He could contain himself no longer; he rushed forward and threw himself at her feet. "Oh, Charlotte, I love you, only you, and once more I am by your side!"

A shriek! was it a cry of surprise or delight? Who let the guitar fall to the floor, he or she? Who embraced the other in affectionate haste, he or she? Who pressed the lips so lovingly to the other lips, he or she? And who said, "I love you? What bliss to again repose in your affection, I would fain die now. In this moment a whole life has been consecrated, for love has revealed to us our other self."

She sat upon the tabouret, and Goethe still knelt before her, clasping her feet and pressing them to his bosom. His eyes beamed with inexpressible delight as he regarded the face, usually so calm and indifferent—today glowing as sunrise.

"Oh, tell me, Charlotte, have you thought of me? But rather speak to me with your eyes, and may they be more than the cruel lips which refuse to confess. Oh, shade not those loved orbs, which are my stars shining upon me, whithersoever I wander. They are my light, my spring-time, and my love. They will never cease to beam upon me, as light and love never grow old. Let me read eternal youth in those eyes, and the secrets which rest as pearls in the depths of your heart. Only tell me, is the pearl of love to be found there, and is it mine?"

"It would be a misfortune if it were there," she whispered, with a sweet smile. "Pearls are the result of a malady, and my heart would be ill if the pearl of love were found there. No, no, rise, Wolf, dear Wolf, we have given away at the first moment of meeting; let us now be reasonable, and speak in a dignified manner with each other, as it becomes a married woman and her friend."

"Friend?" repeated Goethe, impetuously; "forever must I listen to this hated, hypocritical word, which, like a priest's robe, shall cover the sacred glow in my heart? I have told you, Charlotte, that I am not your friend, and I never shall be. There is not the least spark of this still, calm fire of the earthly moderation in me, by which one could cook his potatoes, or his daily vegetables, but by which one could never prepare food for the gods, or that which could refresh a poet's heart or quicken his soul. No, in me burns the fire which Prometheus stole from the gods, originating in heaven and glowing upon earth. This heavenly and earthly love unites in one flame. Again, I say, Charlotte, banish this hypocritical word 'friendship!' It is only love which I feel for you, let this sentiment enter at every avenue of your heart, and do not feign ignorance of it, sweet hypocrite. Surprise has torn away the mask! The passionate kiss, which still burns upon my lips, was not given by a friend or sister; but overcome by joy, the truth has been acknowledged!"

"Do you wish that the kiss of meeting should be that of parting also?" said Charlotte, sadly, as she raised her blue eyes with a languishing look to the handsome, ardent face of the man who stood before her. "Do you wish to separate forever? I must recall to you our last conversation: 'Only when you are resolved to moderate this impetuous manner, and curb this overflow of feeling, which reason and custom imposes upon us, shall I be able to receive you and enjoy your society.'"

"Yes, with these unmeaning phrases you banished me. Cruel and hard-hearted were you to the last. Oh, Charlotte! you know what I suffered at our last walk, with your reasoning remonstrances and cold-hearted reproaches; they pierced my heart like poisoned arrows. If the duke and duchess had not been walking before us, I should have wept myself weary. My whole being cried within me: 'Oh! cruel and inexorable woman, to beg of me, who so unutterably loves her, to call her friend and sister!' I repeated the words daily during my absence, and sought to clothe your beloved image with meaning. They disfigured you, and the angel whom I adore was no longer recognizable. I cannot call you friend or sister."

"Then I can be nothing to you, dear Wolfgang," sighed Charlotte. "In this hour of meeting we will part, and to avoid a chance encounter even, I will go to my husband at Kochberg, and remain there the whole summer."

Goethe seized her, holding her fast in his strong arms, staring her in the face with a fierce, angry look. "Are you in earnest? Would you really do it?"

"Goethe, I beg you to loosen your hold; you hurt my arms."

"Do you not also hurt me? With your cold indifference do you not pierce my heart with red-hot daggers, and then smile and rejoice at my torture, which is a proof to you of my unbounded love? While you only play with me, and attach me to your triumphal car, to display to the world that you have succeeded in taming the lion, and have changed him into a good-natured domestic animal. Go! you do not deserve that I should love you, cold-hearted, cruel woman!"

He threw her arms from him, with tears in his eyes. Charlotte von Stein regarded him with anger and indifference.

"Farewell, secretary of legation. It seems to please you to insult and offend a poor woman, who has no other protection than her honor and virtue. Farewell! I will not expose myself to such offences; therefore I will retire."

She turned slowly toward the door, but Goethe bounded forward like a tiger, interrupted her path, falling upon his knees, imploring pity and begging for pardon. "Oh, Charlotte, I will be gentle as a child, I will be reserved, I know that I am a sinner! It is warring against one's own heart to seek comfort in offending what is dearest to it in a moment of ill-humor. But I have again become a child, with all my thoughts, scarcely recognizable for the moment, quite lost to myself, as I consent to the conditions of others with this fire raging within me. Oh, beloved Charlotte, forgive me! I submit to all that you wish." [Footnote: Goethe's words.—See "Letters to Charlotte von Stein," roll., p. 358.]

"Will you be satisfied to love me as your friend and sister?"

"I will be," he sighed. "Only in the future you must endeavor to persuade yourself into such a sisterly way that you will be indulgent to my rudeness, otherwise I shall have to avoid you when I need you most. Oh, Charlotte, it seems terrible to me that I should mar through anguish the best hours of my life, the blissful moments of meeting with you, for whom I would pluck every hair from my head if it would make you happy. And yet to be so blind, so hardened! Have pity upon me. Again I promise you that I will be reasonable. Do not banish me from your presence. Extend to me your hand, and promise me that you will be my friend and sister!" [Footnote: Goethe's words.—See "Letters to Charlotte von Stein," roll., p. 358.]

"Then here is my hand," said she, with a charming smile.

"I will be your friend and sister, and—"

"What now, my Charlotte? do finish—what is it?"

She laid her hand gently upon his shoulder, and her words fell on his ear like soft music. "When my dear friend and much-beloved brother has conducted himself very prudently for two or three happy weeks, I will send him a ringlet of my hair, which he has so long begged for, and a kiss with it."

