every step in the long halls, and every moment I waited, my position
became more unendurable. The old family portraits of the princely
house hung upon the walls--knights in full armor, ladies in antique
costume, and in the center a lady in the white robes of a nun with a
red cross upon her breast. At any other time I might have looked upon
these pictures and never thought that a human heart once beat in their
breasts. But now it seemed to me I could suddenly read whole volumes
in their features, and that all of them said to me: "We also have once
lived and suffered." Under these iron armors secrets were once hidden
as even now in my own breast. These white robes and the red cross are
real proofs that a battle was fought here like that now raging in my
own heart. Then I fancied all of them regarded me with pity, and a
loftier haughtiness rested on their features as if they would say, Thou
dost not belong to us. I was growing uneasy every moment, when
suddenly a light step dissipated my dream. The English lady came down
the stairs and asked me to step into an apartment. I looked at her
closely to see if she suspected my real emotions, but her face was
perfectly calm, and without manifesting the slightest expression of
curiosity or wonder, she said in measured tones, the Countess was much
better to-day and would see me in half an hour.

When I heard these words, I felt like the good swimmer who has ventured
far out into the sea, and first thinks of returning when his arms have
begun to grow weary. He cleaves the waves with haste, scarcely
venturing to cast a glance at the distant shore, feeling with every
stroke that his strength is failing and that he is making no headway,
until at last, purposeless and cramped, he scarcely has any realization
of his position; then suddenly his foot touches the firm bottom, and
his arm hugs the first rock on the shore. A fresh reality confronted
me, and my sufferings were a dream. There are but few such moments in