CHAPTER XIX.

FATHER GOTZKOWSKY.

The door had closed behind the soldiers and their prisoner. Gotzkowsky

and Elise remained behind, silent and immersed in the deep sorrows of

their souls. Neither spoke a word; both stood motionless and listened.

They heard the soldiers hurry down the steps; they heard the house

door violently thrown open, and the officer announce in a loud voice

to those of his soldiers who were waiting in the street, the lucky

capture of the artilleryman.

A cry of triumph from the Austrians was the answer; then was heard

the loud word of command from the officer, and the roll of the drum

gradually receding in the distance until it was no longer audible.

Every thing was silent.

"Have mercy, Father in heaven have mercy! They are leading him to

death!" cried Elise in a heart-rending tone, and she sank on her knees

in prayer.

"The brave cannoneer is saved!" murmured Gotzkowsky in a low voice

to himself, and he too folded his hands in prayer. Was it a prayer of

gratitude, or did it proceed from the despairing heart of a father?

His countenance had a bright and elevated expression; but as he turned

his eyes down on his daughter, still on her knees, they darkened,

and his features twitched convulsively and painfully. His anger had

evaporated, and his heart was filled with boundless pity and love. He

felt nothing but painful, sorrowful compassion for this young girl

who lay deathly pale and trembling with suffering on the floor. His

daughter was weeping, and his heart yearned toward her to forgive her

every thing, to raise her up and comfort her.

Suddenly Elise started up from her knees and strode toward her father.

There was something solemn and imposing in her proud bearing, her

extraordinary composure, which only imperfectly veiled her raging

grief and passionate excitement.

"Father," said she solemnly, and her voice sounded hoarse and cold,

"may God forgive you for what you have done! At this moment, when

perhaps he is suffering death, I repeat it, I am innocent."

This proud composure fell freezingly on Gotzkowsky's heart, and drove

back all the milder forgiving impulses. He remembered only the shame

and the injured honor of his daughter.

"You assert your innocence, and yet you had a man concealed in the

night in your bedchamber!"

"And yet I am innocent, father!" cried Elise vehemently. "Read it on

my forehead, see it in my eyes, which do not fear to meet yours. I am

innocent!"

And completely overpowered by the bitter and desperate anguish of

her soul, she continued, still more excited, "But how does all this

concern you? It was not my honor that you were interested in; you did

not seek to avenge that. You only wished to punish me for daring to

assert my freedom and independence, for daring to love without having

asked your leave. The rich man to whom all bend, whom all worship as

the priest of the powerful idol which rules the world, the rich man

sees with dismay that there is one being not dazzled by his treasures

who owns an independent life, a will of her own, and a heart that he

cannot command. And because this being does not of her own accord how

down before him he treads it in the dust, whether it be his own child

or not."

"Elise," cried Gotzkowsky, shocked, "Elise, are you mad? Do you know

that you are speaking to your father?"

But her tortured heart did not notice this appeal; and only

remembering that perhaps at this moment her lover was suffering death

through her father's fault, she allowed herself to be carried away by

the overpowering force of her grief. She met the flashing eye of her

father with a smile of contempt, and said, coldly: "Oh yes, you may

look at me. I do not fear your angry glances. I am free; you yourself

have absolved me from any fear of you. You took from me my lover, and

at the same time deprived yourself of your child."

"O God!" cried Gotzkowsky in an undertone, "have I deserved this,

Father in heaven?" and he regarded his daughter with a touching

expression.

But she was inexorable; sorrow had unseated her judgment, and "Oh!"

cried she in a tone of triumph, "now I will confess every thing to

you, how I have suffered and what I have undergone."

"Elise!" cried he painfully, "have I not given you every thing your

heart could desire?"

"Yes!" cried she, with a cruel laugh, "you fulfilled all my wishes,

and thereby made me poor in wishes, poor in enjoyment. You deprived me

of the power of wishing, for every thing was mine even before I could

desire it. It was only necessary for me to stretch out my hand, and it

belonged to me. Cheerless and solitary I stood amidst your wealth, and

all that I touched was turned into hard gold. The rich man's daughter

envied the beggar woman in the street, for she still had wishes,

hopes, and privations."

Gotzkowsky listened to her, without interrupting her by a word or even

a sigh. Only now and then he raised his hand to his forehead, or cast

a wandering, doubtful look at his daughter, as if to convince himself

that all that was passing was not a mad, bewildering dream, but

painful, cruel reality.

But when Elise, breathless and trembling with excitement, stopped for

a moment, and he no longer heard her cutting accents of reproach, he

pressed both hands upon his breast, as if to suppress a wail over the

annihilation of his whole life. "O God!" muttered he in a low voice,

"this is unparalleled agony! This cuts into a father's heart!"

After a pause, Elise continued: "I too was a beggar, and I hungered

for the bread of your love."

"Elise, oh, my child, do you not know then that I love you

infinitely?"

But she did not perceive the loving, almost imploring looks which her

father cast upon her. She could see and think only of herself and her

own tormented heart.

"Yes," said she, "you love me as one loves a jewel, and has it set

in gold in order to make it more brilliant. You loved me as a costly

ornament of your rooms, as something which gave you an opportunity of

exercising the splendor of your liberality, and to be produced as an

evidence of your renowned wealth. But you did not love me as a father;

you did not perceive that I wept in secret, or if you did see it, you

consoled me with diamonds, with rich dresses, to make me smile. But

you did not give me your father's heart. At last the rich man's child

discovers a happiness not to be bought with gold or treasures, a

happiness that the millions of her father could not purchase for

her. This happiness is--love. The only possession that I have owned,

father, contrary to your will, you have deprived me of, because it was

mine against your will. Now, poor rich man, take all your gold,

and seek and buy yourself a child with it. Me you have lost!" and

staggering back with a sob, she sank fainting on the carpet.

A dread silence now reigned in the room. Gotzkowsky stood motionless,

with his eyes directed toward heaven. The cruel, mocking words of

his daughter sounded over and over again in his ears, and seemed to

petrify the power of his will and chain him fast, as if rooted to the

floor. Gradually he recovered from this apathy of grief. The stagnant

blood revived in his veins, and shot like burning streams of fire to

his heart. He bent over his daughter, and gazing for a long time at

her, his features assumed a gentler and softer expression. Tenderly

with his hand he smoothed the tresses from her clear, high forehead;

and as he did so, he almost smiled again, so beautiful and charming

did she seem to him in her death-like repose.

"She has fainted," whispered he, low, as if fearful of awakening

her. "So much the better for her; and when she recovers, may she have

forgotten all the cruel words that she has uttered!"

He laid his hand on her head as if to bless her, and love and

forgiveness were expressed in his looks. A perfect peace seemed to

pervade his whole frame. In this moment he forgave her all the pain,

all the suffering she had caused him. He pardoned her those unjust

reproaches and accusations, and with lofty emotion, raising his eyes

toward heaven, he exclaimed, "O God! thou seest my heart. Thou knowest

that love alone has possession of its very depths, love to my child!

and my child has no faith in me. I have worked--I am rich--I have

amassed wealth--only for her. I thought of my child as I sat at

my desk during the long, weary nights, busied with difficult

calculations. I remembered my daughter when I was wearied out and

overcome by this laborious work. She should be happy; she should be

rich and great as any princess; for this I worked. I had no time to

toy or laugh with her, for I was working for her like a slave. And

this," continued he with a sad smile, "this is what she reproaches me

with. There is nothing in which I believe, nothing but my child, and

my child does not believe in me! The world bows down before me, and I

am the poorest and most miserable beggar."

Overpowered by these bitter thoughts, which crowded tumultuously upon

his brain, he leaned his head upon his hand and wept bitterly. Then,

after a long pause, he drew himself up erect, and, with a determined

gesture, shook the tears from his eyes.

"Enough!" said he, loudly and firmly, "enough; my duty shall cure me

of all this suffering. That I must not neglect."

He rang the bell, and ordered the servant-maids, who appeared, to

raise up the insensible girl and bear her to her room.

But when the maidens called the waiting-man to their assistance to

raise their mistress, Gotzkowsky pushed them all aside, and carried

her softly and gently, as carefully and tenderly as a mother, to a

couch, on which he placed her. He then pressed a fervent kiss upon her

brow. Elise began to move, a faint blush overspread her cheeks, she

opened her eyes. Gotzkowsky immediately stepped back, and signed to

her maids to carry her into her room.

He looked after her until she had disappeared, his eyes dimmed with

tears. "My child," said he, in a low voice, "she is lost to me. Oh, I

am a poor, pitiable father!" With a deep groan he pressed his hands

to his face, and nothing was heard but the painful sobs wrung from the

heart of this father wrestling with his grief.

Suddenly there arose from without loud lamentations and cries for

help. They came nearer and nearer, and at last reached Gotzkowsky's

house, and filled its halls and passages. It was not the outcry of

a single person. From many voices came the sounds of lamenting and

weeping, screams and shrieks:

"Help! help! have pity on us, save us! The Austrians are hewing us

down--they are burning our houses--save us!"

Gotzkowsky dropped his hands from his face and listened. "What was

that? who cries for help?" asked he, dreamingly, still occupied with

his own sorrows, scarcely conscious of the reality. But suddenly he

started, and from his eyes beamed life and courage. "Ah!" cried he

aloud, "mankind is suffering, and I am thinking of my own griefs. I

know these voices. The wives and children of my workmen, the poor

and oppressed of the city are calling me. The people need me. Up,

Gotzkowsky! give them your heart, your life. Endeavor to be a father

to the unfortunate, and you will not be poor in children!"

Without the wailing and cries for help continued to resound, and the

voices of weeping and trembling women and plaintive children cried

aloud, "Gotzkowsky, help us! have pity on us, Father Gotzkowsky!"

"Father!" cried he, raising his head, his countenance beaming with

delight. "They call me father, and yet I complain. Up! to my children

who love me, and who need my help!"

* * * * *

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

THE TWO EDITORS.

On the morning succeeding the night of horrors and confusion in which

Berlin had surrendered to the conqueror, the vanguard of the Russians

marched into the town through the König's Gate. But the commanding

general, Tottleben, wished to make his triumphal entry with his staff

and the main body of his army through the Kottbuss Gate, and had

ordered the magistracy of the town to meet him there, and to

bring with them a deputation of the merchants, to determine what

contribution should be laid upon them. But before the Russian general

could make his entry, the vanguard of De Lacy's army corps had

penetrated into the Frederick Street suburb, and were committing the

most atrocious acts of cruelty in the New Street. With wild yells they

entered the houses to rob and plunder, ill-treating those who refused

to give up their valuables, and by violent threats of incendiarism,

raising forced levies from the frightened inhabitants.

But it was not alone this lust of plunder in the soldiers which spread

terror and dismay in each house and in every family. Count De Lacy

possessed a list of those persons who, by word, deed, or writing, had

declared against Austria or Russia, and he gave it to his officers,

with the order that they should not hesitate at any measures, any

threats or acts of violence, to obtain possession of these people.

Besides which, he promised a considerable reward for each "traitor"

brought to him; and it was therefore no wonder that these officers,

with brutal and avaricious zeal, had scarcely arrived in the city

before they commenced the pursuit of these outlaws. With fearful yells

they rushed into the houses, shouting out the names of those on the

pursuit of whom they were bent, and whose seizure would secure them a

golden reward.

Naturally enough, the writers and journalists were the first on whom

the vengeful wrath of the conqueror was poured, for it has ever been

the lot of authors to suffer for the misfortunes of the people, to be

made responsible for the being and thinking, the will and action of

the nation to which they belong. But it is only in days of misfortune

that the responsibility of authors and poets commences. They must

answer for the ill luck, but are never rewarded for the happiness of

the nation.

Three names, especially, did De Lacy's chasseurs cry out with a raging

howl for vengeance, through the Frederick-Stadt and down the Linden

Street, and they searched for their owners in every house.

"De Justi! De Justi!"--with this cry one of the Austrian officers

rushed through the street, knocked with his sword violently against

the closed house doors, and demanded with savage threats the delivery

of this criminal for whose arrest a high premium had been offered.

M. De Justi was indeed a notorious criminal. Not that he had written

much or badly, but principally because he had dared to use his sharp

pen against the Austrian empress, and her allies the Russians and

Saxons. It was especially three pamphlets which excited the wrath of

the victorious enemy. These pamphlets were called: "Proof that the

Empress should be deposed;" "Why and wherefore Certain Nations in

Europe are disposed to become Anthropophagous," and lastly, "Account

of the life of Count Brühl." He had offended not only the Austrians,

but also the Russians and Saxons. It was therefore natural that these

three powers reigning in Berlin should wish to take their revenge on

the writer of these insulting pamphlets.