Goethe spoke not, but pressed her blushing face to his bosom, and laid his hand gently upon her head. A smile of delight—of perfect happiness—played around his lips.



CHAPTER XXII. THE READING.

This happy smile still beamed upon Goethe's face as he walked with the duke late in the evening toward Belvedere to soiree of the Duchess Amelia, who was inspired with a love for the fine arts, and particularly literature. The two gentlemen had busily occupied themselves in preparing them for the lady of honor, Fraulein von Gochhausen, and, although aided by Goethe's servant, Philip, and workmen, it was late when they arrived.

As they entered, the ladies and gentlemen were seated in a large circle around the centre-table. At one end sat the Duchesses Amelia and Louisa, the mother and wife of Charles Augustus and near the former her friend and favorite the poet Wieland, once the tutor of her son the duke. Near the poet sat an elderly gentleman of cheerful, good-natured mien, who, with the exception of Wieland, was the only one who did not present himself, like the duke and Goethe, in Werther costume. He wore a white, silver-embroidered coat, with a dark-blue satin vest, and breeches of the same, shoes with buckles, and bosom and wrist ruffles of lace.

This gentleman, with the bright, sparkling eyes, and pleasant face, was the poet Gleim, who looked very comfortable and stately in the circle of powdered perukes. His admiration for Frederick the Great had inspired him to write some beautiful military songs, and his love of poetry and literature made him an enthusiastic admirer of all those devoted themselves to literary pursuits. Besides, he was rich and liberal, and it was very natural that the poets, and authors exerted themselves with marked assiduity to please Father Gleim. They were gratified to have him print their works for a small remuneration in an annual which he entitled the "Almanach of the Muses." He was just reading aloud at the duchess's soiree from the late edition of the almanach, and the society listened with earnest and kind attention, occasionally interrupted with an enthusiastic "Bravo!" or "Excellent!" from the duchess, followed by a murmur of assent around the table, which caused the poet's face to brighten with joy and satisfaction, and him to read on with increased energy.

The entrance of the duke and Goethe was unobserved, as it was understood that the former wished no notice to be taken of his going or coming, and the duchess had also waved her hand, not to interrupt Father Gleim. The poet has just finished the new poem of melodious rhythm of imprisoned Shubart. As he paused to wipe the perspiration from his brow and sip a little raspberry water, a tall, slender young man, in the Werther costume, approached, bowing, and regarding the poet so kindly, that the glance of his fine black eyes fell like a sunbeam on the heart of the old man. "You appear somewhat fatigued, my good sir," said the unknown, in a sweet, sonorous voice. "Will you not permit me to relieve you, and read in your stead from this glorious book of yours?"

"Do so, my dear Gleim," said the Duchess Amelia, smiling, "you seem really exhausted; let the young man continue the agreeable and welcome entertainment."

Father Gleim was very well pleased; he handed the book to the young stranger with a graceful bow, as the latter seated himself opposite to him, and next to Fraulein Gochhausen.

He commenced in a clear, distinct voice. The verses flowed from his lips gracefully, and in a cultivated style. The company listened with devoted attention, and Father Gleim, the protector of all the young poets, sat delighted, nodding consent, with a pleasant smile. It must all be charming—it had come into existence under his fostering care. What beautiful verses to listen to! "Die Zephyre lauschen, Die Balche rauschen, Die Sonus Verbreitet ihr Licht mit Wonne!"

And how charmingly the young man read them! Suddenly Father Gleim startled, and the smile died upon his lips. What was it? What was the young man reading? Verse which were not in the collection, and which were more remarkable than he had ever heard from his young poets. "Those are not in the Annual," cried Gleim, quite forgetting decorum,—"that—"

One glance from the fine black eyes of the young man so confounded Father Gleim, that he ceased in the midst of a sentence, and, staring in breathless astonishment, listened. Glorious thoughts were expressed therein, and the poets of the Muse Almanach might have thanked God if the like had occurred to them. Love was not the burden of the song; neither hearts, griefs, nor bliss, but satire, lashing right and left with graceful dexterity, and dealing a harmless thrust to every one. All were forced to laugh; the happy faces animated and inspired every thing. The brilliant satirical verses rushed like rockets from the lips of the reader—a real illumination of wit and humor, of good-natured jokes and biting sarcasm, and it delighted the old man that every one had received hits and thrusts but himself; he had been spared until now! Every one regarded him, smiling and amused, as the reader exalted the merits of the Maecenas, and praised him highly for the interest he took in the poet's heart, soul, and purse, and shouted victory when one excelled. But suddenly the good father also changed, and, instead of the patron on the right throne, there was a turkey-cock on the round nest, which zealously sought to hatch out the many eggs that he had to take care of for others besides his own; he sat brooding untiringly, and shed many a tear of joy over the fine number of eggs, yet it happened that a poetical viper had put but under him one of chalk, which he cared for with the others.

Herr Gleim could no longer contain himself, and, striking the table, he cried, "That is either Goethe or the devil!" The entire company burst into uncontrollable laughter, and the old man shouted the second time, though inwardly angry, "It is either Goethe or the devil!"

"Both, dear Father Gleim," said Wieland, who was drying his tears from laughter, "it is Goethe, and he has the devil in him to-day. He is like a wild colt, which kicks out behind and before, and it would be well not to approach him too near." [Footnote: Wieland's own words.—See Lewes' "Life of Goethe," vol. i., p. 432.]

Goethe alone retained his composure, and continued reading in a louder voice, which hushed all conversation. He lashed with bitter sarcasm "him who assumed to be a god—a wise man—and who counted for nothing better than a pretentious, saucy fellow, who made himself the scorn of the poets by his sweet, Werther-like sighs, and other worthless lamentations, heeding neither God nor the devil!"

And so he stormed and thundered, ridiculed and slandered his own flesh and blood, until Goechhausen, red with anger, rose and snatched the book from his hand, and closed his lips with her hand, crying: "If you do not cease, Goethe, I will write to your beloved mother, Frau Aja, that a satirist, a calumniator has had the impudence to defame and slur her beloved son in a most sinful and shameful manner! I will write to her, indeed, if you do not stop!"

