12. XII.
Compelled to be silent, she yet remained unsatisfied.
A feverish curiosity was gnawing at her
heart. What could be the matter with Albert?
Were they not secure in their retreat? — was he
impatient so soon of the pleasant fetters which
love and her fond arms had woven around him?
She conjectured, vainly, of a thousand causes for
his suffering, dismissing, as idle, each suggestion
of her mind, as soon as it presented itself. Her
thoughts were sleepless, and they kept her so.
That night she heard strange noises in her chamber
— strange though slight. She had resolved
to keep awake, and yet, even while she strove, it
seemed as if a blessed breeze came about her, in a
murmuring whisper, that glided into song at length,
and filled the air with a slumberous power. She
felt the sleep wrapping her still resisting limbs as
with a garment of melody, and though she strove
to burst its fetters, and her eyes persisted occasionally
in looking forth, they were at length compelled
to yield the struggle. Yet, ere they
closed entirely, it appeared as if a red and lovely
light, pointed and raying out like a golden star,
wavered and flickered around the couch where
she slept, fondly clasped in the arms of Albert. It
was not quite dawn when she awakened from
that sleep, and then it seemed as if she had been
awakened by a cold and sudden wind, which passed
over her face while yet in a state of dim and
doubtful consciousness; she felt the form of Albert,
which before had lain quietly beside her, suddenly
convulsed as if with spasms; and when she turned
to him and met the glance of his eyes, they were
wild beyond description. They glanced sadly,
and almost with an expression of gloom upon her,
and she felt as if he had repulsed her. But when,
under the agony of that thought, she threw her
arms around his neck, he returned her embrace
with a fondness that answered fully, if it did not
exceed, her own.
