one movement of your hand, one sound of your voice, and my death is certain. But what is the scaffold compared with the hourly torture of the closed heart and the silent lip? Lady, if I die for it, I will tell you I love you."
Pale, trembling, Sophie leant against the wall for support—"This is too cruel," said she faintly, "why run such a dreadful risk?"
"You care for my life, then?" cried he, again kneeling at her feet, "ah! I feel that it is precious—sweetest, dearest—the gold that gave me access will insure my retreat—only tell me that you do not hate me—that you will sometimes suffer me to look on a face dearer to me than heaven."
Sophie had but a woman’s answer to give—tears, bitter tears.
"Do not weep," whispered he rising, and taking her hand, "I cannot feel sad while I see you. Oh! do you know what it is to be happy on a look?—Oh! look at me, dearest—let me hear one word—I care not what it is, if I do but hear your voice."
Sophie struggled with an emotion that would not be subdued; her heart beat till it choked her voice; her lips moved, but the sound was inaudible.
"How beautiful you are, but how pale—are you wretched too?" and he fixed his large dark and mournful eyes on hers. "I could talk to you of hours, long miserable hours, but I forget them now—shall I not often forget them? Tell me, loveliest, may I not sometimes return? Tell me the next time that I come you will expect me."
"No!" muttered the Electress, with a cold shudder.
"Do you fear?" exclaimed the Count, a slight curve on his scornful lip. "Will you not," added he in a more pleading tone, "hazard a little for my sake? Forgive me—but I love you so madly, that I even hope"