Goethe rose, and bowing offered his hand to Father Gleim in such a friendly, affectionate manner, that the old man, quite delighted, thanked him heartily for the pleasure and surprise which he had afforded him.

The duke, however, seated himself by the little lady of honor. "Thusnelda, you are an incomparable creature, and quite calculated to be the ancestress of all the Germans. I declare myself your cavalier for the evening, and will devote myself to you as your most humble servant, and will not quit your side for a moment."

"Very beautiful it will be, my dear duke, a most charming idyl; in true Watteau style, I will be the sweet shepherdess, and lead your highness by a little ribbon. But where is my present—my surprise?"

"You must not be impatient, Thusnelda, but wait what time will produce. You will have it; if not to-day, to-morrow. Every day brings its own care and sorrow."

"Ah, duke, instead of giving me my surprise, you beat me with doggerels. That comes from having a Goethe for companion and friend. Crazy tricks, like chicken-pox, are contagious, and the latter you have caught, duke. It is a new kind of genius distemper. Very fortunately, our dear Countess Werther has another malady, or she might be infected. Perhaps she has it already, Count Werther—how is it?'

"I do not know, Fraulein," replied the count, startled from reverie. "I really do not know! My wife is quite ill, for that reason has gone to our estate to recover her peace and quiet. It is unfortunately quite impossible for me to visit her there; but my dear, faithful friend, Baron von Einsiedel, will drive over to-morrow at my request, my commission—"

"To set the fox to keep the geese," interrupted Thusnelda in her lively manner.

"No, not that, Fraulein," said Count Werther, quite confused, as the duke burst into a merry laugh, calling Thusnelda a witty Kobold, and as her faithful Celadon offered her his arm to conduct her to his mother, the Duchess Amelia.

The company were all in a very happy frame of mind. Goethe's charming impromptu had kindled wit and humor upon every lip. He himself was the happiest of all, for Charlotte was by his side, gazing upon him with her large, thoughtful eyes, and permitting him to be her cavalier for the evening.

The duke also devoted himself to Fraulein von Goechhausen, who was this evening unsurpassably witty and caustic, delighting him, and making the Duchess Amelia laugh, and the Duchess Louisa sometimes to slightly shrug her shoulders and shake her head with disapproval.

In the midst of a most interesting conversation with Frau von Stein, Goethe was informed that some one awaited him in the anteroom. He went out quickly, and upon returning he whispered to the duke, who nodded, and answered him in a low tone, and then Goethe betook himself to the Duchess Amelia.

"What is it?" the latter asked. "Have important dispatches arrived?"

"No; I come to your highness as courier from your son. The duke begs that you will lock the door of your anteroom when you retire, and that you will upon no condition open it, no matter how much Thusnelda may beg and implore."

"Will you not injure my poor Goechhausen, you wanton fellow?"

"No! it is not very dangerous, duchess. It is only a harmless surprise, which the duke promised Fraulein von Goechhausen."

"Very well, then, it can take place; I promise to be quite deaf to all Thusnelda's knocking and thumping, and I shall be glad to be informed to-morrow what the trick is. I prefer not to inquire to-day, as I might feel obliged to veto it if it were too severe. But look, the Duchess Louisa will break up; does she know any thing about the affair?"

"No, your highness, you know very well that the young duchess—"

"Is much more sensible than the old one, and shakes her head disapprovingly when she hears of your ingenuous tricks. Perhaps it would be well if I were equally sensible, but there is no help for it. I like bright, happy people, and I think when youth vents itself, old age is more sedate and reasonable."

"You are quite right, duchess. Mankind resembles new wine. If the must does not ferment and foam well, no good wine will come of it. But look at our Charles, with the saucy jest upon his lip, and the fire of inspiration in those bright brown eyes. One day a fine, strong wine will clear itself from this glorious fermenting must."

"I hope so, Goethe, and if the gods grant it, the great merit will belong to you, who have proved yourself a good vintager, and we will rejoice together in your glorious success."



CHAPTER XXIII. WITCHCRAFT

An hour later the palace Belvedere was silent and deserted; the guests had taken their departure. The duchess had her suite and commanded them to retire. Fraulein von Gochhausen alone remained with her mistress, chatting by the bedside, and recapitulating in her amusing style all important and unimportant events of the soiree, The duchess smiled at the mischievous remarks with which she ornamented her relation, and at her keen, individualizing of persons.

"Fraulein Gochhausen, you are the most wicked and the merriest mocking-bird God ever created," cried the duchess, "Have done with your scandals, go up to your room, piously say your evening prayers, and stretch yourself upon your maiden bed."

"Soon, duchess; only one thing more have I to call your attention to. There is a gossip afloat about the Werthers. I perceive it in the air, as the dove scents the vulture."

"You alarm me, Gochhausen; what good is it? You do not mean that the lovely Countess Werther—"

"Is not only very weary of her husband, but looks about for a substitute—a friend, as the ingenious ladies now call him. That is what I mean, and I know the so-called friend which the sweet sentimental countess has chosen."

"It is the Baron von Einsiedel, is it not?" asked the duchess. "That is to say, his younger brother, the gay lieutenant, not our good friend par excellence.

"Yes, I mean the brother, and I have warned and taunted the count this week past, but it is impossible to awake him from his stupidity and thoughtlessness."

"Again you are giving loose reins to your naughty tongue, Thusnelda. Count Werther is a thoroughly scholarly person, whom I often envy his knowledge of the languages. He has studied Sanscrit and the cuneated letters, among other ancient tongues."

"It may be that he understands the dead languages, but the living ones not in the least. The language of the eyes and inspiration he is blind to, with seeing eyes! My dear duchess, if you are not watchful, and prevent the affair with timely interference, a scandal will grow out of it, and you know well that it would be a welcome opportunity for our Weimar Philistines (as the Jena students call commonplace gossips) to cry 'Murder,' and howl about the immoral example of geniuses, which Wolfgang Goethe has introduced at court."

"You are right," said the duchess, musingly; "your apt tongue and keen eye are ever carefully watching, like a good shepherd-dog, that none of the sheep go astray and are lost. And you do not mind attacking this or that one in the leg with your sharp teeth!"

