"What mean you?" she cried at last; "what light can visit such darkness as mine?"
"Nay, but so it is, noble lady; a better lot awaits you. See, here is a letter: does not the throbbing of your heart already tell you from whose hand it comes?"
More he would have said; but, even as he spoke, Matilda sprang from her seat, and snatched the letter from his hand. Her bosom heaving, her cheeks glowing with a color that had long been a stranger to them, and tears of joy streaming down her cheeks, she broke the seal and tore off the silken cord; and thrice had her eyes wandered over the writing on the parchment ere she seemed to catch its purport. Then, at last, she understood it too well; unhappy maiden! her tears ceased not to flow, but the cause of them was changed; they were no longer tears of joy, but of new and bitter sorrow.
"Sir Adolf," at last she said, in a tone of deepest suffering, "your joy adds torture to my grief. What was it you said? light! Read, and weep with" me for my unhappy father."
The knight took the letter from Matilda's hands, and, as he read it, his countenance fell. For a moment he feared that the priest had dealt treacherously by him, and had made him the bearer of evil tidings; no sooner, however, had he fully possessed himself of the contents of the letter than his suspicions vanished; but recollecting his incautious exclamations, he was seized with self-reproach, and remained silent and lost in thought. And now compassion filled Matilda's breast; seeing him musing so sadly, with his eyes fixed mournfully upon the letter, she repented of her hasty words, and approached him where he stood, while a smile gleamed through her tears.
“Forgive me, Sir Adolf," she said; "be not thus troubled. Think not that I am angry with you for having raised my hopes too high; full well I know the fervor of your zeal for all that touches me and mine. Believe me, Adolf, I am not ungrateful for your generous self-devotion."
"Princely lady," he exclaimed, "I have not raised your hopes too high. I repeat, there is light for you, and my joy is not in vain. All that the letter tells you was known to me already; but it was not for that I so rejoiced. Dry your tears, lady, again I say, and cease your mourning; for soon your father shall press you to his heart."
"What!" cried Matilda, "can it indeed be true? Shall I, then, see my father, and speak to him? But why torture me thus? why talk to me in riddles? Oh Adolf! speak, I pray you, and free my heart from doubt."
A slight shade of vexation passed across the young knight's countenance. Gladly would he have given her the explanation that she sought; but his generous spirit could not bear to publish his own deserts. He answered therefore, in an earnest tone:
"I pray you, illustrious lady, take not my silence amiss. Be assured that you shall in truth see my lord, your father; that you shall hear his beloved voice, receive his warm embrace; and that too, on the soil of our own dear Flanders. More to tell you is not in my power."
But the young maiden was not to be thus put off. A double feeling—her woman's curiosity and a lingering doubt—alike impelled her not to rest till she had discovered the solution of the enigma. Evidently not well pleased, she began again:
"But do. Sir Adolf—do tell me what this is which you would fain conceal from me. You surely do not rate my discretion so low as to suppose that I shall betray your secret—I that have so much at stake?'
“I pray you, spare me, lady?" he replied: "it is impossible. I must not, I can not tell you more."
With each refusal or evasion of the knight, Matilda's curiosity grew more and more. Again and again she pressed him to disclose his secret; but all in vain. To curiosity succeeded impatience, to impatience, irritation; till at last she lost all selfcommand, and burst into a flood of tears, like a child that can not have its way.
Adolf could now resist no longer; he resolved to tell her all, however much it might cost him to be the herald of his own self-sacrifice. Matilda soon read her victory in his countenance, and drawing more closely to him, regarded him with a smile of pleasure, while he thus addressed her:
"Listen, then, lady, since it must be so, and hear in how wonderful a manner this letter and these joyful tidings reached me. I had wandered out toward Sevecote, and was sitting upon a bank deep in thought, fervently beseeching Heaven to have mercy upon my lawful but unhappy lord. Suddenly, happening to raise my head, to my surprise I saw before me a stranger priest. In the instant it seemed to me that my prayer had been heard, and that some consolation was at hand, of which this stranger was to be the minister. And so it was, lady; for it was from his hand that I received the letter, and from his mouth the happy news. Your noble father has obtained from a generous keeper the boon of a few days' liberty; but on condition that another knight takes his place in prison."
"Oh, joy!" exclaimed Matilda; "I shall see him! I shall speak with him! Ah, my father! how has my heart longed for one kiss from your lips! O Adolf, I am beside myself with joy! How sweet are your words, my brother! But who will be willing to take my father's place?"
"The man is already found," was the brief reply.
"The blessings of our Lord be