But De Justi had been prudent enough to escape from the pursuit of

his revengeful enemies. During the siege he had betaken himself to

the house of a friend in a more secure street, and had hidden in the

cellar, where it was impossible to find him. As they could not get

possession of the writer, they were obliged to cool their wrath on his

treasonable writings. They were dragged in his stead, as prisoners of

state and dangerous criminals, to headquarters at the New Market.

The two other writers, whom the Austrians pursued with furious zeal,

were the two newspaper editors, Kretschmer and Krause. These two

had no idea of such pursuit; indeed, they did not even know that the

Austrians had penetrated into the city. In the safe hiding-place in

which both of them had passed the night they had only learned that

Berlin had surrendered to the Russians, and that General Tottleben

had ordered the magistrates to receive him the next morning at the

Kottbuss Gate at eight o'clock.

It was intended that the reception should be a brilliant and solemn

one, and that the general should be mollified and conciliated by

humble subjection; it was also determined to endeavor, by an

offering of money made to him individually, to induce him to make the

contribution laid on the town moderate and light.

The news was like a thunder-clap to the two editors, for it compelled

them to leave their safe hiding-place, and to venture out into

the dangerous world. For these gentlemen, editors of such renowned

journals, who prided themselves on giving their readers the most

recent and important intelligence, would not dare to be absent at the

reception of the Russian general. For the love of their country they

had to forget their own fears, and, for the honor of their journals,

face danger like true heroes.

Day had scarcely dawned, and deep silence and death-like stillness

reigned at the Kottbuss Gate. The wings of the gate were closed, and

the watchman had withdrawn into his little box, and was resting from

the events of the past days. Dawn still lay like a veil over poor,

anxious Berlin, and concealed her tears and bloody wounds.

The silence was suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching

footsteps, and around the nearest corner glided the cowering figure

of a man. He remained still for a minute and listened; then, convinced

that all around him was quiet and silent, he crept along, keeping

anxiously close to the houses, and reached unperceived the pillar on

the right side of the gate, in the dark shadow of which he concealed

himself. This man was no other than Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the

_Vossian Gazette,_ who made himself comfortable in his hiding-place.

"This is quite nice and right," said he, shoving a stone behind the

pillar, in order to raise himself to a higher point of view. "From

here I can hear and observe every thing."

So, settling himself on the stone, he leaned back in the corner of the

door-pillar, as if it were the leathern arm-chair in his _sanctum_. A

comfortable smile stole over his features.

"This time," said he, "at least, I have forestalled my rival, good

Mr. Krause. To-morrow the _Vossian Gazette_ will be the only one which

will be able to report, from actual observation, on the formal entry

of the Russian general. Oh, how vexed _Spener's_ will be! There is

seven o'clock striking. In an hour the ceremony will begin. _Spener's

Journal_ still sleeps, while the _Vossian Gazette_ wakes and works,

and is alert to satisfy the curiosity of Berlin."

Poor, benighted editor of the _Vossian_! You, indeed, could not

see him, but the veil of the dawning day, which spread over Berlin,

concealed your rival, as well as yourself, in its folds. His drawn-up

figure was not visible to your dimmed sight, as he sneaked along the

houses, and hid himself behind the pillar on the left of the gate.

While you were rejoicing over the long sleep of _Spener's Journal_,

its editor, Mr. Krause, was standing opposite to you, behind the

pillar, whither he had come, notwithstanding his sixty-eight years,

like you, to witness the entrance of the Russians. And happy was he

in spirit at this victory obtained over his rival, the editor of the

_Vossian Gazette_, and it made him very proud indeed to think that

this once he had forestalled Mr. Kretschmer, and consequently would

have the monopoly of describing in the morning's paper, to the people

of Berlin, the magnificent and pompous entrance of the Russians!

The editor of the _Vossian Gazette_ had no idea of the vicinity of his

rival. He continued to congratulate himself on the advantage he had

obtained, and proceeded cheerfully in his soliloquy. "It makes me

laugh to think of _Spener's Journal_. I, myself, advised Mr. Krause

to conceal himself, and the good man faithfully followed my advice.

Perhaps the little old gentleman dreams that I am at this moment

sitting by my fireside, while there is so much matter for my newspaper

here. Good matter, too, that can be moulded into an interesting

article, is not so common that it can be carelessly squandered. Sleep,

therefore, sleep, good _Spener_--the _Vossian_ wakes."

But _Spener_ did not sleep. He was at the opposite pillar, smirking

and saying to himself, "How lucky it is that I have anticipated the

_Vossian_!" He then was silent, but his thoughts were active, and in

the bottom of his heart he instituted some very serious reflections

upon the superfluousness of a second newspaper, how perfectly

unnecessary it was in fact.

"This _Vossian Gazette_ is perfectly intolerable," thought he.

"There ought to be a law prohibiting the publishing of more than one

newspaper in each town. Then the public would always get reliable

news, and draw its political opinions from one source, which would be

undoubted, and it would accept as true what we gave forth for truth.

If the government would follow this plan, and allow only one newspaper

to each town, and conciliate this one with money or patronage, mankind

would be much happier and more contented, and less liable to be

distracted by the most opposite political views and information. What

profits the existence of this _Vossian Gazette_? What does it do

but rob me of my subscribers? By Heavens! I wish the Russian would

exterminate it thoroughly."

While Mr. Krause was thus speaking to himself, Mr. Kretschmer had

followed the same course of thought, and, very naturally, arrived at

a similar conclusion. He, too, had to confess that _Spener's Journal_

was very inconvenient, and hated its editor from the bottom of his

heart. In the vehemence of his vexation, he overlooked the necessary

precaution, and cried out, "Cursed be this rival, this man who has the

presumption to imagine he can compete with me!"

Mr. Krause shuddered at the sound of this voice, which seemed to him

as it were the echo of his own unspoken thoughts, but he mastered

his alarm, and cried aloud, "Did any one speak?" "Did any one speak?"

sounded back again, and two heads were seen protruding from the

pillars on each side of the gate, the eyes in them inquiringly peering

at each other. The morning in the mean while had become lighter, and,

with an inward shudder, the two gentlemen recognized each other.

"It is _Spener's_! May the devil take him!" thought Mr. Kretschmer.

"It is the _Vossian_! Damn the fellow!" thought Mr. Krause.

But while they thought this to themselves, they rushed forward and

embraced each other, with greetings and assurances of friendship, to

all appearances warm and sincere.

"I am not mistaken! It is my dear friend Krause."

"Oh, what happiness! my dear Kretschmer!"

And they shook each other's hands and repeated their asseverations of

friendship and esteem, but, at the same time, breathed in their hearts

their curses and execrations. But the two editors were not the only

persons who had sought the Kottbuss Gate at this early hour. An

Austrian officer with a guard of soldiers, in his search after the two

editors, had also reached the spot, and was marching with his men from

the corner near the gate, looking eagerly right and left and up at all

the windows. His eye fell upon these two men who were shrinking

from his sight, uttering pious ejaculations to Heaven. The officer

approached them and demanded their names. Neither answered. The

officer repeated his question, and accompanied it with such threats as

convinced Mr. Krause of the imperative necessity of answering it. He

bowed, therefore, respectfully to the officer, and pointing to his

friend, said, "This is Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the _Vossian

Gazette_."

Kretschmer cast upon him a look full of hatred and revenge. "And

this," said he, with a wicked smile, "is Mr. Krause, editor of

_Spener's Journal_."

An expression of joyous triumph shone in the countenance of the

officer: "You are my prisoners, gentlemen," said he, as he beckoned to

his soldiers to arrest them.

Pale did Mr. Krause grow as he drew back a step. "Sir, this must be a

mistake. We are quiet, peaceable citizens, who have nothing to do with

the war, but only busy ourselves with our pens."

"Our arrest is contrary to all national law," cried Mr. Kretschmer,

at the same time endeavoring to defend himself from the weapons which

were pointed at him.

The officer laughed. "In war we know no national law. You are my

prisoners." And disregarding their struggles and cries for help, they

dragged the two editors as prisoners to the guard-house at the New

Market.

* * * * *

CHAPTER II.

THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE OF BERLIN.

After a short interval of quiet and lonesomeness at the Kottbuss Gate,

there appeared, first far down the street, then approaching nearer and

nearer, a solemn procession. Foremost staggered the chief burgomaster,

Von Kircheisen, in full uniform, adorned with his golden chain, which

rustled as it rose and sank with his hurried, feverish respiration.

He was followed by the second burgomaster, with the Town Council, and

deputation of merchants, headed by Gotzkowsky. With solemn, serious

air, these gentlemen took up their position at the gate.

The chief burgomaster then beckoned Gotzkowsky to his side. "Stand

by me, my friend," said he, with a groan, and offering his hand to

Gotzkowsky with a dismal air. "I am suffering terribly, and even the

two bottles of Johannisberger are not sufficient to inspire me with

courage. Is it not terrible that the honorable Council should be

obliged to attend in person? It is an unheard-of indignity!"

"Not only for you, but for the Berlin citizen is the insult equally

great," said Gotzkowsky.

Herr von Kircheisen shook his head in a most melancholy manner. "Yes,"

said he, "but the Berlin citizen does not feel it so deeply. It does

not affect his honor as it does that of the magistracy."

Gotzkowsky smiled scornfully. "Do you think," asked he, "that the

magistrates possess a different kind of honor from that of any citizen

of the town? The sense of honor is keener among the people than it is

among the noblest lords."

The chief burgomaster frowned. "These are very proud words," replied

he, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Pride belongs to the citizen!" cried Gotzkowsky. "But believe me,

noble sir, my heart to-day is not as proud as my words. It is sore

with pain and grief over our deep, unmerited degradation."

"Silence, silence!" whispered the chief magistrate, leaning

tremblingly on Gotzkowsky's arm. He heard a noise behind the closed

gates, and his mind misgave him that the dreaded enemy was at hand.

Suddenly there sounded on the other side of the walls the loud notes

of a trumpet, and the warder hastened to throw open the gate. A rare

and motley mixture of Russian uniforms now came in sight. There were

seen Cossacks, with their small horses and sharp lances; body-guards,

with their gold-adorned uniforms; hussars, in their jackets trimmed

with costly furs, all crowding in in confused tumult and with

deafening screams and yells, that contrasted strangely with the

silence inside the gates, with the noiseless, deserted streets,

the closed windows of the houses, whose inhabitants scorned to be

witnesses to the triumphal entry of the enemy. Only the ever-curious,

ever-sight-loving, always-thoughtless populace, to whom the honor has

at times been accorded of being called "the sovereign people," only

this populace had hurried hither from all the streets of Berlin to see

the entry of the Russians, and to hurrah to the conqueror, provided

he paraded right handsomely and slowly in. And now a deep silence took

place in the ranks of the enemy; the crowd opened and formed a lane,

through which rode the Russian General Bachmann and his staff. As he

reached the gate he drew in his horse and asked, in a loud, sonorous

voice, in French, whether the magistrates and deputation of merchants

were present.

The chief magistrate felt unable to answer; his knees tottered and his

teeth chattered convulsively. He could only wag his head in silence

and point with trembling hand to his companions.

"Is the merchant, John Gotzkowsky, one of your deputation?" asked the

general.

Gotzkowsky stepped out of the crowd and approached the general with a

proud step. "I am he, sir."

"I am glad to meet you," said the general, with a gracious smile. "I

bring you greetings from General Sievers. He commissioned and ordered

me to show you all possible favor. If I can be of service to you in

any possible way, pray command me. I am General von Bachmann, and

during our presence here have been appointed to the command of

Berlin."

"Are you a friend of the noble Sievers?" cried Gotzkowsky, his

countenance beaming with pleasure. "Oh, then, I need fear nothing

for this unfortunate town, for only a noble, high-minded man can be a

friend of Sievers. You will have pity on our distress!"

"Tell me wherein I can serve you, and how I can oblige you; my word

has much influence on our general-in-chief, Count Tottleben."

Gotzkowsky was silent.

"Beg him to make the contribution as small as possible," whispered

Kircheisen in Gotzkowsky's ear.

But Gotzkowsky took no notice of him. He fixed his dark eyes on the

general, as if he wished to read his soul.

"Speak out," said the general. "If it is possible, your wish shall be

granted."