"Let those scream who are unjustly bitten, your highness! Believe me, the countess will not cry out; she will much more likely take care not to receive a well-merited rebuke. I beg your grace to prevent the gossip! Not on account of this silly, sentimental young woman, or her pedantic husband, but that our young duke and Goethe may not be exposed to scandal, as well as your highness."

"You are right—we must take care to prevent it. Has not the countess been absent at her estate four days?"

"Yes, your highness, it is just this that troubles me. She went away as sound as a fish, and has suddenly fallen very ill. No physician has been called, but, to-morrow, the count will commission his dear friend the baron to drive to his country-seat, and bring him tidings of his better-half."

"We must circumvent this. In the morning we will arrange a pleasure-drive, of the whole court, to the country-seat of Count Werther. It shall be a surprise. Let Fourier give out the invitations early to-morrow, for a country party, destination unknown. The distribution of the couples in the carriages shall be decided by lot. Take care that Lieutenant Einsiedel is your cavalier, so that when we arrive at the little Werther, he will already be appropriated, and then we will induce her to return with us and spend some time at Belvedere. Now, good-night, Thusnelda; I am very tired and need repose. Sleep already weighs upon my eyelids, and will close them as soon as you are gone. Good-night, my child—sleep well!"

The little deformed court lady kissed the extended hand, the candlestick, with only a stump of a taper in it, and withdrew from the princely sleeping-room, courtesying, and wishing her mistress good-night, with pleasant dreams.

The anteroom was dark and deserted. The lights were all extinguished, and Fraulein Goechhausen was, in truth, the only person who had not long since retired in the ducal palace. She was accustomed to be the last, accustomed to traverse the long, lonely corridors, and mount two flights of stairs to her bedroom upon the third story. The gay duchess, being very fond of society, had had the second story arranged guest-chambers and drawing-rooms.

Why should the little court lady be afraid to-night? She had not thought of it, but stepped forward briskly to mount the stairs. It was surely very disagreeable for the wind to extinguish her lamp at that instant, just at the turning of stairs, and she could not account for it, as none of the windows were open, and there was no trace of a draft. However, it was an undeniable fact, the light was out and she was in total darkness—not even a star was to be seen in the clouded sky. It was, indeed, true that Thusnelda was so accustomed to the way that it mattered little whether she had a light or not. Now she had reached the corridor and she could not fail to find the door, as there was but one, that of her own room. She stretched out her hand to open it, but, strange to say, she missed the knob! Then she was sure that it was farther on; she felt along the wall, but still it eluded her grasp. It was unheard of—no handle and not a door even to be found! The wall was bare and smooth, and papered the entire length. A slight shudder crept over the courageous little woman's heart, and she could not explain to herself what it all meant. She called her maid, but no answer—not a sound interrupted the stillness! "I will go down to the duchess," murmured Thusnelda; "perhaps she is awake, and then I can re-light my taper!"

The door was fastened; the duchess had locked the ante-room to-night for the first time.

Thusnelda tapped lightly, and begged an entrance humbly and imploringly. No answer, every thing was quiet. She recalled that the duchess had told her that she was very weary, and would sleep as soon as she was alone, which she undoubtedly had done.

Thusnelda did not presume to awake her by knocking louder. She would be patient, and mount again to her room. Surely she must have made a mistake, and turned to the left of the corridor, where there was no door, instead of the right, as she ought to have done. It must be that it was her fault. She groped along the dark flights of stairs to the upper gallery, carefully seeking the right this time, but in vain. Again she felt only the smooth wall. Terrified, she knew not whether she was awake or dreaming, or whether she might not be in an enchanted castle, or walking in her sleep in a strange house. Just here she ought to find her room and the maid awaiting her, but it was lonely, deserted, and strange—no door, no maid. Thusnelda, with trembling hands smoothed her face, pulled first her nose, and then her hair, to identify herself. "Is it I?" she said. "Am I, indeed, myself? Am I awake? I know that I am lady of honor to the Duchess Amelia, and that upon the upper story is my room. Do not be foolish, and imagine that witchcraft comes to pass; the door is there, and it can be found." Thusnelda renewed her search with out-spread arms and wide-spread fingers, feeling first this side of the wall and then the other.

By daylight the deformed little lady of honor must have been a very droll figure, in full toilet, dancing along the wall as if suspended by her outstretched hands. Oh, it was quite vain to seek any longer. It must be enchantment, and the door had disappeared. An indefinable dream crept over Thusnelda, and she was cast down. For the first time a jest failed her trembling lips, and she wept with anguish. Yes, she, the keen, mordant, jesting little woman, prayed and implored her Maker to unloose her from the enchantment, and permit her to find the long-sought-for entrance. But praying was in vain, the door was not to be found, it was witch craft, and she must submit to it. The rustling and moving her arms frightened her now, and when she walked the darkness prevented her seeing if any one followed her; so she crouched upon the floor, yielding to the unavoidable necessity passing the night there—the night of enchantment and witchery.[Footnote: See Lewes' "Life and Writings of Goethe," vol. 1., p. 408.]

Not alone for Fraulein Goechhausen was this beautiful May-night of sad experience with witches. There were other places at Weimar. In the neighborhood of the ducal park, in the midst of green-meadows, stood a simple little cottage. Near it flowed the Ilm, spanned by three bridges, all closed by gates, so that no one could reach the cottage without the occupant's consent. It was as secure as a fortress or an island of the sea, and distinctly visible even in the night, its white walls rising against the dark perspective of the park. This is the poet's Eldorado, his paradise, presented to Wolfgang Goethe by his friend the Duke Charles Augustus. It was late as the possessor wound his way toward his Tusculum, as he familiarly called it, and, more attracted by the aspect of the heavens than by sleep, sought the balcony, to gaze at the dark mass of clouds chasing each other like armies in retreat and pursuit; one moment veiling the moon, at another revealing her full disk, and soon again covering the earth with dark shadows, until the lightning flashed down in snaky windings, making the darkness momentarily visible with her lurid glare. It was a glorious spectacle for the intuitive, sympathetic soul of the poet, and he yielded to its influence with delight. He heard the voice of God in the rolling of the thunder, and sought to comprehend the unutterable, and understand it in this poetical sense. Voices spake to him in the rushing of the storm, the sighing of the trees, and the rustling of the foliage. The storm passed quickly, a profound quiet and solemnity spread out over the nightly world, and it lay as if in repose, smiling in blissful dreams. The air was filled with perfumes, wafted to the balcony upon which dreamed the poet with unclosed eyelids and waking thoughts. The clouds were all dispersed; full and clear was suspended the moon in the deep, blue vault, where twinkled thousands of stars, whispering of unknown worlds, and the mysteries of Nature, and the greatness of Him who created them all.

