How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. Blank commissions, signed by the prince, to be filled up by the name of the person, who could raise a troop for his service, were liberally bestowed. ‘Eh bien, I will tell you. In privacy he read and reread it a dozen times, and eventually destroyed it by fire.
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