"Well then, general," cried Gotzkowsky, "this is my request: Spare the

poor and needy of this town. Order your soldiers to be humane, and do

not forget mercy. Let your warriors neither murder nor plunder; let

them not deride the defenceless and conquered. Give to the world the

example of a generous and noble conqueror."

The general looked into Gotzkowsky's noble countenance with increasing

astonishment, and his features assumed a more benevolent expression.

"I give you my word that your petition shall be granted," said he; "I

will give my soldiers strict orders, and woe be to him who does not

obey them! But you have spoken for others, and I would like to oblige

you personally. Have you no request to make for yourself?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Gotzkowsky, "I beg you to allow me to hasten

to the Council-hall to report to the elders of the citizens your kind

promise."

General Bachmann nodded affably to him. "Hasten then, and return

soon."

But as Gotzkowsky turned to hasten away, Herr von Kircheisen seized

him with a convulsive grasp and drew him back. "My God! you are not

going to leave me?" he whined out. "Only think--"

"That the brave and noble citizens may lay the general's words as

a balm to their wounds--that is what I am thinking of," cried

Gotzkowsky, tearing himself loose and hurrying away with rapid

strides.

"And now for you, most worthy burgomaster," said General Bachmann,

sternly, "your name, if you please?"

Von Kircheisen looked at him gloomily, but made no answer.

The general repeated his question in a louder and sterner voice, but

the burgomaster still maintained the same obstinate silence.

"Have you, by some unlucky chance, forgotten your name, sir?" asked

the general with a lowering brow.

The angry, piercing look he fastened on him, seemed to awaken the

burgomaster from his lethargy.

"My name is Kircheisen, Von Kircheisen," stammered he, with a heavy

tongue.

"We came as conquerors, sir," said General Bachmann; "and it is usual

for conquerors to dictate their terms before they enter a captured

city. In the name of our general, Count Tottleben, I have to

communicate to you what sum we demand from you as a war contribution.

This demand amounts to four millions of dollars in good money."

The burgomaster stared at the general with glazed eyes, broke out

into a loud laugh, and staggered back on the wall of the gate-warder's

house.

"I implore you, collect yourself," whispered the second burgomaster,

as he endeavored to support the reeling, staggering chief. "Remember

our weal or woe depends upon you!"

Von Kircheisen grinned an idiotic laugh. "Four millions of dollars!"

screamed he aloud. "Four millions of dollars! Hurrah! hurrah for the

Russians!"

The countenance of the general became still more threatening, and an

angry light flashed from his eye. "Do you dare to mock me?" asked

he, in a harsh tone. "Beware, sir; and remember that you are the

conquered, and in our power. I demand from you a decided answer. You

understand my demand, do you not?"

But still he answered not. He stared at General Bachmann with a vacant

smile, and his head wagged from side to side like the pendulum of a

clock.

"This is disgraceful conduct," cried the general, "conduct which does

little honor to the chief magistrate of Berlin. But I warn you, sir,

to beware! I have promised the poor and suffering my protection, but I

well know how to punish those who abuse our magnanimity. If you do not

answer me this time, sir, by Heaven I will have you carried off under

arrest and let a court-martial pronounce judgment on you!"

The chief magistrate continued dumb. The pale and terror-stricken

countenances of those present were turned toward him. The members

of the Council implored and besought him to put aside this unnatural

stubbornness.

Von Kircheisen answered their pleadings with a loud-sounding laugh.

He then stared at the general, his features worked and struggled,

writhed, and finally he opened his mouth.

"Ah! God be praised, he is going to speak," cried the second

burgomaster.

But no, he did not speak; he only distorted his face. A cry of dismay

sounded from the lips of the deputation, a cry of anger from the

Russian general, who, turning to his adjutant, ordered him immediately

to arrest the burgomaster and carry him off. And now there arose an

indescribable scene of confusion and terror. Pale with fright, the

Council and deputation of merchants had flocked around Von Kircheisen

to protect him from the advancing soldiers who sought to arrest him,

while he, in the midst of all the horror and tumult, continued to

giggle and make grimaces. The enraged soldiery had already commenced

to push aside Kircheisen's defenders with blows from the butts of

their muskets, when a man made his way through the crowd. It was

Gotzkowsky, who, with a loud and full voice, demanded the cause of

this singular uproar. A hundred voices were ready to answer him, and

explain the scene in confused, unintelligible jargon.

But General Bachmann beckoned him to his side. "Tell me, sir, is this

chief burgomaster a fool or a drunkard, or is he, indeed, so demented

as to intend to mock us?"

As Gotzkowsky looked at the deathly pale, convulsed countenance of the

magistrate, who renewed his shrill, screeching laugh, he comprehended

the racking and terrible torture which the unfortunate man was

suffering. He hastened to him, seized him by the arm, and led the

tottering figure toward the general.

"This man is neither a fool nor a madman, your excellency; suffering

has robbed him of speech, and he laughs, not in derision, but from the

convulsion of intense sorrow."

And as the offended and angry general would not believe him, and

commanded his soldiers anew to arrest the burgomaster, and the

soldiers with renewed rage pressed on him, Gotzkowsky placed himself

before him, and protected him with his proud and respect-inspiring

person.

"General Bachmann," cried he, warmly, "I remind you of your oath.

You vowed to me to protect the suffering. Well, then, this man is

a sufferer, a sick man. I demand, from the noble friend of General

Sievers, that he have compassion on the sick man, and allow him to be

escorted safely and unmolested to his house."

"Can you give me your word that this man did not act thus out of

arrogance?" asked the general, in a milder tone; "are you convinced

that he is sick?"

"I swear to you, please your excellency, that the chief magistrate of

Berlin has never been a healthy man; that, for many years, he has been

subject to fits of convulsive laughter."

General Bachmann smiled. "This is an unfortunate disease for the chief

magistrate of a city," said he, "and it seems to me as if the citizens

of Berlin did wrong in choosing for their burgomaster a man who

laughs and cries indifferently, and to whom the misfortunes of his

fellow-citizens apparently serves only for a joke. But you reminded me

of my promise, and you shall see that I will keep it."

He beckoned to his soldiers, and ordered them to fetch a litter on

which to carry the sick burgomaster home. He then turned, with a

smile, to Gotzkowsky, and said: "Sir, the Council of Berlin have cause

to be grateful to you; you have saved their chief from death."

Herr von Kircheisen did not laugh now. His features jerked and

distorted themselves still, but a stream of tears gushed from his

eyes.

With an unspeakable expression he seized Gotzkowsky's hand, and

pressed it to his lips, then sank unconscious in the arms of his

deliverer.

* * * * *

CHAPTER III.

THE RUSSIAN, THE SAXON, AND THE AUSTRIAN, IN BERLIN.

Berlin was now given up to the enemy, and through the once cheerful

and pleasant streets could be heard nothing but screams and shrieks

of terror, mingled with the wild curses and boisterous laughter of the

conqueror, who, not satisfied with attacking the trembling inhabitants

to rob them of their possessions and property, ill treated them out of

sheer cruelty, and took delight in hearing their screams and looking

at the contortions caused by pain.

And who was this enemy, who, in scorn of all humanity and

civilization, tortured the unfortunate and hunted them down?

They were not Russians, nor wild hordes of Cossacks. They were

Austrians and Saxons, who, robbing and plundering, murdering and

destroying, violating and burning, rushed through Berlin, filling all

the inhabitants with terror and alarm.

General Bachmann kept faithfully the promise he had made to

Gotzkowsky, and the Russian army at first not only preserved the

strictest discipline, but even protected the inhabitants against the

violence of the Austrians and Saxons.

The terrified citizens had one powerful and beneficent friend--this

was John Gotzkowsky. Yielding to his urgent entreaty, General von

Bachmann's adjutant, Von Brinck, had taken up his quarters in his

house, and by his assistance and his own influence with the general,

Gotzkowsky was enabled to afford material aid to all Berlin. For

those citizens who were able to pay the soldiers he procured a Russian

safeguard, and more than once this latter protected the inhabitants of

the houses against the vandalism of the Austrians and Saxons.

Contrary to the wish of the Russians, the Austrians had forced

themselves into the city, and, in spite of the terms of the

capitulation agreed upon with the Russians, had quartered themselves

upon the citizens, from whom, with the most savage cruelty and threats

of ingenious torture, they extorted all the gold and jewels they

possessed.

Berlin was now the open camping-ground of Croats and Austrian hussars,

and Russian Cossacks, and all minds were filled with dread and

anxiety.

It is true that even the Cossacks forgot the strict discipline

which had been commanded them, and entered the houses, robbing and

compelling the inhabitants, by blows of the knout, to give them

all they wanted. But yet they were less cruel than the Saxons,

less barbarous than the Austrians, who, with scoffing and derision,

committed the greatest atrocities. Indeed, it was only necessary

to complain to the Russian general in order to obtain justice

immediately, and have the Cossacks punished. Eight of them were

strung up in one day at the guard-house on the New Market square, as

a warning and example to the others, and expiated their robberies by

a summary death. But with the Austrians and Saxons it was the officers

themselves who instigated the soldiers to acts of revolting barbarity,

and who, forgetful of all humanity, by their laughter and applause

excited their subordinates to fresh ill-treatment of the inhabitants.

Disregarding the capitulation, and listening to their national enmity,

and their love of plunder, they pressed forward with wild screams into

the royal stables, driving away the safeguard of four-and-twenty men,

which General von Tottleben had placed there for their protection, and

with shameless insolence defiling the Prussian coat-of-arms pictured

on the royal carriages. They then drew them out into the open street,

and, after they had stripped them of their ornaments and decorations,

piled them up in a great heap and set them on fire, in order to add

to the fright and terror of the bewildered citizens by the threatening

danger of conflagration.

High blazed the flames, consuming greedily these carriages which had

once borne kings and princes. The screams and fright of the inmates

of the nearest houses, and the crackling of the window-glass broken by

the heat were drowned by the joyous shouts of the Austrians who danced

round the fire with wild delight, and accompanied the roaring of the

flames with insulting and licentious songs. And the fire seemed only

to awaken their inventive powers, and excite them to fresh deeds of

vandalism. After the fire had burnt out, and only a heap of ashes told

of what were once magnificent royal vehicles, the Austrians rushed

back again into the building with terrific outcry, to the apartments

of the royal master of the horse, Schwerin, in order to build a new

bonfire with his furniture, and fill their pockets with his gold and

silver ware.

In the royal stalls a great uproar arose, as they fought with each

other for the horses that were there. The strongest leaped on them and

rode off furiously, to carry into other neighborhoods the terror and

dismay which marked the track of the Austrians through Berlin. Even

the hospitals were not safe from their brutal rage. They tore the sick

from their beds, drove them with scoffs and insults into the streets,

cut up their beds, and covered them over with the feathers. And all

this was committed not by wild barbarians, but by the regular troops

of a civilized state, by Austrians, who were spurred on, by their

hatred of the Prussians, to deeds of rude cruelty and beastly

barbarity. And this unlucky national hatred, which possessed the

Austrian and made him forgetful of all humanity, was communicated,

like an infectious plague, to the Saxons, and transformed these

warriors, who were celebrated for being, next to the Prussians,

the most orderly and best disciplined, into rude Jack Ketches and

iconoclastic Vandals.

In the royal pleasure-palace at Charlottenburg, where Brühl's (Saxon)

dragoons had taken up their quarters by force, they set up a new

species of dragoonade, which was directed not so much against the

living as against marble statues and the sacred treasures of art. All

the articles of splendor, brilliancy, and luxury which had been

heaped up here, every thing which the royal love of the fine arts

had collected of what was beautiful and rare, was sacrificed to their

raging love of destruction. Gilded furniture, Venetian mirrors, large

porcelain vases from Japan, were smashed to pieces. The silk tapestry

was torn from the walls in shreds, the doors inlaid with beautiful

wood-mosaic were broken up with clubs, the most masterly and costly

paintings were cut in ribbons with knives. To be sure, it sometimes

happened that the officers rescued from the soldiers some costly vase,

some rare treasure or painting, and saved it from destruction,

but this was not to save the King of Prussia's property, but to

appropriate it to themselves, and carry it home with them.

Even the art-collection of Count Polignac, embracing the most splendid

and rare treasures of art in the palace of Charlottenburg, did not

escape this mania of destruction. This collection, containing among

other things the most beautiful Greek statues, had been purchased in

Rome by Gotzkowsky, and had afforded the king peculiar gratification,

and was a source of much enjoyment to him. In the eyes of some Saxon

officers, to whom this fact was known, it was sufficient reason for

its condemnation. They themselves led the most violent and destructive

of their soldiers into the halls where these magnificent treasures

were exposed, even helped them to break the marble statues, to dash

them down from their pedestals, to hew off their heads, arms, and

legs, and even carried their systematic malice so far as to order

the soldiers to grind into powder the fragments, so as to prevent any

restoration of the statues at a subsequent period.

