"Hope!" repeated she, with a strange and hollow accent, "hope!"
"Yes," continued Koningsmarke, "beloved by you, every thing seems possible."
"Every thing but guilt," said the Electress, who seemed startled into composure by the sound of her own voice.
"Guilt!" interrupted the Count, "there is no guilt in the worship I pay to you, even as to my good angel. You will but pity me; but look upon me with those sweet eyes, whose light makes me believe in heaven."
"Hush!" said the Princess, "I have already listened too long. A wife and a mother, I have not a thought or a feeling at my own disposal; I have not appointed my own lot, but I submit to the will of God. Sir, you must at once leave my presence."
"And will you sacrifice me," exclaimed he passionately, "to these phantoms of duty—cold—~vain."
"My own heart," replied she faintly, "tells me that they are neither cold nor vain. Again I bid you leave me."
"I cannot. Think, Sophie——ah! let me call you so, before you reject love so devoted—you will never be so adored again," and he pressed the cold wan hand he still held to his heart.
The Electress stood for a few moments the very image of despair; the damps rose upon her forehead, there was not a vestige of colour on lip or cheek, and the face looked yet more pale from the masses of golden hair that hung around it. A shudder of convulsive agony wrenched her slight frame; but her resolution was taken.
"Count Koningsmarke," said she in low, hollow, but distinct tones, "I will confess to you that I am more wretched than you can be; but he who has heard so much from my lips, must hear no more. To-morrow will, I trust, see you on your way from Hanover."
