"Perhaps I do; but I have not been able to see his face."
"It is strange that he conceals himself from you. Nothing astonishes me in those people, however."
"Those called the Knights--the Black Masks--the Invisibles. I scarcely know more than you do about them, signora, though for two months they have led me by a thread any where they pleased."
The sound of hoofs on the ground was heard; and in two minutes they were harnessed again, and another postilion, who did not belong to the royal service appeared, and exchanged a few words with the stranger. The latter gave his hand to Consuelo, who returned to the carriage with him. He sat as far from her as possible; but did not interrupt the solemn silence of the night by a single word, and only looked from time to time at his watch. It was not near day, though the sound of the quail in the briar was heard, and also the watchdog's distant bark. The night was magnificent, and the constellation of the Great Bear appeared reversed on the horizon. The sound of wheels stifled the harmonious voices of the country, and they turned their backs to the great northern stars. Consuelo saw she was going southward; and as Karl sat on the box he attempted to shake off the spectre of Mayer, which he fancied he saw floating through the alleys of the forest, at the foot of the crosses, or under the tall pines. He did not, consequently, observe the direction in which his good or bad stars led him.
Porporina, fancying that he had determined not to exchange a word with her, thought she could not do better than respect the strange vow which, like the old knight-errants, he seemed to be resolved to keep. To get rid of the sombre images and sad reflections suggested by Karl's story, she attempted to penetrate the unknown future which opened before her, and gradually sunk into a reverie full of charms. A few rare persons have the power of commanding their ideas in a state of contemplative idleness. Consuelo had often, during her three months' confinement at Spandau, had occasion to exert this faculty, which is granted less frequently to the happy in this world than to those who earn their living by toil, persecution, and danger. All must recognise this mystery as providential, without which the serenity of many unfortunate creatures would appear impossible to those who have not known misfortune.