Yes, his brother's bride; he loved her, loved
her to madness. He felt—now when he knew
site was lost to him for ever the full force of
the burning passion with which he loved her.
Why should his brother stand between him
and Marie? Had he rescued her from death?
Had he borne her through the storm? And
Marie herself. Why had she deceived him:
why had she given him a false name? And
when he had spoken of Ernst, why had she
not told him all? Even the ring of betrothal,
he had never seen; had she even
laid that aside to deceive him? If she had
but told him all, when she found out who
he was, he would have conquered his feelings
whilst they were yet undeveloped; at
any rate, they would not have reached their
present height; and, had he found that he
could not contemplate his brother's union
with her with composure, at least he would
have returned to Rome—could have made
some excuse. But now everyone had been a
witness to his madness, and his crime was
known to all. On he fled! Day broke, and
night came, and day broke again, and still
he fled—onward, onward.

At last, exhausted nature could bear no
more; and one day he awoke, weak and
trembling, like a child, and found himself in
a small but poorly-furnished room—the best
bed-room of the small inn of a little town,
scarcely better than a village. He was told
that he had been picked up on the road,
apparently dead, and had been brought in.
He had been there ten days; he had been
delirious, and had had frightful dreams. He
tried to rise up in the bed on which he lay;
but he fell back on the pillow. Recollection
returned to him. Was it a continuation of
the horrid nightmare of his delirium, or was
it a reality? The whole truth soon re-entered
his mind; but he no longer raved when he
remembered all; he was too weak. He
would write to Ernst; he would tell him how
involuntary his fault was, and how deeply he
repented it.

And Marie, she who had been a pure and
holy ideal to him so long—a form to
place in heavenly visions—she, a worthless
vain heartless woman, who cared not who
suffered ruin, if she could only win admiration.
Ah! why did he not leave her to
the wolves that night? Better that Ernst
should have wept for his bride, than to
have been betrayed by her. Why had he
not perished in the storm? Better that
Ernst should have wept for him, than have
been betrayed by his brother, who owed him
everything. Then the thought flashed across
his mind, might she not be innocent? Yes,
she was innocent, pure as an angel. She knew
he was Ernst's brother; it was as sister that
she had answered his looks of love; as a
sister she had allowed his lips to rest on her
forehead, her head to lean upon his heart.
And then, had he not saved her from a cruel
death? Gratitude alone would impel her to
show affection to him, greater even than could
have been granted to the brother of her betrothed.
Oh, he alone was the criminal;
and he alone would bear the punishment.
Let Ernst and Marie be happy.

And so he wandered on—no longer flying
but listless, despairing—he scarcely knew
where. He had some faint recollection of
selling a ring of some value, which he found
on his hand; and then of modelling a dog—a
wolf-hound and selling that for very little
money for his wants were few.

At length, one day, he found himself in
Rome, walking up the street where he had
lodgings, in what had once been a palace.
Entering the door, a pretty young woman
dropped him a curtsey, and led the way up
a broad staircase. She unlocked a door; he
entered. It was his room. There was the
unfinished picture which he had left, to obey
Ernst's summons to Kronenthal, where his
presence had turned that happiness into
sorrow.

He sank upon a chair and hid his face in
his hands. " Is the signor tired? " asked the
pretty young woman in her soft language.
"Can I bring him some wine? Will he not
take something?"

Eric looked up. He made sign to her that
he wanted nothing. " Is this the signor's
beautiful dog? " she inquired, pointing to a
large wolf-hound that lay beside his chair,
panting. " Poor hound, he is tired; he seems
quite footsore. I will fetch him some water."
And the young woman went out.

Eric stooped down to look at the dog.
It was Schwartz who lay there, Schwartz,
who had traced him out on that fatal night;
who had followed him all through his wanderings.
Unconsciously Eric had fed him;
unconsciously patted and stroked him; unconsciously
modelled him and sold the
model one day, to pay for his night's
lodging. Her dog! Marie's dog! Why
had it clung to him? Why followed him?
At first he felt tempted to chase him from
his sight; but Schwartz got up, put his large
paws on Eric's knees, and looked into his
eyes. Eric looked at him. It was his own
dog, the dog he reared himself, the dog he
had taken out for his first hunt, the last time
he had been at Kronenthal. Ernst had given
him to Marie; but the dog preferred his
old master. How was it that he had not
recognised him before?

"Poor fellow, you are more faithful than
I have been. I am not worthy to have
you as my friend; but remain with me,
Schwartz."

He found several letters waiting for him.
Two or three bore the post-mark of Stettin.
These he flung into a drawer, and locking it,
threw the key out of the window. " Nothing
shall tempt me," he said, "to read those
letters. Who knows if I might be able to
resist their entreaties to return? " And then
he wandered out, day and night, in the first