"Oh, beloved, golden moon, how calmly you look down upon me, sublime and lovely at the same time! When I gaze at you, moving so quietly, floating in infinity, and contemplating reflect thyself in finiteness, I think of you, oh Charlotte, who stands above me like the moon so bright and mild, and I envelop myself in your rays, and my spirit becomes heavenly in your light.

Mir ist es, denk ich nur an Dich, Als in den Mond zu seh'n, Ein suesser Friede weht um mich, Weiss nicht, wie mir gescheh'n!

"Yes, like sweet peace, and quiet, sacred moonlight, my thoughts shall be of you, Charlotte; not like the glowing rays of the sun, or the cold light of the stars. Bright and beaming like the moon you are to me, spreading around me your soft light. Oh, beautiful golden moon, mirrored in the water, you lie as in a silvery bath, and would entice me to seek you in the murmuring depths. Hark! how the ruffled waves of the Ilm with repeated gentle caresses kiss the shore, rush from thence in golden links down the river! Sweet of the Ilm, I come, I come!"

Goethe hastened from the balcony, threw aside his apparel, plunged into the silvery flood, shouting with joy.

What heavenly pleasure to float there, rocked by the murmuring waves, gazing at the silvery stars and the golden moon, a lovely May night, listening to the voices of Nature! Add to that the perfume-laden breeze rising from the rain-refreshed meadows. How glorious to plunge into the cool stream, splashing and dashing the water, and then to shoot like a fish through the drops falling like golden rain! Suddenly, while swimming, Goethe raised his head to listen. He thought he heard footsteps on the poet's forbidden bridge. The moon distinctly revealed a peasant from Oberweimar, who would be early to the weekly market, and so serve himself to the shortest route while no one could see him.

"Such presumption deserves punishment, my good peasant, and if there is no one else to do it the ghosts must."

Listen, what a savage yell from under the bridge, and then another more unearthly!

The peasant, frightened, stopped suddenly, and looked down into the river. "Oh, what can it be?"

A glistening white arm is raised menacingly toward the bridge. A white figure, with a black head and long black hair, is seen plunging and splashing, while fearful yells are heard from the deep. Then it disappeared, to return, and menace, and yell, and plunge again.

The peasant shrieked with terror, and was answered with a cruel laugh. The white figure sank and rose from the river screeching and yelling, and the peasant shrieked also with terror.

"A ghost! a ghost! oh, have mercy upon us! Amen! amen!"

Fright lent him wings, and he fled, followed by the savage yells of the white figure, and never stopped until he reached Oberweimar, where he related to the astonished and terrified neighbors that there was a river-ghost just by the bridge which led to the cottage of the mad secretary of legation, Goethe, and which howled in the moonlight.[Footnote: This tradition of the ghost of the Ilm has been preserved in Weimar, since Goethe's nocturnal bath, until our time.—See Lewes, vol. i., p. 451.]

With the peasant also disappeared the ghost of the Ilm.

Like a happy child of Nature, refreshed, Goethe went to his room and then again sought the balcony, to throw himself upon the carpet and gaze at the blue starry vault, and enjoy the glories of heaven with thoughtful devotion, and think of Charlotte—only of her, not once of the poor Thusnelda von Goechhausen, who passed the night upon the stairs of the Palace Belvedere, and who, at last weary with fright and exhaustion, fell asleep, and was awakened by the Duchess Amelia in the morning, laughingly demanding why she preferred the landing of the stairs for a place of repose.

"Because I am bewitched, duchess, and my sleeping-room has disappeared from earth—because some cursed demon or wizard has enchanted me, this wicked—"

"Beware what you say!" interrupted the duchess; "it is most probably the duke that you are inveighing against, and calling a demon and wizard."

At this Thusnelda sprang up as if struck by an electric shock—"The surprise, this is what the duke promised me."

"Very likely," laughed the duchess. "The courier just arrived with a letter from my son to you, and I came to bring it myself, and found you, to my surprise, sleeping here. Read it, and tell me what he says!"

"Oh, listen, your highness!" cried Thusnelda, after having hastily perused the contents of the ducal missive.

"'I hope I have succeeded to surprise you! Demons and wizards have closed your doors, And weeping you slept on the stairway alone. All witchcraft has now disappeared. Go seek The surprise that from Berlin I brought you, Which I now offer for an atonement.'"

"An insolent fellow, indeed, is my son," said the duchess, "but you see, Thusnelda, he says, pater peccavi, and I am convinced that you will find something very pretty and acceptable in your room."

"I will not take it—indeed I will not," pouted the lady of honor. "He so fearfully tormented me last night. I assure your highness I was half dead with terror and—"

"And yet you will forgive him, Thusnelda, for the duke is your declared favorite; you dare not reproach him were he never so insolent, for you are just as much so, and not a hair's-breadth better. Come, go up and see what it is."

She went, and found four masons, who had been at work since daybreak to remove the wall and replace the door. Thusnelda was obliged to laugh in spite of the unhappy night she had passed, as she climbed over rubbish and ruins into her room, and met her maid dissolved in tears, who related to her that "the duke had had her walled in, for fear she would tell the trick to her mistress."

"And so you were really hermetically sealed?" said the duchess.

"Yes, your highness," whimpered the maid, "I thought I never should see daylight again. I wept and prayed all night. The only thing that consoled me was the duke's command, which Philip brought to me, to give this little box to Fraulein so soon as the wall should be taken away in the morning."

