But Elise did not like to give herself up to these reveries, and at times had a silent horror even of her own thoughts.  She did not like to confess to herself that she still hoped in the man who had betrayed her.  She had, as it were, a sympathizing pity with herself; she threw a veil over her heart, to hide from herself that it still quivered with pain and love.  Only at times, in the quiet and solitude of her chamber, she ventured to draw aside the veil, to look down into the depths of her soul, and, in agonizing delight, in one dream blend together the present and the past.  She leaned back in her chair, her large dark eyes fixed on vacancy.  Some passage in the book had reminded her of her own sad love, had struck on her heart like the hammer of a bell, and in response it had returned but one single note, the word “Feodor.”

“Ah, Feodor!” she whispered to herself, but with a shudder at the name, and a blush suffused her otherwise pale cheeks for a moment.  “It is the first time my lips have spoken his name, but my heart is constantly repeating it in hopeless grief, and in my dreams he still lives.  I have accepted my fate; to the world I have separated from him; to myself, never!  Oh, how mysterious is the heart!  I hate and yet I love him.”  She covered her face with her hands, and sat long silent and motionless.  A noise at the door aroused her.  It was only Marianne, her maid, who came to announce that a strange gentleman was outside, who earnestly requested to speak to her.  Elise trembled, she knew not why.  A prophetic dread seized her soul, and in a voice scarcely audible she asked the name of her visitor.

“He will not give his name,” answered the maid.  “He says the name is of no consequence.  He had a letter to deliver from the Countess Lodoiska, of St. Petersburg.”

Elise uttered a cry, and sprang from her seat—­she knew all.  Her heart told her that he was near.  It must be himself.  She felt as if she must hasten to her father for protection and safety; but her feet refused to carry her.  She trembled so, that she was obliged to hold on to the arm of a chair to keep herself from falling.  She motioned with her hand to deny him admittance, but Marianne did not understand her; for, opening the door, she invited the stranger in, and then left him.

And now they stood in presence of each other, silent and breathless—­Elise trembling with excitement and bitter feeling, wrestling with her own emotion, and deeply abashed by the meeting.  Both uttered an inward prayer—­but how different were their two aspirations!

“Now, God or devil!” thought Feodor, “give my words power, lend enchantment to my tongue, that I may win Elise!”

Elise prayed to herself:  “Have mercy on me, O God!  Take this love from me, or let me die.”