believe that so self-contained a woman should have yielded to the weakness of screaming! The young gräfin turned away with a shudder, she scarce knew why, and walked slowly to the further end of the bridge. And here her eye was attracted by something white on the furthest stone of the parapet, upon which the moonlight fell. She stooped; it was a piece of paper, on which some pebbles had been placed, to prevent the wind's carrying it away. She took it up, and read easily, in the clear moonlight, these words:
"Be of good courage, for my sake. Remember, I am near you. "A."
There came a rush of blood to the poor chilled heart; it was as though new life
