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 pay him her usual visit. This thought took more and more hold of him, until at the approach of evening his whole mind was absorbed in it.

How his heart beat when darkness closed in. The words which he had said to Rosa on the evening before, and which had so deeply afflicted her, came now back to his mind more vividly than ever; and he asked himself how he could have told his gentle comforter to sacrifice him to his tulip, that is to say to give up, if needs be, seeing him, whereas to him the sight of Rosa had become a condition of life.

In Cornelius’ cell one heard the chimes of the clock of the fortress. It struck seven, it struck eight, it struck nine. Never did the metal voice vibrate more forcibly through the heart of any man than did the last stroke, marking the ninth hour, through the heart of Cornelius.

All was then silent again. Cornelius put his hand on his heart, to repress, as it were, its violent palpitation, and listened.

The noise of her footstep, the rustling of her gown on the staircase, were so familiar to his ear, that she had no sooner mounted one step, than he used to say to himself,—

“Here comes Rosa.”

This evening none of those little noises broke the silence of the lobby; the clock struck nine, and a quarter; the half hour; then a quarter to ten; and at last its deep tone announced, not only to the inmates of the fortress, but also to all the inhabitants of Lœvestein, that it was ten.

This was the hour at which Rosa generally used to leave Cornelius. The hour had struck, but Rosa had not come.

Thus, then, his foreboding had not deceived him;