“Leave Naples!” the girl cried, with a sudden look of alarm; “having done nothing—­having tried nothing?” Then she added, in a lower voice, “Well, yes, mother, I suppose it is true what they say, that one can do nothing by remaining.  Perhaps—­perhaps we ought to go; and yet it is terrible.”

She shivered slightly as she spoke.

“You see, Natalushka,” her mother said, determined to distract her attention somehow, “this is an expensive hotel; we must be thinking of what money we have left to take us back.  We have been here some time; and it is a costly journey, all the way to England.”

“Oh, but not to England—­not to England, mother!” Natalie exclaimed, quickly.

“Why not to England, then?”

“Anywhere else, mother,” the daughter pleaded.  If you wish it, we will go away:  no doubt General von Zoesch knows best; there is no hope.  We will go away from Naples, mother; and—­and you know I shall not be much of a tax on you.  We will live cheaply somewhere; and perhaps I could help a little by teaching music, as Madame Potecki does.  Whenever you wish it, I am ready to go.”

“But why not to England?”

“I cannot tell you, mother.”

She rose quickly, and passed into her own room and shut the door.

There she stood for a second or two, irresolute and breathless, like one who had just escaped into a place of refuge.  Then her eyes fell on her writing desk, which was on a side-table, and open.  Slowly, and with a strange, pained expression about her mouth, she went and sat down, and took out some writing materials, and absently and mechanically arranged them before her.  Her eyes were tearless, but once or twice she sighed deeply.  After a time she began to write with an unsteady hand: 

“My Dearest,—­You must let me send you a few lines of farewell; for it would be hard if, in saying good-bye, one were not permitted to say a kind word or two that could be remembered afterward.  And your heart will have already told you why it is not for you and me now to look forward to the happiness that once seemed to lie before us.  You know what a terrible result has followed from my rashness; but then you are free—­that is something; for the rest, perhaps it is less misery to die, than to live and know that you have caused another’s death.  You remember, the night they played Fidelio, I told you I should always try to remain worthy of your love; and how could I keep that promise if I permitted myself to think of enjoying a happiness that was made possible at the cost of my father’s life?  You could not marry a woman so unnatural, so horrible:  a marriage purchased at such a price would be foredoomed; there would be a guilty consciousness, a life-long remorse.  But why do I speak?  Your heart tells you the same thing.  There only remains for us to say good-bye, and to thank God for the gleam of happiness that shone on us for a little time.