"
And with this, half sadly, half playfully, he began stripping the leaves
off one by one, and repeating over and over again:--
"Tell me, sweet Marguerite, shall I be free? Soon--in time--perhaps
--never! Soon--in time--perhaps--never! Soon--in time--perhaps--"
It was the last leaf.
"Pshaw!" he said, tossing away the stalk with an impatient laugh. "You
could have given me as good an answer as that, little Gretchen. Let us go
in."
8
It was about a week after this when I was startled out of my deepest
midnight sleep by a rush of many feet, and a fierce and sudden knocking at
my father's bed-room door--the door opposite my own.
I sat up, trembling. A bright blaze gleamed along the threshold, and high
above the clamour of tongues outside, I recognised my father's voice,
quick, sharp, imperative. Then a door was opened and banged. Then came the
rush of feet again--then silence.
It was a strange, wild hubbub; and it had all come, and gone, and was over
in less than a minute. But what was it?
Seeing that fiery line along the threshold, I had thought for a moment
that the Chateau was on fire; but the light vanished with those who
brought it, and all was darkness again.
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