The unfortunate inhabitants of Charlottenburg witnessed all this

abomination that was perpetrated in the royal palace with fear and

trembling, and in order to save their own persons and property from

similar outrage, they offered the enemy a contribution of fifteen

thousand dollars. The Saxons accepted the money, but, regardless of

every obligation usually considered sacredly binding, they only became

more savage and ferocious. With yells of rage they rushed into the

houses, and, when the money they demanded was refused them, they

stripped the men of their clothes, lashed them until the blood flowed,

or cruelly wounded or maimed them with sabre-cuts; and when the women

fled from them, they followed them up, and forced them by brutal

ill-treatment to yield themselves. No house in Charlottenburg escaped

being plundered; and so cruel were the tortures which the inhabitants

suffered, that four of the unfortunate men died a miserable death at

the hands of the Saxon soldiers.

They were Germans who waged against their brother Germans, against

their own countrymen, a brutality and barbarous love of destruction

almost unequalled in the annals of modern history. Consequently

it seemed but natural that the Russians should be excited by such

examples of barbarity, so unstintedly set them by the Austrians and

Saxons. No wonder that they, too, at last began to rob and plunder, to

break into houses at night, and carry off women and maidens by force,

in order to have them released next day by heavy ransom; and that even

the severe punishments, inflicted on those whom the people had the

courage to complain of to the generals lost their terror, and were

no restraint on these sons of the steppes and ice-fields, led away as

they were by the other ruffians.

Two hundred and eighty-two houses were destroyed and thoroughly

plundered in Berlin by the Austrians; the Saxons had devastated the

royal palace in Charlottenburg, and the whole town. Should not the

Russians also leave a memorial of their vandalism? They did so in

Schönhausen, the pleasure-palace of the consort of Frederick the

Great, who had left it a few days previous, by express command of the

king, to take up her residence in Magdeburg. Eight Russian hussars

forced themselves into the palace, and, with terrible threats,

demanded the king's plate. Only the castellan and his wife, and a few

of the royal servants, had been left behind to protect the place, and

the only answer they could make to the furious soldiers was, that the

booty which they were in search of had been carried with the royal

party to Magdeburg. This information excited their fury to the highest

pitch. Like the Saxon dragoons of Charlottenburg, they devastated the

Schönhausen palace, stripped the castellan and his wife, and, with

shouts of wild laughter, whipped them and pinched their flesh with

red-hot tongs. And, as if the sight of these bloody and torn human

bodies had only increased their desire for blood and torture, they

then attacked the two servants, stripped them of their clothes, cut

one to pieces like a beast, and threw the other on the red-hot coals,

roasting him alive, as formerly the warriors of her Most Christian

Majesty of Spain did those whom, in the pride of their civilization,

they denominated "the wild heathen."[1]

[Footnote 1: The account of all these cruelties and this vandalism is

verified in the original, by reference to Von Archenholz: "History of

the Seven Years' War," pp.194-198.--TRANSLATOR.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV.

THE CADETS.

The day following the occupation of Berlin, a strange and singular

procession moved down the Linden Street through the Brandenburg Gate,

and took the road to Charlottenburg. Brühl's dragoons and De Lacy's

chasseurs rode on each side of the line, which would have excited

laughter, if pity and sorrow had not overcome the comical element.

It was a procession of children decked in uniform, and having

nothing military about them but their apparel, nothing manly but the

dress-sword at their side.

This singular little regiment was the "Corps of Cadets," which had

been made prisoners of war by the Austrians and Saxons.

The commandant, Von Rochow, did not imagine that the enemy would carry

his hard-heartedness to such an extent as to consider these lads of

tender age as part of the garrison, and make them prisoners of war in

consequence. None of these boys exceeded the age of twelve years (the

larger and older ones having been drafted into the army to supply the

want of officers), and he presumed that their very helplessness and

weakness would be their security, and therefore had omitted to mention

them specially in the surrender. But the conqueror had no compassion

on these little children in uniform, and pronounced them prisoners of

war. Even Liliputian warriors might be dangerous! Remember the pangs

suffered by Gulliver, as, lying quietly on the ground, he was suddenly

awakened by a violent discharge poured into him from behind the high

grass by the Liliputians. To be sure their weapons were only armed

with needles--whence we may infer that the Liliputians are the

original inventors of the modern Prussian needle-percussion

rifles--but, one can be killed by needle-pricks. Count De Lacy feared,

perhaps, the needle weapons of the little Liliputian cadets, and

treated the poor, delicate, tender children as if they were tough old

veterans, accustomed to all the hardships and privations of war. With

coarse abuse and blows from the butt of the musket, they were driven

out into the highway, and compelled to travel on the soft, muddy roads

without cloaks, notwithstanding the severe weather, and only the short

jackets of their uniforms. Heart-rending was the wail of the poor

little ones from whom the war had taken their fathers, and poverty

their mothers--torn from their home, the refuge of their orphaned

childhood, to be driven like a flock of bleating lambs out into the

desert wilderness of life.

And when their feet grew weary, when their little bodies, unaccustomed

to fatigue, gave way, they were driven on with blows from sabres and

the butts of muskets. When they begged for a piece of bread, or a drop

of water for their parched lips, they were laughed at, and, instead of

water, were told to drink their own tears, which ran in streams down

their childish cheeks. They had already marched the whole day without

food or refreshment of any kind, and they could hardly drag their

bleeding feet along. With eyes bright with fever, and parched tongues,

they still wandered on, looking in the distance for some friendly

shelter, some refreshing spring.

At nightfall the little cadets were camped in an open field, on the

wet ground. At first, they begged for a little food, a crust of bread;

but when they saw that their sufferings gave pleasure to the dragoons,

and that their groans were to them like a pleasant song, they were

silent, and the spirit of their fathers reigned uppermost in the

breasts of these little, forsaken, trembling lads. They dried their

eyes, and kept their complaints in their little trembling hearts.

"We will not cry any more," said little Ramin, who though only twelve

years of age, was yet the oldest of the captives, and recognized as

their captain and leader. "We will not cry any more, for our tears

give pleasure to our enemies. Let us be cheerful, and that perhaps

will vex them. To spite them, and show how little we think of our

hunger, let us sing a jolly song."

"Come on, let us do it!" cried the boys. "What song shall we sing?"

"_Prince Eugene_," cried young Ramin; and immediately with his

childish treble struck up "Prince Eugene, the noble knight."

And all the lads joined in with a sort of desperate enthusiasm, and

the song of the noble knight rose from their young lips like a peal of

rejoicing.

But gradually one little trembling voice after another fell, by

degrees the song grew lower and shriller, and became lost in a

trembling whisper; then it would rise into an unnatural and terrified

scream, or sink into a whining sob or trembling wail.

Suddenly little Ramin stopped, and a cry of pain, like the sound of

a snapped string, burst from his breast. "I cannot sing any more,"

sighed he. "Hunger is killing me." And he sank down on his knees, and

raised his little arms beseechingly to one of the Austrian soldiers,

who was marching beside him, comfortably consuming a roast chicken.

"Oh! give me a bit of bread, only a mouthful, to keep me from starving

to death."

"Have pity on us, do not let us starve!"

With similar piteous lamentations, the whole corps of trembling,

weeping, starving little cadets threw themselves on their knees, and

filled the air with their cries and prayers.

"Well, if you positively insist upon eating, you shall have something

to appease your hunger," said the officer who commanded the chasseurs,

and he whispered a few words to his corporal, who received them with a

loud laugh, and then rode off.

"Now, be quiet, and wait," commanded the Austrian officer. "I have

sent the corporal and some soldiers into the village to get food for

you. Only wait now, and be satisfied." And the children dried their

eyes, and comforted each other with encouraging words.

With what impatience, what painful longing, did they look forward

to the promised food! How they thanked God, in the gladness of their

hearts, that He had had pity on them, and had not allowed them to die

of hunger!

They all seemed revived, and strained their hopeful eyes toward the

quarter whence the corporal was to return. And now, with one voice,

they broke out into a cry of joy; they had espied him returning,

accompanied by soldiers who seemed to be bringing a heavy load.

They approached nearer and nearer. "Form a ring," commanded the

officer, and they obeyed in expectant gladness; and around the thickly

crowded ring the Austrian officers and the troop of soldiers took

their stand. In silent waiting stood the cadets, and their hearts

leaped for joy.

"Attention! your dinner is coming," cried the officer.

The ring opened. Ah! now the corporal and the soldiers are going to

bring in the dinner.

But no! The dinner came walking along by itself. With a dignified

step it marched in and gave utterance to an expressive bleat. It was

a _live_ sheep, which was to be given to the poor lads who were faint

from hunger. An outburst of boisterous laughter from the Austrians

greeted the dignified wether, and drowned the cries of the bitterly

disappointed cadets.

"A sheep!" they cried, "and what are we to do with it?"--and they

began to weep afresh.

"Kill him and roast him!" jeered the officer. "You are brave soldiers.

Well, you will only have to do what we often do in camp. Be your own

cook and butler; none of us will help you. We want to see what sort of

practical soldiers you will make, and whether you are as good hands at

cooking as at crying and blubbering."

And the Austrians folded their arms, and looked on idly and with

derisive satisfaction at these poor children who stood there with

their heads bowed down with helplessness and grief.

At length little Ramin arose. His eyes glistened with fierce defiance,

and an expression of noble courage illuminated his pale countenance.

"If the sheep belongs to us," said he, "we will eat him."

"But he's alive," cried the boys.

"We will kill him," answered the little fellow.

"We? we ourselves? We are no butchers. We have never done such a

thing!"

"Have we ever killed a man?" asked Ramin, rolling his large bright

eyes around the circle of his comrades. "Have we ever deprived a man

of his life?"

"No!"

"Well, then, we will have it yet to do! We hope to be able to kill

many an enemy, and to do that we will have to begin with some one. Let

us make believe, then, that this wether is the enemy, and that we have

to attack him. Now, then, down upon him!"

"Ramin is right," cried the boys; "let us attack the enemy."

"Attention!" commanded Ramin.

The boys drew themselves up in military order right opposite the

bleating sheep.

"Draw swords!"

In the twinkling of an eye they had drawn their little rapiers, which

looked more like penknives than swords, and which the Austrians had

left to their little prisoners of war.

"One, two, three!" commanded the little Ramin. "Attention! Forward!"

Down they charged upon the enemy, who was standing motionless, with

staring eyes, bleating loudly. The Austrian soldiers roared and

screamed with delight, and confessed, with tears in their eyes, that

it was the best joke in the world, and no end of fun to see these poor

boys made desperate by hunger.

The first feat of arms of the little cadets was completed, the wether

was slain. But now came the question how to dress him, how to convert

the dead beast into nice warm roast meat.

They were well aware that none of the laughing, mocking soldiers

would help them, and therefore they disdained to ask for help. Wood, a

roasting-pit, and a kettle were given them--means enough to prepare a

good soup and roast. But how to begin and set about it they themselves

hardly knew. But gnawing hunger made them inventive. Had they not

often at home skinned many a cunningly caught mole--had they not often

killed and drawn a rabbit? The only difference was that the sheep was

somewhat larger than a mole or a rabbit.

Finally, after much toil and trouble, and under the approving laughter

of the spectators, they accomplished it. The meat simmered in the

kettle, watched by two cadets, two others turning the spit. The work

was done; the sheep was converted into soup and roast.

And because they showed themselves so industrious and cheerful, one

and another of the soldiers softened their hearts and threw them a

piece of bread or a canteen; and the poor boys accepted these alms

thrown at them with humble gratitude, and no feeling of resentment

or defiance remained in their hearts, for hunger was appeased; but

appeased only for the moment--only to encounter new sufferings,

renewed hunger, fresh mockeries. For onward, farther onward must they

wander. Every now and then one of them sank down, begging for pity and

compassion. But what cared the soldiers, who only saw in the children

the impersonation of the hated enemy, to be tortured and worried to

death as a sport?