"Give it to me, Lieschen," cried Thusnelda, impatiently, her face beaming with satisfaction, however, when she opened the box. "Now, duchess, that is what I call a surprise, and the duke shall be, as he ever has been, my favorite. If he does sometimes play rude tricks, he makes it all right again, in a very generous and princely manner. See what a beautiful watch his highness has brought me, ornamented with diamonds!"

"Yes, it is very pretty; give it to me that I may return it to the duke, and not mortify him too much, as you will not wear it."

"I will accept it, duchess," cried Thusnelda, laughing—"and all is forgiven and forgotten."



CHAPTER XXIV. THE PURSE-PROUD MAN.

"Trude, is there no news from him yet? Have you never seen him since? Did he not tell you about it?"

"No, my dearest Marie," sighed old Trude. "There is no word, no message from him. I have been twenty times to the baker's in eight days, and waited at the corner of the street, where we agreed to meet, but no Moritz was there, and I have not been able to hear any thing about him."

"Something must have happened to him," sighed Marie. "He is very ill, perhaps dying, and—"

"No, no, my child, he is not ill, I will tell you all about it, if you will not worry. I have been to Herr Moritz's lodgings to-day. I could not wait any longer, and—"

"Did you see him, and speak with him, Trude?"

"No Marie, he was not there; and the people in the house told me that he had been gone for a week."

"Gone!" repeated Marie, thoughtfully. "What does it mean? What could persuade him to abandon me in this hour of need? Tell me, Trude, what do you think? Console me if you can. You really know nothing further than that he is gone?"

"A little bit more, but not much, my heart's child. When the people told me that he had disappeared eight days ago, it seemed as if one of the Alps had fallen on my heart, and my limbs trembled so I could go no farther, and I was obliged to sit down upon the stairs and cry bitterly, picturing all sorts of dreadful things to myself."

"Dreadful things?" asked Marie. "Oh, Trude, you do not believe that my good, brave Moritz could do any thing sinful and cowardly, like wicked men? You do not think that my beloved—oh, no, no—I know that he is more noble; he will bear the burden of life as I will, so long as it pleases God."

The old woman hung down her head, and humbly folded her hands. "Forgive me, my child, that I have such weak and sinful thoughts. I will apologize for them in my heart to you and your beloved so long as I live. After I had cried enough, I determined to go to the Gray Cloister, and beg the director to see me!"

"Did you see him to speak with him, dear good Trude?"

"Yes, dear child. I told him I was an aged aunt of Herr Moritz, who had come to Berlin to visit him; and finding that he was absent, I would like to know where he had gone, and, how long he would remain away."

"Oh, Trude, how clever you are, and how kindly you think of every thing!" cried Marie, embracing her old nurse, and kissing affectionately her sunburnt, wrinkled cheek. "What did he say?"

"He told me that Herr Moritz had begged permission to be absent fourteen days to take an urgent, unavoidable journey; that ten days had already expired, and he would soon return."

"Then he will be here in four days, and perhaps will bring hope and aid! He has gone to seek it; I know and I feel it, though I cannot divine where the assistance will come from. Oh, Trude, if I could only gain a favorable delay until Moritz returns!"

"Every thing is arranged," murmured Trude. "The marriage license is already made out, and Parson Dietrich has promised to be ready at any hour. Herr Ebenstreit has sent the money, doubling the amount required to the 'Invalids' Hospital' at Berlin, so that when the papers of nobility arrive, there—"

"Hush!" interrupted Marie, "do not speak of it. It is fearful to think of, and it crazes me to hear it. I will resort to every extreme. Since my father and mother are deaf to my entreaties, I will try to move him to pity. I have never been able to see him alone; my mother is watchful that an explanation should be impossible between us. I will implore this man to have pity upon me, and confide in him to whom they would sell me."

Trude shook her head mournfully. "I fear it will be in vain, dear child. This man has no heart. I have proved him, and I know it.—Hark the bell rings! Who can it be?"

Both stepped out of the little garret-room to peep over the banister. Since Marie had been betrothed to the rich banker Ebenstreit, the general had received from his kind wife a servant in pompous livery for his own service. This servant had already opened the door, and Marie heard him announce in a loud voice, "Herr Ebenstreit!"

"He!" Marie started back with horror. "He, so early in the morning! this is no accident, Trude. What does it mean? Hush! the servant is coming!"

"I will go down," whispered Trude; "perhaps I can hear something."

Trude hurried away as her young lady glided back into her room, and never glanced at the servant who sprang past her upon the stairs.

"He is a hypocrite and a spy; he has been hired to watch and observe my child, and he will betray her if he discovers any thing."

The servant announced, with respectful, humble mien, that Herr Ebenstreit had arrived, and Frau von Werrig desired her daughter to descend to the parlor.

"Very well—say that I will come directly."

The servant remained rubbing his hands in an undecided, embarrassed manner.

"Why do you not go down?" asked Marie. "Have you any thing further to tell me?"

"I would say," said he, spying about the room, as if he were afraid some one were listening, "that if a poor, simple man like myself could be useful to you, and you could confide in me your commissions, I should be too happy to prove to you that Carl Leberecht is an honest fellow, and has a heart, and it hurts his feelings to see the miss suffer so much."

"I thank you," said Marie, gently. "I am glad to feel that you have sympathy for me."

"If I can be of the least service to you, have the goodness to call me, and give me your commissions."

"Indeed I will, although I do not believe it practicable."

"I hope miss will not betray me to Frau von Werrig or old Trude."

"No, I promise you that, and here is my hand upon it."

The servant kissed the extended hand respectfully. "I will enter into the service of my young lady at once, and tell her she must prepare for the worst: Herr Ebenstreit just said, 'The diploma of nobility has arrived.'"

Marie turned deadly pale, and for an instant it seemed as if she would sink down from fright, but she recovered herself and conquered her weakness.

"Thank you, it is very well that I should know that; I will go down directly," said she.

With calm, proud bearing Marie entered the sitting-room of her parents, and returned the salutations of her betrothed, who hastened toward her with tender assiduity.

"My dear Marie," cried her mother, "I have the honor to present to you Herr Ebenstreit von Leuthen. The certificate of nobility arrived this morning."

"I congratulate you, mother—you have at last found the long-desired heir to your name."

