But he was a youth of high principle and true courage. On recovering
from his swoon he wept a flood of bitter tears, which would not, however,
wash the scars from his disfigured face. He prayed long and earnestly;
then shut himself up with his father. Each wrote a letter, the one to M.
des Rameures, the other to Elise. M. des Rameures and his niece were
then in Germany. The excitement and fatigue consequent upon nursing her
cousin had so broken her health that the physicians urged a trial of the
baths of Ems. There she received these letters; they released her from
her engagement and gave her absolute liberty.

Roland and his father implored her not to return in haste; explained that
their intention was to leave the country in a few weeks' time and
establish themselves at Paris; and added that they expected no answer,
and that their resolution--impelled by simple justice to her--was
irrevocable.

Their wishes were complied with. No answer came.

Roland, his sacrifice once made, seemed calm and resigned; but he fell
into a sort of languor, which made fearful progress and hinted at a
speedy and fatal termination, for which in fact he seemed to long. One
evening they had taken him to the lime-tree terrace at the foot of the
garden. He gazed with absent eye on the tints with which the setting sun
purpled the glades of the wood, while his father paced the terrace with
long strides-smiling as he passed him and hastily brushing away a tear as
he turned his back.

Suddenly Elise de Tecle appeared before them, like an angel dropped from
heaven. She knelt before the crippled youth, kissed his hand, and,
brightening him with the rays of her beautiful eyes, told him she never