More than twenty of these little cadets succumbed to the sufferings

of this journey, and died miserably, forsaken and alone, on the high

road; and no mother was there to close their eyes, no father to

lean over them and bless them with a tear. But over these poor

martyr-children watched the love of God, and lulled them to sleep

with happy dreams and gentle fancies about their distant homes, their

little sister there, or the beautiful garden in which they had so

often chased butterflies together. And amidst such fancies and smiling

memories they dreamed away their childish souls, beyond the grave, to

a holy and happy reawakening.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

THE EXPLOSION.

General von Tottleben was alone in his chamber--at least he had no

visible company; but two invisible companions were there--Care and

Sorrow. They whispered to him uncomfortable and melancholy thoughts,

making his countenance serious and sad, and drawing deep and dark

lines across his brow. He was a German, and was fighting in the ranks

of the enemy against his German fatherland. Therein lay the secret

of his care-worn features, the reading of the suppressed sighs; the

broken, sorrowful words which he uttered, as with folded arms and

bowed head he paced up and down his room. He was a German, and

loved his country, which had repaid his love with that apathy and

non-appreciation that have destroyed and killed some of the greatest

and noblest men of Germany; while others have taken refuge in foreign

countries, to find there that recognition which was denied them at

home. General von Tottleben was only a German--why, then, should

Germany take notice of him? Because he possessed information, talent,

genius. Germany would have appreciated these if Von Tottleben had been

a foreigner; but, as unfortunately he was only a German, Germany took

no notice of him, and compelled him to seek in a foreign country the

road to fame and distinction. He had gone to Russia. There his talents

had been prized and employed. He was now a general in the Russian

army, and the alliance between Russia and Austria compelled him to

fight against his own country.

But the Russian general still preserved his German heart, this heart

so strong in suffering, so unfaltering in its faith, so faithful in

its love, so great in hope, humble in its obedience, modest in its

desires; this German heart of his was the cause of much suffering to

him, for it could not adapt itself to his Russian instructions,

and despite his efforts to render it callous, would insist upon

overflowing with pity and sympathy. He loved Berlin, for in this city

he had passed the best years of his youth. And now he was called on to

act as a cruel tyrant, an unfeeling barbarian, to sow broadcast death

and destruction in this city, from which he yearned so to win a little

love, a little sympathy for her rejected son.

But now his German heart was forced into silence by the exigencies

of Russian discipline, and the general had to obey the orders of his

superior officer, General von Fermore. His chief had ordered him to

exercise the utmost severity and harshness, and imposed upon him the

task of scourging Berlin like a demon of vengeance. And yet Berlin had

committed no other crime than that of remaining faithful to her king,

and of not wishing to surrender to the enemy.

A fresh dispatch had just arrived from General von Fermore, and its

contents had darkened the brow of Tottleben with anxious care. He

had received orders to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. This noble and

handsome building, which rose in proud splendor in the midst of a

populous town, was to be destroyed without reference to the fact that

the blowing up of this colossal edifice would scatter death and ruin

throughout unfortunate Berlin.

"I will not do it," said he, pacing up and down the room, and crushing

the accursed paper which brought the cruel order in his clinched hand.

"I cannot be such a barbarian. Fermore may command me to do barbarous

actions, but I will not accept such commands! I will not obey! No

one but myself knows of this order. I will ignore it. The Empress

Elizabeth has always been very gracious toward me, and will forgive

me for not executing an order which certainly never proceeded from

her own kind heart." At this moment the door opened, and the adjutant

entering, announced Count de Lacy.

Tottleben's countenance assumed a gloomy expression, and, as with

hasty step he advanced toward the Austrian general, he muttered to

himself, "I perceive the bloodhounds have got the scent, and are

eager for blood." In the mean time Count de Lacy approached him with

a friendly and gracious smile. He seemed not to be at all aware that

Tottleben did not accept the hand which the Austrian general held out

to him with a hearty greeting.

"I come to chat for a short quarter of an hour with your excellency,"

said Count de Lacy, in very fluent German, but with the hard foreign

accent of a Hungarian. "After a battle won, I know nothing pleasanter

than to recall with a comrade the past danger, and to revel again in

memory the excitement of the fight."

"May I request your excellency to remember that the Austrians cannot

count the conquest of Berlin in the list of their victories," cried

Count Tottleben, with a sarcastic smile. "It was the Russian army

which besieged Berlin, and Berlin surrendered _to us_."

"You are very kind to remind me of it," said Count de Lacy, with his

unchangeable, pleasant smile. "In the mean time may I request a more

particular explanation than this polite reminder?"

"You shall have it, sir," cried Tottleben, passionately. "I mean

to say that Berlin is not Charlottenburg, and to request that the

vandalism which the Austrian troops practised there, may not be

transferred to Berlin. Be satisfied with the booty which your soldiers

stowed away in their knapsacks at that place, and have the kindness to

order the Austrian army to learn a little discipline and humanity from

the Russians."

"From the Russians?" asked Count de Lacy, with ironical astonishment.

"Truly one is not accustomed to learn humanity from that quarter.

Does your excellency mean to say that the Austrians are to learn good

manners from the Russians?"

"Yes, from the Russians," replied Tottleben--"from my soldiers, who

neither plunder nor rob, but bear in mind that they are soldiers, and

not thieves!"

"Sir," cried De Lacy, "what do these words mean?"

"They mean that I have promised my protection to the people of Berlin,

and that I am prepared to afford it to them, even against our own

allies. They mean that I have made myself sufficiently strong to

bid you defiance, sir, and to defend Berlin against the cruelty and

inhumanity of the Austrian army. The Russian army will compel it to be

humane, and to pause in the cruel rage with which they have desolated

unhappy Germany."

Count de Lacy shrugged his shoulders. "What is Germany to you, and why

do you feel for her?" asked he jeeringly. "I beg you, count, let us

not speak of Germany. What to us is this lachrymose, fantastic female

Germania, which has been betrothed to so many lords and wooers, that

she can remain faithful and true to none? Germania will then only be

happy when one of her lovers has the boldness to kill off and tread

under foot all his rivals and so build himself up an undisputed

throne. That is Austria's mission, and our duty is to fulfil it. We

are the heralds who go before Germania's Austrian bridegroom, and

everywhere illuminate the heavens with the torches of our triumphs. If

the torches now and then come too near some piece of humanity and set

it on fire, what is that to us? Germany is our enemy, and if we have

a puling compassion on our enemy, we become traitors to our own

cause. That's all. But what is the use of this strife and these

recriminations?" asked he, suddenly breaking into a smile. "I have

only come to ask your excellency when you intend to light these new

wedding-torches which are to redden the sky of Berlin?"

"What wedding-torches?" inquired Tottleben, turning pale.

"Well, those which are to burst out from the mint and factory

buildings," said De Lacy, with a smile of indifference. "I anticipate

with extraordinary pleasure this exhibition of fireworks which the

town of Berlin is going to give in honor of our presence."

"You mean to say in disgrace of our presence," exclaimed Tottleben,

ardently.

Count de Lacy looked at him with a compassionate shrug of the

shoulders. "My dear count," said he, with cutting coldness, "when a

man becomes a Russian general, he must have a Russian heart, and not

allow himself to be influenced by any German softness or sympathy.

Otherwise it might happen that they might make a mistake, and not

being able to deprive you of your German heart, might take your German

head instead."

General Tottleben drew back with astonishment, and stared at him.

Count de Lacy continued, smiling, and in a quiet tone: "I warn you to

guard against your own mildness and your German heart. General Fermore

is my friend, and often consults me about the meaning of German words.

How would you like it if I should explain the word _treason_ in a

manner dangerous to yourself, and if this explanation should result in

translating your excellency into Siberia?"

"General Fermore is neither my commander nor my master," cried

Tottleben, proudly.

"But the lord and master of your lady and mistress, the high and

mighty Empress Elizabeth--remember that. Will your excellency now

condescend to inform me at what time the Berlin armory shall rise

fluttering in the air like a bird?"

"And do you know that, too?" asked Tottleben, with painful

astonishment.

"I have already told you that the Russians and Austrians are faithful

allies, and have no secrets from each other, as far as their designs

upon Germany are concerned. Oh, it will be a splendid _feu de joie_

for the house of Austria, when the Prussian armory is blown into the

air! When are we to enjoy this spectacle, general?"

General von Tottleben sank his head in silence on his breast. Count de

Lacy regarded him with a cold and piercing glance. Tottleben felt

this look, and understood its important significance. He knew that

his whole future, his freedom, perhaps even his life, hung upon this

moment.

"In three hours from now the spectacle will take place," said he, with

a forced laugh. "In three hours the wedding-torches shall be lighted,

and in order to make it the pleasanter, we will have the wails of the

people of Berlin as a musical accompaniment."

"In three hours, then," said Count de Lacy, bowing low; "I hasten to

announce it to my officers. I am burning with impatience to witness

this rare spectacle."

Count de Lacy departed, and General Tottleben was again alone.

For a long time did he pace his room in abstract meditation, anger and

pity, fear and terror struggling in his soul. He was perfectly aware

of the danger which threatened him. He knew that Count Fermore hated

him as a dangerous rival for the smiles of the empress, and only

waited for a favorable opportunity to overthrow him. He was therefore

obliged to yield to this cruel necessity; the Berlin armory must be

sacrificed.

Suddenly his countenance lighted up, and his features assumed an

expression of joy. He hastened rapidly to the door and summoned his

body servant and slave, Ivan Petrowitsch. "Ivan," said he, with the

stern and cold composure of a Russian--"Ivan, I have a commission for

you, and if you are successful in its execution, I will not have your

son Feodor hung, although I know that yesterday, contrary to my order,

he was present at the plundering of a house."

"Speak, master, what am I to do? I will save my son, even if it cost

my own life."

"It will cost your life, Ivan."

"I am your property, master, and my life belongs to you," said the

serf, sadly. "You can have me whipped to death any time it pleases

you. Say, then, what I must do to save my son."

"Fifty Cossacks are to ride immediately to the powder-mills to bring

powder. You will accompany them."

Ivan looked at him with astonishment. "Is that all I have to do?"

asked he.

Tottleben was not yet sufficiently Russian. His German heart would

assert its rights. As he met the inquiring look of Ivan, he turned his

eye away. He forgot that it was only a serf he was speaking to, and

not a human being.

But he soon recalled it. "You will accompany these Cossacks to the

powder-mills, I say, and as you do so you will smoke your pipe, and

see that the tobacco burns well, and that you are burning tinder on

top of it."

An expression of comprehension shone in Ivan's eyes. "I will smoke,

master," said he, sadly.

"When you are in the powder-mills, and the Cossacks are loading the

powder, you will help them, and in doing so you will let the pipe fall

out of your mouth," said Tottleben, in an undertone, and his voice

trembled ever so little. There was a pause--Ivan leaned, pale and

trembling, against the wall. General Tottleben had turned away, as if

afraid to encounter the pallid, terrified countenance of his slave.

"If you do not execute my command," said he, finally, "I will have

your only son hung, as he deserves to be. If you betray to any one

soever a word of my order, I will have your wife whipped to death. Now

think of it."

Ivan shook as if in an ague. His teeth chattered together. "I will

smoke, master," said he, at last, with an effort, "and I will drop my

pipe in the powder-mills. Have pity on my son, master, and spare my

wife!"

"I will do so, Ivan," said Tottleben. "I will give them both their

freedom, and a pension."

Ivan dropped his head, and a convulsive groan burst from his breast.

"Time passes; make haste!" cried the general, with assumed harshness.

"I go, master," sighed Ivan. "You will not, then, string up my poor

Feodor, nor have my wife whipped?"

"If you execute my order strictly and punctually, I will care for

them."

Two tears coursed slowly down Ivan's brown cheek. "I will carry out

your orders, master; I will smoke, and I will drop my pipe. Farewell,

master!"

He approached his master with slavish humility, and kissed the seam of

his garment. "Farewell, master. I thank you, for you have always been

a kind master to me," said he, and his tears moistened the general's

coat.

General Tottleben was as yet unable completely to convert his German

heart into a Russian one. He felt himself touched by this humble and

heroic submission of his slave. He felt as if he must give him some

comfort on his fatal road.

"Ivan," said he, softly, "your death will save, perhaps, not only the

property, but also the lives of many hundred other men."

Ivan kissed passionately his proffered hand. "I thank you, master.

Farewell, and think sometimes of your poor Ivan."

A quarter of an hour afterward was seen a troop of fifty Cossacks, on

their swift-footed little horses, racing down Frederick Street.

