self,’ he added tenderly, dwelling, it seemed, in memory on hours of more private admiration. ‘But now, madam’
‘But now, Herr von Gondremark, the time for these declarations has gone by,’ she cried. ‘Are you true to me? are you false? Look in your heart and answer: it is your heart I want to know.’
‘It has come,’ thought Gondremark. ‘You, madam!’ he cried, starting back—with fear, you would have said, and yet a timid joy. ‘You! yourself, you bid me look into my heart?’
‘Do you suppose I fear?’ she cried, and looked at him with such a heightened colour, such bright eyes, and a smile of so abstruse a meaning, that the Baron discarded his last doubt.
‘Ah, madam!’ he cried, plumping on his knees. ‘Seraphina! Do you permit me? have you divined my secret? It is true—I put my life with joy into your power—I love you, love with ardour, as an equal, as a mistress, as a brother-in-arms, as an adored, desired, sweet-hearted woman. O Bride!’ he cried, waxing dithyrambic, ‘bride of my reason and my senses, have pity, have pity on my love!’
She heard him with wonder, rage, and then contempt. His words offended her to sickness; his appearance, as he grovelled bulkily
