But the man was equally amazed to see him there.
Neither recognized the other.
"What are you doing here, sir ?" asked Rudolf, who was the first to recover his composure, drawing nearer to the pedestal.
Alexander recognized the voice, he knew that it was Rudolf, and could not understand why he should have come to that place at that hour.
"Count Szentirmay," he said gently, "I am that artisan to whom you showed a kindness once upon a time; be so good as to show yet another kindness to me by leaving me here alone and asking no questions." Then Rudolf recognized the young man, and it suddenly flashed across his mind that the dead woman before she became Dame Karpathy had been engaged to a poor young artisan who had so bravely, so chivalrously, exposed himself to death for her sake.
Now he understood everything.
He took the young man's hand and pressed it.
"You loved this lady?
You have come hither to mourn over her ?" "Yes, sir.

There's nothing to be ashamed of in that.

One may love the dead.

I loved that woman, I love her now, and I shall never love another." Rudolf's heart went out to the young man.
"You remain here," he said, "I will leave you to yourself.

I will wait in the cemetery outside, and if I can be of any service to you command me." "Thank you, sir, I will go too; I have done what I came here to do." The name of the dear departed was inscribed on the tomb in golden letters, and these letters gleamed forth in the light of the snow: "Madame Karpathy, _nee_ Fanny Meyer." The young artisan removed his cap, and with the same respect, the same reverence with which one touches the lips of the dead, he kissed every letter of the word "Fanny." "I am not ashamed of this weakness before you," said Alexander, standing up again, "for you have a noble heart, and will not laugh at me." Rudolf answered nothing, but he turned his head aside.