Each man had a powder-sack with him, and seeing them ride by, people

whispered to each other, "They are riding to the powder-mills. They

have shot away all their own powder, and now, in true Cossack style,

they are going to take our Prussian powder." At that time Frederick

Street did not reach beyond the river Spree. On the other bank began

the faubourgs and the gardens. Even Monbijou was then only a royal

country seat, situated in the Oranienburg suburb. The powder-mills,

which lay beyond the gardens, with a large sandy plain intervening,

were sufficiently remote from the town to prevent all danger from

their possible explosion.

Ivan, the serf of Count von Tottleben, rode by the side of the officer

of the Cossacks. He pranced his pony about, and was cheerful and jolly

like his comrades, the merry sons of the steppe. As they reached the

gate they halted their horses, and gazed with evident pleasure on the

desert, wild, sandy plain, which stretched out before them.

"How beautiful that is!" exclaimed Petrowitsch, the hetman of the

Cossacks. "Just look--what a handsome steppe!"

"Just such a fine sand steppe as at home in our own country!" sighed

one of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a song of his home.

"This is the finest scenery I have seen in Germany," cried another.

"What a pleasure it would be to race over this steppe!"

"Come on, then, let us get up a race over this splendid steppe," said

a fourth, "and let us sing one of the songs we are used to at home."

"Yes, agreed! let us!" cried all, ranging quickly their horses in

line.

"Wait a moment," cried Ivan; "I can't sing, you all know, and I've

only one sweetheart, and that's my pipe. Let me then light my pipe

so that I can smoke." He struck fire with his steel, and lighting

the tinder, placed it in the bowl of his pipe. No one saw the

sad, shuddering look which he cast at the glowing tinder and his

spark-scattering pipe. "Now forward, boys, and sing us a lively song

from home," said Ivan.

"Hurrah! hurrah!"

They charge over the beautiful plain, and sing in a pealing chorus,

the favorite song of the Cossack, at once so soft and sad:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?"

Big tears ran down poor Ivan's cheek. No one saw them, no one observed

him. He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the

smoke out of his pipe. No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as

he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills. No one heard the sad

words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee,

Leave my happy, heather plains?

Ah! this parting does not grieve thee,

Though still true my heart remains.

Far from thee I roam,

Sadly see the sunbeams shining,

Lonely all the night I'm pining

Far from thee alone."

They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring

from their saddles.

Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he passes about his pipe;

he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.

And now all's right. The pipe is alight. Like brilliant eyes of fire

the burning tobacco shines out of the bowl. Ivan puts it back in his

mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach

the gates of the powder-mills.

The Russian sentinels let them pass, and, joking and laughing merrily,

the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with

powder for the blowing up of the arsenal. How joyous and careless they

are, these sons of the steppe! How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke

his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of

powder are ranged in endless rows!

And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin

to load the powder into their sacks.

What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch? Why do the big

drops of sweat run down thy forehead? Why do thy limbs tremble, and

why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?

They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the

powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!

Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.

Suddenly he utters a cry, a heart-rending, pitiful cry. The burning

pipe drops from his mouth!

Then rises a wild yell--an awful, horrible report!

The earth quakes and trembles, as if about to open, to vomit forth the

burning stream of a thundering crater. The sky seems blackened by the

fearful smoke which fills the air far and wide. Everywhere may be seen

human bodies, single shattered limbs, ruins of the exploded building,

flying through the air, and covering the groaning, trembling earth.

But no syllable or sound of complaint, no death-rattle is now heard.

All is over.

The powder-mills have flown into the air, and, though far distant

from Berlin, yet this terrible explosion was felt in every part of

the city.[1] In the Frederick Street the houses shook as if from an

earthquake, and countless panes of glass were shattered.

With darkened brow and a burst of anger did General von Tottleben

receive the news that the powder-mills had blown up, and fifty

Cossacks had lost their lives thereby. He mourned for the unfortunate

Cossacks and his poor serf, Ivan Petrowitsch. Still more did he lament

that it was now impossible to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. But

it was not his fault that the commands of his empress could not be

executed. The Russians had shot away all their powder, and the stock

in the powder-mills having been destroyed, there was none left to

carry into execution this grand undertaking.

[Footnote 1: Archenholz: "History of the Seven Years' War," p. 194.]

* * * * *

CHAPTER VI.

JOHN GOTZKOWSKY.

A sad and anxious period had the unfortunate city of Berlin yet to

pass through. With fear and trembling did the inhabitants await the

approach of each morning, and in spiritless despondency they seemed to

have lost all capacity for helping themselves.

There was but one man who, unterrified and unwavering, with the

cheerful courage of a noble soul, exposed himself to danger, to

suffering and grief, who proposed to himself but one object--to help

others as far as lay in his power, and to avert fresh misfortune,

additional care and anxiety from the too heavily laden inhabitants of

Berlin.

This one man was John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of Berlin. In this

day of their trouble the inhabitants looked up to him as to a helping

angel; the poor prayed to him, the rich fled to him with their

treasures; with him the persecuted found refuge, the hungry shelter

and food.

For Gotzkowsky there was no rest or leisure, nor did he feel care or

sorrow. The tears he had shed about Elise he had buried in his heart,

overcoming a father's grief by the power of his will. At this time he

only remembered that he was called to the sacred duty of succoring

his fellow-men, his suffering brothers--to be a father to the needy, a

deliverer to the oppressed.

The doors of his house were open to all who sought refuge with him.

The wives and children and aged parents of his workmen rushed there

with screams and loud lamentations, and he received them all, and

gave them beds in his splendid halls, and his gilt and silken ottomans

served for refreshing places to hungry and freezing poverty.

But not the poor alone, the wealthy also found refuge in his house.

They knew that Gotzkowsky's word had much influence, not only with

General Bachmann, but also with General von Tottleben, and that this

latter had ordered that Gotzkowsky should always have free admission

to him. In their anxiety and need they put aside the proud bearing

of their rank and dignity, and hastened to him to plead for help and

rest, to hide their treasures and place their lives and fortunes under

his guardianship.

But while hundreds sought refuge and safety there, Gotzkowsky himself

was like a stranger in his own house. Day and night was he seen on

the streets; where-ever danger and alarm prevailed, he appeared like a

rescuing angel; he brought help when all else despaired, and the

power of his eloquence and his pleading words silenced even the rough

insolence of the enemy's soldiers. A hundred times did he expose his

own life to save some unfortunate. In the New Frederick Street he

rushed through the flames into a burning house to save a child which

had been forgotten.

Elsewhere he fought singly against twenty Austrian soldiers, who were

about to carry off two young girls in spite of their heart-rending

shrieks and entreaties. The rescued maidens sank at his feet, and

bathed his hand with their tears.

Gotzkowsky raised them to his heart, and said, with an indescribable

expression: "Should I not have compassion on you? Am not I a father?

Thank my daughter, for it was she who saved you."

But now, at last, exhausted Nature demanded her rights. After two days

and nights without rest, Gotzkowsky tottered toward his own house. As

he crossed the threshold he asked himself with an anxious heart--"Will

Elise come to meet me? Has she cared for me?" And trembling with care

and love, he went in.

Elise did not come to meet him. No one bade him welcome but his

servant Peter. Gently at last, indeed almost timidly, he ventured to

inquire after his daughter.

"She is in the large hall, busy nursing the wounded who have been

carried there."

Gotzkowsky's countenance expressed great delight and relief at this

report. Elise had not, then, buried herself in the solitude of her

room in idle complaint, but had sought, like himself, comfort for her

suffering in helping and sympathizing with others. In this moment he

appreciated the infinity of his love. He yearned to take her to his

heart, and pour out to her all his unappreciated, doubted love, and

convince her that she, his daughter, the only child of his wife, was

the true end and object of his life. But unhappy, oppressed Berlin

left him no time to attend to the soft and gentle dictates of

his father's heart. He had scarcely got into his house, when two

messengers arrived from the town Council, bringing him six thousand

dollars in cash, with the urgent request that he would take charge of

this sum, which would be safe only with him. The town messengers had

scarcely left him, when there arrived the rich manufacturers, Wegeli

and Wuerst, with a wagon-load of gold and silver bars which Gotzkowsky

had promised to keep in his fire-proof cellars.

His house had become the treasury of the whole of Berlin; and if

it had been destroyed, with all these gold and silver ingots, these

diamonds and silver ware, money and papers, all the Exchanges of

Europe would have felt the disastrous consequences.

At last, all these treasures were stowed away, and Gotzkowsky

addressed himself to rest, when the door of his room was suddenly

opened, and General von Bachmann entered hastily.

"Gotzkowsky," said he, "I have come with important intelligence, and

to redeem the promise I made to my friend Sievers." Approaching more

closely to Gotzkowsky, he said to him in an undertone: "General von

Tottleben has just received orders to destroy and burn all royal

factories and mills."

Gotzkowsky turned pale, and inquired with horror, "Why this barbarous

proceeding?"

General Bachmann shrugged his shoulders. "It is the order of the

commander-in-chief, Count von Fermore," said he; "and Tottleben will

have to be all the more particular from the fact that, instead of the

arsenal, fifty of our soldiers were blown into the air. Here, in the

mean while, take this paper, and see whether, among the factories to

be destroyed, one of yours has been included by mistake."

Gotzkowsky looked over the list with dismay. "Did not your excellency

say that only royal factories were to be destroyed?"

"Yes, so runs the order."

"But the factories that stand on this list are not royal institutions.

The brass-works in Eberwalde, the gold and silver factories, and the

warehouse in Berlin, do not belong to the king, and are they going to

be so barbarous as to destroy them? That cannot be. I will hasten to

General Tottleben, and entreat him to revoke this cruel order."

General Bachmann shook his head sadly. "I am afraid it will be in

vain," said he. "Besides, you incur great risk in your undertaking.

The general is in a very angry, excited mood, and your intercession

will only increase his bitterness and anger."

"I fear not his anger," cried Gotzkowsky boldly. "If no one else dares

to tell him the truth, I will do it; and with argument and entreaty

compel him to be humane, and to respect the property of others. Come,

sir, let us go to General Tottleben!"

"No, sir. I am not going with you," said Bachmann, laughing. "I am

not a man to tremble on the eve of battle, and yet I fear to meet

Tottleben's angry looks. In his wrath he is like a Jupiter Tonans,

ready to launch his thunderbolts, and dash to pieces all who approach

him."

"I am not afraid of his thunder!" cried Gotzkowsky, fervently.

"The property and welfare of Berlin are in danger. I must go to the

general!"

"Then go along," said Bachmann, "and may God give power to your words!

I have warned you, and that is all I can do."

Gotzkowsky did not answer him. Trembling with eagerness and

impatience, he dressed himself, and throwing his cloak around him, he

once more left his house, with the alacrity of a young man.

General Bachmann looked after him, smiling thoughtfully. "He is a

noble fellow," said he, "and Berlin has good reason to be grateful to

him, and to love him. But who knows? perhaps, for that very reason,

she will one day hate him. Noble-mindedness is so soon forgotten! It

is the solid weight that sinks to the bottom, while light deeds float

on top. Mankind is not fond of being grateful. I would like to know

whether Berlin will ever show a due appreciation of this noble man?"

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII.

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

The Russians had at last allowed themselves to be carried away by the

example set them by the Austrians and Saxons. Like them, they roamed

through Berlin, robbing and plundering, unmindful of discipline, and

forgetting the severe punishments which Tottleben inflicted on those

whose misdeeds reached his ear.

Like the Austrians, the Cossacks entered houses with wanton arrogance,

and, under the pretext of being Russian safeguards, they stole, and

robbed, and ill-treated in the rudest manner those who opposed their

demands. They had even managed to reduce their robbery and extortion

to a kind of system, and to value the human person after a new

fashion. It was a sort of mercantile transaction, and the Cossacks

were the brokers in this new-fashioned business. Stealthily and

unheard, they slipped into houses, fell upon the unsuspecting women

and children, and dragged them out, not to capture them as the Romans

did the Sabine women, but to hold them as so much merchandise, to be

redeemed by their friends and relatives at high and often enormous

ransoms.

But the Cossacks drew but small profit from this hunt after noble

human game. They were only servants, acting under orders from their

officers. These latter divided the booty, throwing to the Cossacks a

small reward for their skill in robbing.

Thus, for some days, Berlin was not only subjugated by the enemy, but

a prey to robbers and slave-dealers, and moans and lamentations were

heard in every house. All the more merrily did the enemy's soldiers

carouse and enjoy themselves, laugh and joke. For them Berlin was

nothing more than an orange to be squeezed dry, whose life-blood was

to be drawn out to add new zest to their own draught of life.

