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One day I was absent from my lodgings in the morning.
I left a packet of old letters lying accidentally upon
the table.

On my return, I was informed by Praise-God, that
Minna had paid me a visit; but I did not find the bunch
of flowers upon the table, which she was in the habit of
leaving when she found me absent. I missed also the
packet of letters.

I went to see her in the evening. She was alone.
She was weeping. I went forward to console her. I
put my arms around her; but she repulsed me.

“Away from me, serpent!” she cried.

As this polite welcome was not exactly to my taste,
and as she had of late grown so unaccountably capricious
and unreasonable, that I could make nothing of
her, I was preparing to take her at her word, and to
make my exit.

She sprang from her recumbent position. She threw
herself between me and the door. She folded her arms
upon her bosom.

“Do you think to leave me thus? You would desert
me wholly, would you not? Monster—I know your
perfidy; but do you not dread my vengeance?”

To these interesting queries I returned no answer.
She held up the packet of letters, and continued to upbraid
me.

“Yes, all your perfidy. You reproached me for listen

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ing to the counsels of my nameless adviser.” (The infernal
anonymous assassin had been at his work
again.) “But have I one enemy, whose arts are darker,
more treacherous, or more subtle than your own? Is
there any dagger keener than that with which you have
smitten me? You, to whom I gave my whole soul! Are
not these your letters—is not this your name? Your
very address in Prague?”

“No doubt of it,” said I coolly, and smiling in her
face.

“Perjured, heartless wretch!” she cried; “but thank
God there is yet revenge.”

She bounded towards me like a panther. She drew
a poignard from her bosom, and struck at me with all her
force. I grew pale as I felt the cold sharp steel pass through
my flesh. She drew back the dagger. It was reeking
with blood. She threw it down with despair. She uttered
a wild cry, and threw herself in my arms.

“Alas! alas! I have slain him. Speak to me, Morton—
my own, own Morton! Say I have not killed you.
Forgive me, for the love of God, forgive me. I was mad.
I was frantic. Speak to me—speak to me!”

She hung upon my neck, and covered me with frantic
kisses. I was already aware, that I was but very
slightly wounded. By good luck the weapon had passed
through the fleshy part of my shoulder. It was but
a scratch; but there was no doubt that in her rage she
intended to kill me. The moment she saw my blood,
the woman revived within her. She forgot all her anger—
all my supposed crimes, and remembered but her love.
She dragged me to the sofa. She tore my dress from
my arm. The blood was flowing fast. She kissed the
wound. She plucked a scarf from her neck and

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staunched the hurt, and then she threw herself upon the ground
and wept as if her heart would break.

I saw the advantage I had gained. I arose and took
from the table the packet of letters.

“If you had not been blinded by your jealousy, and
utterly besotted by the fell counsels of your nameless correspondent,
you would have seen the worth of these important
documents.”

As I spoke I pointed out to her the date of the letters.
They were all six years old. I recalled to her mind that
I had occupied my present lodgings during my former
residence in Prague.

She was struck dumb at the wretched absurdity of
her conduct. She clasped my knees, and besought my
forgiveness.

I was frightened at her reckless vehemence. She
was a child in the tumultuous and ungovernable flow
of her passions. She lay on the sofa almost choking
with contending emotions. I was frightened—I was
afraid her reason would give way. She spoke wildly
and incoherently, but unceasingly implored my pardon.

By degrees I pacified her. I assured her of my forgiveness,
of my unabated love. I kissed her forehead
and her eyes, and at last she sobbed herself to sleep.

When she was fairly asleep, I placed her head gently
upon the pillow, and stole noiselessly away.

When I got into the street, I lighted a cigar and strolled
homeward. On my arrival I sent Praise God for a
surgeon, had my arm comfortably bandaged, and then
went to bed. A few days afterwards the tables were
temporarily turned.

One evening I came unexpectedly to her house. As
I entered her boudoir, I observed a visible agitation in

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her manner. At the same time I saw a man
skulking behind a screen. When he saw he was perceived,
he made for a side-door. I saw him distinctly.
Wonder upon wonder! It was the crazy Bohemian
poet. I own I never dreamt of a rival in him; but I
had seen too much of women, to be surprised at any of
their tastes.

I sprang towards him. He was too quick for me.
He escaped through the door which he bolted on the
outside. Directly afterwards I heard him descending
the stairs.

I threw myself of course into a violent passion. I
demanded what the fellow was doing there. She assured
me that there was nothing of which I had a right
to complain. She treated the idea of my jealousy with
contempt. She seemed struck with wonder when she
found I was serious in my suspicions. She began another
scena. In the midst of it, a closely-written letter
caught my eye. It was from the Baron Kinski, and began
“my dearest love.” I was surprised, and looked at
the direction. It was, indeed, addressed to Minna.
“What the Baron too!” cried I, in a rage. “What an
old wretch!” She seemed as unable to account satisfactorily
for this letter as for the appearance of the poet.
She protested, however, that my thoughts were groundless
and ridiculous; but she regretted that there was a
mystery about herself which she could not for the moment
explain.

I was incredulous. I told her so. She continued her
scena. I shall hurry over it, for I will not fatigue my
readers.

“You shall believe me. You know I am innocent.
Tell me that you believe me innocent,” said she, imperiously.

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I laughed and shook my head.

“Do not make me hate you,” said she. “I was a
woman—I am a woman no longer. You have called
me an angel—have you never heard of a fallen one?”

I was weary of her heroics. I took up my hat and
was bidding her good morning—I was not to get off so
easily—she again intercepted me, and then she folded
her arms and came close to me. There was a majesty
about that woman which it was difficult to resist. She
was a perfect Medea, and there was something in the
dark light of her eye that made your very heart-strings
quiver.

“Is it possible?” said she—“Do I not dream?” Her
voice was placid, her mien was perfectly composed. She
laid her hand upon my forehead, and smoothed the hair
gently from my brows. She gazed calmly upon me.

“And while I look upon you, can I believe you such
a heartless knave? You would go away, now. You
have planted the arrow in my heart, and now you will
leave it rankling there. Go, then, go—you have won
and worn me; and now you will crush me like a broken
toy.

“Tremble, Morton, tremble! I shall be fearfully
avenged. You know me—but you do not know me
well. You know the woman, but you have yet to know
the fiend. I tell you I shall be revenged.”

As she spoke, her woman's hand clutched my arm
with the gripe of a giant. Her voice was very low, and
her manner was perfectly placid. I had never seen her
in this mood before. I began to feel chilly, to grow irresolute,
for the calm rage of a woman is as awful as
her vociferations are ludicrous and contemptible.

I determined not to be frightened, however. She

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asked me once more, “Do you solemnly believe you have
cause for jealousy?”

I answered in the affirmative.

“Then go,” said she, `for I despise you.”

As she spoke, she flung the door open. I hesitated a
moment, and then walked hastily out.