"Congratulate me above all, my beautiful betrothed," said Herr Ebenstreit, in a hoarse, scarcely intelligible voice. "This title crowns all my wishes, as it makes me your husband. I came to beg, dear Marie, that our marriage should take place to-morrow, as there is nothing now to prevent."

"Sir," she proudly interrupted him, "have I ever permitted this familiar appellation?"

"I have allowed it," blurted out the general, packed in cushions in his roiling chair. "Proceed, my dear son."

The latter bowed with a grateful smile, and continued: "I would beg, my dear Marie, to choose whether our wedding-journey shall be in the direction of Italy, Spain, France, or wherever else it may please her."

"Is it thus arranged?" asked Marie. "Is the marriage to take place early to-morrow, and then the happy pair take a journey?"

"Yes," answered her mother, hastily, "it is so decided upon, and it will be carried out. You may naturally, my dear daughter, have some preference; so make it known—I am sure your betrothed will joyfully accord it."

"I will avail myself of this permission," she quietly answered. "I wish to have a private conversation with this gentleman immediately, and without witnesses."

"Oh, how unfortunate I am!" sighed Herr Ebenstreit. "My dear Marie asks just that which I unfortunately cannot grant her."

"What should prevent your fulfilling my wish?" asked Marie.

"My promise," he whined. "On the very day of my betrothal, I was obliged to promise my dear mother-in-law never to speak with you alone or correspond with my sweet lady-love."

"These are the rules of decency and of etiquette, which I hope my daughter will respect," said Frau von Werrig, in a severe tone. "No virtuous young girl would presume to receive her betrothed alone or exchange love-letters with him before marriage!"

"After the wedding there will be opportunities enough for such follies," grumbled the general.

"You may be sure that I shall use them, dear father," laughed Ebenstreit. "I would beg my respected mother to release me a half-hour from my oath to-day, that I may indulge the first expressed wish that my future wife favors me with."

"It is impossible, my son. I never deviate from my principles. You will not speak with my daughter before marriage, except in the presence of her parents."

"Mother, do you insist upon it?" cried Marie, terrified. "Will you not indulge this slight wish?"

"'This slight wish!'" sneered her mother. "As if I did not know why you ask this private conversation. You wish to persuade our son-in-law to what you in vain have tried to implore your parents to do. A modest maiden has nothing to say to her future husband, which her parents, and above all her mother, could not hear. So tell your betrothed what you desire."

"Well, mother, you must then take the consequences.—Herr Ebenstreit, they will force me to become your wife, they will sell me as merchandise to you, and you have accepted the bargain in good faith, believing that I agree to sacrifice my freedom and human rights for riches. They have deceived you, sir! I am not ready to give myself up to the highest bidder. I am a woman, with a heart to love and hate, who esteems affection superior to wealth. I cannot marry you, and I beg you not to teach me to hate you."

A savage curse broke forth from the general, who, forgetting his gout, rose furious, shaking his clinched fist at his daughter.

His wife was immediately by his side, and pushed him into his arm-chair, commanding him, in her harsh, cold to remain quiet and take care of his health, and listen to what his son-in-law had to say to his unfeeling and unnatural daughter. "He alone has to decide.—Speak, my dear son," said she, turning to the young man, who, with a malicious smile, had listened to the baroness, fixing his dull-blue eyes upon the young girl, who never seemed so desirable to him, as she now stood before him with glowing cheeks.

"Again I say, speak, my dear son, and tell my daughter the truth; do you hear, the truth?"

"If you will permit me, my dearest mother, I will," answered Ebenstreit, with submissive kindness, again regarding the daughter. "You have made me a sad confession, Marie," said he, sighing, "but I will acknowledge that I am not surprised, for your mother told me when I asked for your hand, that she feared I should never gain your consent, for you did not love me, although she herself, and the general, would grant theirs."

"Was that all that I told you?" asked the mother, coldly.

"No, not all," continued Ebenstreit, slightly inclining; "you added, 'My daughter loves a beggar, a poor school-master, and she entertains the romantic idea of marrying him.'"

"And what did you reply?" asked Marie, almost breathless.

"My dear Marie, I laughed, repeating my proposal of marriage to your mother, saying, that I was ready to take up the combat with the poor pedagogue, and that you seemed all the more interesting and amiable for this romantic love. Life is so tedious and wretched, that one is glad to have some change and distraction. I assure you, I have not been so entertained for long years, as in the last fourteen days in this silent war with you. It amuses me infinitely to see you so stubborn and prudish, and increases my love for you. How could it be otherwise? The rich banker, Ebenstreit, has never seen a woman who was not ready to accept his hand, and why should he not love the first one who resists it? You have excited my self-love and vanity. You have made the marriage a matter of ambition, and you will comprehend that my answer is: 'Fraulein von Leuthen must and shall be my wife, no matter what it costs me. She defies my riches and despises money, so I will force her to respect my wealth and recognize its power. Besides, she is a cruel, egotistical daughter; who has no pity for her poor parents, and is capable of seeing them perish for her foolish attachment. I will make her a good child, and force her to make her parents, and thereby herself, happy.' All this I said to myself, and I have acted and shall act accordingly. I have only to add that the ceremony will take place to-morrow, at eleven. We will leave immediately after. Have the goodness therefore to choose in which direction, that I may at once make the necessary arrangements."

"Lost—lost without hope!" cried Marie, in anguish, covering her face with her hands.

"Rather say rescued from misfortune," answered Ebenstreit, quietly. "Believe me, there is but one sorrow that may not be borne, may not be conquered, and that is poverty, which is a corroding, consuming malady, annihilating body, and soul, swifter and surer than the most subtle poison. It stifles all noble feelings, all poetical thoughts and great deeds, and, believe me, love even cannot resist its terrible power. One day you will understand this. I will be patient and indulgent, and await it with hope."

"Oh, what a noble and high-minded man!" cried the mother, with emphasis.—"Marie should kneel and thank her Maker for such a magnanimous savior and lover, who will shield her from all evil and misfortune."

Sobbing and sighing, the daughter had stood with her face concealed; now she regarded the cold-hearted, smiling woman, with flashing eyes and keen contempt.