The young Russian officers were sitting together in the large room

of their barracks. They were drinking and making merry, and striking

their glasses noisily together; draining them to the health of the

popular, handsome, and brilliant comrade who had just entered their

circle, and who was no other than he whom Gotzkowsky's daughter, in

the sorrow of her heart, was mourning as dead!--no one else than the

Russian colonel, Count Feodor von Brenda.

He had been right, therefore, in trusting to Fortune. Fortune had

favored him, as she always does those who boldly venture all to

win all, and who sport with danger as with a toy. Indeed, it was

an original and piquant adventure which the Russian colonel had

experienced, the more piquant because it had threatened him with

death, and at one moment his life had been in extreme danger. It had

delighted him for once to experience all the horrors of death, the

palpitation, the despair of a condemned culprit; to acquire in his own

person a knowledge of the great and overpowering feelings, which he

had read so much about in books, and which he had not felt in reality

even in the midst of battle. But yet this bold playing with death had,

toward the last, lost a little of its charm, and a moment arrived when

his courage failed him, and his daring spirit was overpowered by

his awed physical nature. There was not, as there is in battle, the

excitement which conquers the fear of death, and drunk with victory,

mocks one to his face; there was not the wild delight which possesses

the soldier in the midst of a shower of balls, and makes him, as it

were, rush toward eternity with a shout. No, indeed! It was something

quite different which Colonel von Brenda, otherwise so brave and

valiant, now felt.

When the Austrian soldiers had pronounced his sentence of death, when

they formed a ring around him at the Gens-d'Armes Market, and loaded

their pieces for his execution, then the haughty Russian colonel felt

a sudden change take place; his blood curdled in his veins, and

he felt as if thousands of small worms were creeping through them,

gliding slowly, horribly to his heart. At length, in the very despair

which oppressed him, he found strength to cast his incubus from his

breast, and with a voice loud and powerful as thunder to cry out for

help and succor. His voice was heard; it reached the ear of General

Bachmann, who came in person to set free the wild young officer, the

favorite of his empress, from the hands of the Austrians.

This adventure, which had terminated so famously, Count Brenda now

related to his friends and comrades. To be sure, the general had

punished the mad freak with an arrest of four-and-twenty hours. But

after undergoing this punishment, he was more than ever the hero of

the day, the idol of his comrades, who now celebrated his release

from arrest with loud rejoicing and the cracking of champagne bottles.

After they had laughed and joked to their satisfaction, they resorted

to the dice.

"And what stake shall we play for?" asked Feodor, as he cast a look

of ill-concealed contempt on his young companions, who so little

understood the art of drinking the cup of pleasure with decency, and

rolled about on their seats with lolling tongues and leering eyes.

Feodor alone had preserved the power of his mind; his brain alone

was unclouded by the fumes of champagne, and that which had made the

others mad had only served to make him sad and gloomy. The drunkenness

of his comrades had sobered him, and, feeling satiated with all the

so-called joys and delights of life, he asked himself, with a smile of

contempt, whether the stammering, staggering fellows, who sat next to

him, were fit and suitable companions and associates of a man who had

made pleasure a study, and who considered enjoyment as a philosophical

problem, difficult of solution.

"And for what stake shall we play?" he asked again, as with a powerful

grip he woke his neighbor, Lieutenant von Matusch, out of the half

sleep which had crept over him.

"For our share of the booty!" stammered the lieutenant.

Feodor looked at him with surprise. "What booty? Have we, then, become

robbers and plunderers, that you speak of booty?"

His comrades burst into a wild laugh.

"Just listen to the sentimental dreamer, the cosmopolite," cried Major

von Fritsch. "He looks upon it as dishonorable to take booty. I for

my part maintain that there is no greater pleasure, and certainly none

which is more profitable. Fill your glasses, friends, and let us drink

to our hunting. 'Hurrah! hurrah for human game!'"

They struck their glasses together, and emptied them amidst an uproar

of laughter.

"Colonel, you shall have your share of the booty!" said Lieutenant von

Matusch, laying his heavy, shaky hand on Feodor's shoulder. "We never

intended to cheat you out of your portion, but you were not here, and

therefore up to this time you could have no share in it."

As Feodor pressed him with questions, he related how they had formed

a compact, and pledged themselves to have their booty and captives in

common.

"We have caught more than a dozen head, and they have ransomed

themselves handsomely," cried Major von Fritsch. "We have just sent

out ten of our men again on the chase."

"Oh! I hope they will bring in just such another handsome young girl

as they did yesterday," cried Matusch, rubbing his hands with delight.

"Ah, that was a pleasant evening! She offered us treasures, diamonds,

and money; she promised us thousands if we would only release her at

once! She wept like a Madonna, and wrung her snow-white hands, and all

that only made her prettier still."

Colonel Feodor looked at him in anger. In contact with such coarse and

debauched companions his more refined self rose powerful within him,

and his originally noble nature turned with loathing from this barren

waste of vulgarity and infamy.

"I hope," said he, warmly, "that you have behaved as becomes noble

gentlemen."

Matusch shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "I do not know what you

call so, colonel. She was very pretty, and she pleased me. I promised

to set her free to-day, for the ransom agreed on, and I have kept my

word."

As he spoke thus, he burst into a loud laugh, in which his friends

joined with glee.

But Feodor von Brenda did not laugh. An inexplicable, prophetic dread

overpowered him. What if this young girl, described to him with so

much gusto, and who had been so shamefully ill-treated, should prove

to be his Elise, his beloved!

At this thought, anger and distress took possession of him, and he

never loved Elise more ardently and truly than he did at this moment

when he trembled for her. "And was there no one," cried he, with

flashing eyes, "no one knightly and manly enough to take her part?

How! even you, Major von Fritsch, allowed this thing to happen?"

"I was obliged to do so," replied the major. "We have made a law among

ourselves, which we have all sworn to obey. It is established that the

dice shall determine to which of the officers the booty shall belong;

and he who throws the highest number becomes the owner of the person.

He has to negotiate about the ransom. This, however, of course is

divided among his comrades."

"But if the person is poor?" asked Feodor, indignantly, "if she cannot

pay?"

"Then she belongs to him who has won her; he must decide on her fate.

He is--"

The major stopped suddenly. The other officers raised themselves in

their seats, and listened with breathless attention.

"I think I hear the signal," whispered the major. He had not deceived

himself. A shrill, piercing whistle sounded a second time. The

officers sprang from their seats, and broke into a loud cry of

triumph:

"Our Cossacks are coming. They have caught something! Come, come, let

us throw the dice."

With fierce eagerness, they all rushed to the table, and stretched

out their hands for the bones. Immediately a deep, expectant silence

ensued. Nothing was heard but the rattling of the dice, and the

monotonous calling of the numbers thrown. Feodor alone remained at his

place, lost in deep thought, and his tortured heart kept asking itself

the question, "Could it be her whom the barbarians had captured and

ill-used?" This question burnt in his brain like a red-hot dagger,

upsetting his reason, and driving him almost mad with anger and grief.

Still the rattling of the noisy dice went on--the calling of the

numbers. No one took notice of the young man, who, in desperate

distress, his clinched fist pressed against his breast, paced up and

down the farther end of the room, uttering broken words of anger and

grief. No one, as has been said, noticed him, nor did any one remark

that at this moment the door in the background of the hall was opened,

and six Cossacks entered, bearing a litter on their shoulders.

Feodor von Brenda saw them, and, with deep compassion, he regarded the

veiled, inanimate figure lying on the litter, which was set down by

the Cossacks.

"Colonel von Brenda," cried Major von Fritsch at this moment, "it is

your turn."

"Oh, he is too sentimental!" laughed out Matusch. "Is not that the

fact, colonel?"

Feodor remained musing and pensive. "It is a woman," said he to

himself--"perhaps a young and handsome woman like Elise. How if I

should try to save her? I have luck at the dice. Well, I will try."

And with a firm step he approached the table. "Give me the bones,"

cried he. "I will throw with you for my share of the booty."

The dice rattled and tumbled merrily on the table.

"Eighteen spots!"

"The highest throw!"

"Colonel von Brenda has won!"

"The woman is mine!" cried Feodor, his countenance beaming with joy.

His comrades looked at him with astonishment. "A woman! How do you

know beforehand that it is a woman?"

Feodor pointed silently to the back part of the room. There stood the

Cossacks, next to the litter, waiting in solemn silence to be noticed.

"A woman! Yes, by Heavens! it is a woman," cried the officers. And,

with boisterous laughter, they rushed toward the Cossacks.

"And where did you pick her up?" asked Major von Fritsch.

"Don't know," answered one of the Cossacks. "We crept along a wall,

and when we had climbed to the top, we saw a garden. We got down

slowly and carefully, and waited behind the trees, to see if any one

would come down the long avenue. We did not have long to wait before

this lady came by herself. We rushed on her, and all her struggles, of

course, went for nothing. Luckily for her and us, she fainted, for

if she had cried out, some one, perhaps, might have come, and then we

would have been obliged to gag her."

The officers laughed. "Well," said the major, "Colonel Feodor can

stop her mouth now with kisses." In the mean while, Lieutenant Matusch

threw the Cossacks a few copper coins, and drove them out of the room,

with scornful words of abuse.

"And now let us see what we have won," cried the officers, rushing to

the litter. They were in the act of raising the cloth which concealed

the figure, but Feodor stepped forward with determined countenance and

flashing eyes.

"Let no one dare to raise this veil," said he haughtily. His comrades

rushed, with easily aroused anger, on him, and attempted again to

approach the veiled woman. "Be on your guard!" cried Feodor, and,

drawing his sword from its scabbard, he placed himself before the

litter, ready for the combat. The officers drew back. The determined,

defiant countenance of the young warrior, his raised and ready sword,

made them hesitate and yield.

"Feodor is right," said the major, after a pause; "he has fairly won

the woman, and it is his business now to settle about the ransom."

The others cast their eyes down, perhaps ashamed of their own

rudeness. "He is right, she belongs to him," murmured they, as they

drew back and approached the door.

"Go, my friends, go," said Feodor. "I promise you that I will settle

with her about her ransom, and give up beforehand all claim to my

share!"

The countenances of the Russian officers brightened up. They nodded

and smiled toward him as they left the room. Count Feodor von Brenda

was now alone with the veiled and insensible woman.

* * * * *

CHAPTER VIII.

BY CHANCE.

As soon as the officers had left the room, Feodor hastened to close

the door after them carefully, to prevent any importunate intrusion.

He then searched thoroughly all the corners of the room, and behind

the window-curtains, to make sure that no one was concealed there. He

wished to be entirely undisturbed with the poor woman whose face he

had not yet beheld, but toward whom he felt himself attracted by a

singular, inexplicable sensation. As soon as he was convinced that

he was quite alone, he went to her with flushed cheeks and a beating

heart, and unveiled her.

But scarcely had he cast his eyes on her, when he uttered a cry,

and staggered back with horror. This woman who lay there before him,

lifeless and motionless, pale and beautiful as a broken flower, was

none other than Elise Gotzkowsky, his beloved! He stood and stared at

her; he pressed his hands to his forehead as if to rouse himself from

this spell which had hold of him, as if to open his eyes to truth and

reality. But it was no dream, no illusion. It was herself, his own

Elise. He approached her, seized her hand, passed his hands over her

glossy hair, and looked at her long and anxiously. His blood rushed

like a stream of fire to his heart, it seethed and burned in his head,

in his veins; and, quite overcome, he sank down before her.

"It is she," murmured he softly, "it is Elise. Now she is mine, and no

one can take her from me. She belongs to me, my wife, my beloved.

Fate itself bears her to my arms, and I were a fool to let her escape

again."

With passionate impetuosity he pressed her to his heart, and covered

her lips and face with his kisses. But the violence of his affection

aroused Elise. Slowly and stunned she raised herself in his arms, and

looked around, as if awakened from a dream. "Where am I?" asked she,

languidly.

Feodor, still kneeling before her, drew her more closely to his heart.

"You are with me," said he, passionately, and as he felt her trembling

in his arms, he continued still more warmly: "Fear nothing; my Elise,

look not so timidly and anxiously about you. Look upon me, me, who am

lying at your feet, and who ask nothing more from Fortune than that

this moment should last an eternity."

Elise scarcely understood him. She was still stunned--still confused

by the dreams of her swoon. She passed her hand over her forehead, and

let it drop again list-less and powerless. "My senses are confused,"

whispered she in a low voice, "I do not hear; what has happened to

me?"

