When I heard her piteous demands, while with disordered dress, dishevelled hair, and aghast looks, she wrung her hands⁠—the idea shot across me is she also mad?⁠—“Sweet one,” and I folded her to my heart, “better repose than wander further;⁠—rest⁠—my beloved, I will make a fire⁠—you are chill.”

“Rest!” she cried, “repose! you rave, Lionel! If you delay we are lost; come, I pray you, unless you would cast me off forever.”

That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and luxury, should have come through the tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode, and standing at my lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through darkness and storm⁠—was surely a dream⁠—again her plaintive tones, the sight of her loveliness assured me that it was no vision. Looking timidly around, as if she feared to be overheard, she whispered: “I have discovered⁠—tomorrow⁠—that is, today⁠—already the tomorrow is come⁠—before dawn, foreigners, Austrians, my mother’s hirelings, are to carry me off to Germany, to prison, to marriage⁠—to anything, except you and my brother⁠—take me away, or soon they will be here!”