"Do not ask, do not inquire," cried Feodor, ardently. "Think only that

love has sent an angel to you, on whose wings you have reposed on

your passage hither to me. Why will you ask after the nature of

the miracle, when the miracle itself brings delight to our eyes and

hearts? Therefore, fear nothing, gentle, pure being. Like an angel do

you come to me through the deluge of sin. You bear the olive-branch of

peace, and love and happiness are before us."

But as he was about to press her still more closely to his heart, a

shudder pervaded her whole frame. "Oh, now, I recollect," she cried,

vehemently; "now I know all! I was alone in the garden. There came

those terrible men. They seized me with their rude hands. They wounded

my heart with their horrible looks, which made me shudder. Whither

have they brought me? where am I?"

"You are with me," said Feodor, carrying her hand to his lips.

For the first time, then, she looked at him--for the first time,

she recognized him. A deep blush of joy suffused her cheeks, and an

angelic smile beamed on her lips. She felt, she knew nothing further

than that her lover was at her side, that he was not dead--that he was

not lost to her. With an outcry of delight she threw herself into his

arms, and greeted the lost, the found one, with warm and happy words

of love. She raised her eyes and hands to heaven. "Oh, my God, he

lives!" cried she, exultingly. "I thank Thee, God, I thank Thee. Thou

hadst pity on my sufferings."

"Love protected me," said Feodor, gazing at her passionately. "Love

saved me by a miracle. Still more miraculously, it brings you to my

arms. Fear not, Elise. No other eye than mine has seen you. No

one knows your name. That sweet secret, is only known to Love and

ourselves."

Elise trembled. This imprudent speech woke her out of the stupor which

had so long had possession of her; it recalled her to the world, and

dispelled the charm which his presence, his looks, and his words had

thrown around her. She was now aroused, and hurried from a state of

dreamy delight to one of cruel and dread reality. The ray of joy faded

from her cheek, the smile died on her lips, and, extricating herself

forcibly from his arms, she stood before him in her pride and anger.

"Feodor," said she, terrified, "you sent those fearful men! You caused

me to be kidnapped!" With an angry, penetrating glance, she looked at

Feodor, who sank his eyes in confusion to the ground.

As she saw this, she smiled contemptuously, and her injured maiden

honor overcame her love and tenderness. "Ah! now I understand!" said

she, with cutting scorn. "I have been told of the hunt after human

beings which is carried on in the town. Colonel Feodor von Brenda

plays a worthy part in this game!"

Feodor wished to approach her and take her hand, but she repulsed him

sternly. "Do not touch me," cried she, haughtily; "do not seek to take

my hand. You are no longer he whom I love. You are a kidnapper. But

let me tell you, though you have compelled my body to suffer this

dishonorable deed, yet my soul remains free, and that despises you!"

It was a splendid sight to see her in her noble wrath, which seemed to

elevate her whole frame, and drive a deep glow to her cheeks.

Feodor looked at her with ardent gaze. Never had he seen her so

fascinating, so charmingly beautiful. Even her wrath delighted him,

for it was a token of her purity and innocence.

He wanted again to draw near to her, to take her to his heart, but she

drew back in pride and anger. "Go," said she, "I have nothing to do

with a man who violates the most sacred laws of human honor, and like

a vile thief sneaks in to destroy innocence." Her voice failed her,

her eyes filled with tears, but she shook them from her. "I weep,"

said she, "but not for grief, nor yet for love; anger it is alone

which extorts tears from me, and they are bitter--far more bitter than

death." And as she thus spoke, she pressed her hands to her face, and

wept bitterly.

Feodor passed his arm gently around her trembling form. In the excess

of her grief she did not feel it. "No, Elise," said he, "you weep

because you love me. You weep because you think me unworthy of your

love. But before you condemn me, listen to me. I swear to you by the

memory of my mother, the only woman in whom, besides yourself, I

ever believed, that I had no part in this treachery which has been

committed toward you. You must believe me, Elise! Look at me, beloved

one--I can bear your looks. I dare raise my eyes to you. I am not

guilty of this crime."

Her hands glided slowly from her face, and she looked at him. Their

looks met, and rested for a long time on each other. She read in his

eyes that he was innocent, for love is confiding, and she loved him.

With a charming smile she extended both hands toward him, and he read

in her looks the words of love and tenderness which her timid lips did

not dare give expression to.

Feodor drew her warmly to his heart. "You believe me," cried he,

passionately; and as he raised her with irresistible strength in his

arms, he murmured low, "Now let us enjoy the sacred hour of happiness

without inquiring what divinity we have to thank for it."

But the instinct of modesty prevailed over love. "No," cried she, as

she struggled out of his arms, trembling with excitement--"no, Feodor,

it is no hour of happiness in which my honor and good name are to be

buried--no hour of happiness when scandal can tell from mouth to mouth

how a German maiden let herself be carried into the Russian camp, and

shamelessly rushed into the arms of dishonor; for so will they tell

it, Feodor. No one will believe that you had no hand in this outrage.

The world never believes in innocence. Whoever is accused is already

condemned, even if the judge's sentence should a thousand times

pronounce him innocent, No, they will point at me with the finger of

scorn, and with an exultant laugh will say to each other, 'Behold the

barefaced woman who deserted to the Russians, and revelled with her

lover, while her native town was groaning amidst blood and tears. Look

at the rich man's child, who is so poor in honor!'"

Deeply moved by her own words, she drew herself up still more in the

power of her dignity and innocence, and gazed at Feodor with flashing

eyes. "Count Feodor von Brenda," cried she, firmly, "will you allow

your bride to be suspected and defamed? that a stain should be allowed

to rest upon the name of her who is to become your wife?"

In her proud excitement she did not perceive the rapid motion of his

lips, nor the blush of shame which suffused his cheeks; she remarked

not that he cast down his eyes and spoke to her with broken and

trembling voice.

"Elise," said he, "you are beside yourself. Your excited fancy paints

every thing to you in sombre colors. Who will dare to defame you? Who

knows that you are here?"

"But the whole world will know it. Scandal has a thousand tongues to

spread evil reports. Feodor, let me go. You say that no one knows that

I am here; then no one will know that I go. Be merciful with me, let

me go!"

"No," cried he, almost rudely. "I will not let you. You ask what is

impossible. I were a fool if I were thus madly to cast the happiness

away which I would fain purchase with my heart's blood. Twice have

I risked my life to see you, to be able to kneel for one happy,

undisturbed hour at your feet, and gaze on you, and intoxicate myself

with that gaze. And now you ask that I shall voluntarily give up my

happiness and you!"

"My happiness! my happiness! yes, even my life I ask you to preserve

by letting me go hence, and return to my father's house," cried Elise,

eagerly.

As she perceived that he shook his head in refusal, and met his wild,

passionate looks, reading in them that she might expect no mercy

from him, her anger flashed forth. Imploringly she raised her arms to

heaven, and her voice sounded full and powerful: "Feodor, I swear to

you by God in heaven, and the memory of my mother, that I will only

become the wife of that man whom I follow of my free will out of the

house of my father. I am capable of leaving my father's house; but it

must be my own free choice, my free determination."

"No," said Feodor, wildly; "I will not let you go. You are mine, and

you shall remain."

Elise drew nearer to him with bashful tenderness. "You must let me go

now, in order one of these days to demand your pure wife from out

her father's house," said she. There was something so touching, so

confiding in her manner that Feodor, against his will, felt himself

overcome by it; but even while submitting to this fascination he was

almost ashamed of himself, and deep sadness filled his soul.

Silently they stood opposite to each other, Elise looking at him with

tenderness, yet with fear--he his head bowed, wrestling with his own

heart. Suddenly this silence was interrupted by a loud and violent

knocking at the door. The voices of his wild companions and mad

comrades were calling out loudly Feodor's name, and demanding, with

vehement impetuosity, the opening of the closed door. Feodor turned

pale. The thought that his Elise, this young, innocent, and

modest girl, should be exposed to the insolent gaze of his riotous

companions, irritated him.

Casting his angry glances around the room to seek for a hiding-place

in which to conceal Elise, he perceived that this was in vain, that

no escape was possible. Sadly he sank his head upon his breast, and

sighed. Elise understood him; she comprehended her disconsolate and

Desperate position.

"There is then no place where I can hide myself?" said she in despair.

"Shame awaits me. The whole world will know that I am here!"

Outside the officers raged still louder, and demanded with more

violent cries the opening of the door. Feodor still looked around him

for a secret place. Nowhere was there a possibility of hiding her, or

letting her escape unnoticed. His infuriated companions threatened to

break the door in.

Feodor now with determination seized the large shawl which had

previously enveloped Elise's form, and threw it over her face. "Well

then," said he, "let them come; but woe to him who touches this

cloth!"

He pressed the veiled maiden down in a chair, and, hastening to the

door, drew back the bolt.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IX.

MISTRESS OR MAID.

As Feodor opened the door, his comrades rushed screaming and laughing

uproariously into the room, spying round eagerly for the poor woman,

the noble game which they had hunted down.

When they perceived Elise seated in a chair, veiled and motionless

just as they had left her, they gave vent to a cry of delight, and

began to explain to the colonel in a most confused jumble, often

interrupted by bursts of laughter and merry ejaculations, the cause

of their stormy interruption. A young man, they said, had just come

inquiring after a young lady who had been carried off by the Cossacks.

He had insisted upon seeing Colonel Feodor von Brenda, in order to

offer a ransom for the captive lady.

"We have come to inform you of this," said Lieutenant von Matusch,

"so that you may not let her go too cheap. This is the richest haul we

have made yet."

"The daughter of the rich Gotzkowsky!" cried another officer.

"She'll have to pay a tremendous ransom," shouted Major von Fritsch.

Feodor exclaimed, with assumed astonishment, "That woman there the

daughter of Gotzkowsky! Why, don't you know, my friends, that I lived

for a long time in Berlin, and am intimately acquainted with the

beautiful and brilliant daughter of the rich Gotzkowsky? I can assure

you that they do not resemble each other in a single feature."

The officers looked at one another with amazement and incredulity.

"She is not Gotzkowsky's daughter? But the young man told us that he

came from Mr. Gotzkowsky."

"And from that you draw the conclusion that this is his daughter whom

you have caught," cried Feodor, laughing. "Where is this man?"

Lieutenant von Matusch opened the door, and on the threshold appeared

the serious figure of Bertram. He had fulfilled the vow which he had

made to himself, and carefully and attentively watched and guarded

every step of Elise; and while Gotzkowsky was absent from home night

and day faithfully serving his country, Bertram had been a vigilant

sentinel over his daughter. Indeed, Gotzkowsky's house had been, to

all appearance, perfectly safe; it was the sanctuary and refuge of all

the unfortunate, the only secure place where they could bestow their

valuables. Russian sentinels stood before the house, and Tottleben's

adjutant had his residence in it. But this security only applied to

the _house_. As long as Elise kept herself within-doors, Bertram had

no fear. But there was the large garden in which she loved to roam for

hours together, and especially her favorite resort at the extreme end

of the same, not far from the wall, which was so easy to climb.

Bertram had not ventured to restrain Elise from visiting this solitary

and secluded spot, but he had followed her on her visits to it. There,

hidden behind some tree he had, with the patience and perseverance of

which love alone is capable, watched the young girl, who was neither

desirous of nor grateful for guardianship. This very day he had

followed her softly and unperceived into the garden. Then, when he had

ascertained whither she directed her steps, he had returned into the

house to complete some important business of Gotzkowsky. But impelled

by anxious and unaccountable restlessness, he had hastened back into

the garden; at a distance he heard Elise's cry for help, and, rushing

forward, had come up just in time to see her raised over the wall by

the Cossacks.

Stunned by horror at this sight, Bertram stood for a moment

motionless. He then felt but one desire, one resolve, and that was--to

rescue her. He hurried to the house for the purpose of proceeding

to General Tottleben and invoking his assistance and support. But a

sudden and painful thought arrested his steps.

Suppose that Elise had not gone against her will? Suppose that this

had been a preconcerted abduction to which the semblance of violence

had only been given in order, in case of failure, to maintain Elise's

reputation free from stain?

With a sigh of anguish he recalled to mind when Elise had hidden

her lover in her bedchamber that night when Gotzkowsky had delivered

Feodor over to the Austrians. Since then father and daughter had not

met, and no word of reproach had passed Elise's lips. But Bertram

understood that Gotzkowsky's cruel and relentless sacrifice of her

lover had forever estranged the heart of his daughter from him; that

this hard though just deed had torn asunder the last link which bound

her to him.