"Thank him!" she cried; "no, I accuse, I curse him. He is an atheist, and denies love. He is not capable of a noble thought or action, scorning and defaming all that is beautiful and elevated, worshipping only mammon. I will never marry him. You may force me to the altar, and there I will denounce him."

"She will kill me," cried the general; "she will murder her aged parents, leaving them to starve and perish, and—"

"Silence!" commanded his wife. "Leave off your complaints, she is not worth the tears or remonstrances of her parents. She would try to be our murderess, but she shall not.—My son, inform her of your decision. Answer her."

"The response to your romantic language is simple and natural, my dear Marie. I have already entered into your feelings, and am prepared for this idea of refusing your lover at the altar, which is found in novels, and I supposed that it might occur to you. Money compasses all things and according to our wishes. My fortune procures for me a dispensation from public authorities to be married here in the house of our dear parents. The law demands four witnesses, who will be represented by your parents, my servant Philip, and the sacristan whom the clergyman will bring."

"And they will hear me abjure you."

"It is very possible, dearest, but the witnesses will not listen to you. Money makes the deaf to hear, and the hearing ones deaf. Old parson Dietrich knows the story of your love, and believes, with us, that it is a malady that you must be cured of. Therefore, in pity to you, he will not listen, and the others are paid to keep silent."

"Is there no hope, O Heaven?" cried Marie, imploringly. "O God, Thou hast permitted it—hast Thou no pity in my need, and sendest me no aid?" Rushing to her father, and kneeling at his feet, she continued: "Have mercy upon your poor child! You are an old man, and may live but a few years; do not burden your conscience with the fearful reproaches of your only child, whom you will condemn to an inconsolably long and unhappy life."

"Have you no pity yourself? Do you not know that I, your father, am so poor, that I have not even the necessary care? You wish your parents to sacrifice themselves for you, and suffer want! No, the daughter should sacrifice herself for her parents."

"A beautiful sacrifice, a fine sorrow!" sneered her mother. "She will be a rich woman, and have the most splendid house and furniture and most costly equipage in Berlin!"

"And a husband who adores her," cried Ebenstreit, "and who will feel it his duty to make her and her parents happy. Resolve bravely to bury the past, and look the immutable future joyfully in the face. Eleven will be the happy hour; fear not that the altar will not be worthy the charming bride of such a rich family. Money will procure every thing, and I will send a florist who will change this room into a blooming temple, fit to receive the goddess of love. In your room you will find the gift of my affection, a simple wedding-dress, which I trust you will approve of. Oh, do not shake your head, do not say that you will never wear it; you must believe that all resistance is in vain. You will become my wife, I and my money will it."

"And I," cried Marie, standing before him pale and defiant, regarding him with unspeakable contempt, "I and my love will it not. May God judge between us! May He forgive those who have brought this misfortune upon me! I can only say, 'Woe to them!'"

"Woe to you!" cried her mother. "Woe to the seducer who has persuaded our child to sin and crime, and—"

"Hush mother! I will not permit you to slander him whom I love, and ever shall, so long—"

"Until you forget him, and love me, Marie," said Ebenstreit. Approaching her, he seized her hand, and pressed a kiss upon it.

She drew it away with disgust, and turned slowly to the door, tossing back her head proudly. "Where are you going?" demanded her mother.

With her hand upon the knob, she replied, turning her pale, wan face to her mother, "To my own room, which I suppose is permitted to me, as there is nothing more to be said."

Her mother would reply, and retain her, but her son-in-law held her gently back. "Let her go," said he; "she needs rest for composure and to accustom herself to the thought that her fate is unavoidable."

"But what if she should resort to desperate means in her mad infatuation and foolish passion? Some one must watch her continually, for she may try to elope."

"You are right, dearest mother, some one must be with her, in whom she will confide. Would it not be possible to win old Trude?"

"No, nothing would gain her; she is a silly fool, who thinks only Marie is of consequence."

Ebenstreit shrugged his shoulders. "That means that she would sell herself at a high price. I beg that you will send for her."

"You will see," said she, calling the old woman, who entered from the opposite door.

Trude looked about, scowling and grumbling. "Leberecht told me my mistress called me."

"Why do you then look so furious, and what are you seeking on the table?" asked Frau von Werrig.

"My money," cried Trude, vehemently. "I thought that you called me to pay me, and that my wages were all counted out on the table. But I see there is nothing there, and I fear I shall get none, and be poor as a church-mouse all my life long. Your honor promised me positively that, as soon as the wedding was decided upon, you would pay me every farthing, with interest, and I depended upon it."

"You shall have all, and much more than the general's wife promised you, if you will be a true and faithful servant to us," said Ebenstreit.

"That I always have been, and ever shall be," snarled Trude. "No person can say aught against me. Now, I want my money."

"And obstinate enough you have been too," said her mistress. "Can you deny that you have not always taken my daughter's part?"

"I do not deny it. I have nursed her from childhood, and I love her as my own child, and would do any thing to make her happy!"

"Do you believe, Trude," cried the general, "that Marie could be happy with that poor, starving wretch of a school-master? Has she not experienced in her own home the misfortune and shame of poverty?"

"I know it well," sighed the old one, sadly, "and it has converted me to believe that it would be a great misfortune for Marie to marry the poor school-master."

"Well, will you then faithfully help us to prevent it?" quickly asked Ebenstreit.

"How can I do it?" she sighed, shrugging her shoulder.

"You can persuade my daughter to be reasonable, and yield to that which she cannot prevent. You are the only one who can make any impression upon Marie, as she confides in you. Watch her, that in a moment of passionate desperation she does not commit some rash act. You can tell us, further, what she says, and warn us of any crazy plan she might form to carry out her own will."

"That is to say, I must betray my Marie?" cried Trude, angrily.

"No, not betray, but rescue her. Will you do it?" asked Ebenstreit.

"I wish to be paid my wages, my two hundred thalers, that I have honestly earned, and I will have them."

Ebenstreit took a piece of paper from his pocket. Writing a few lines with a pencil, he laid it upon the table. "If you will take this to my cashier after the ceremony to-morrow, he will pay you four hundred thalers."

"Four hundred thalers in cash," cried Trude, joyfully clapping her hands. "Shall all that beautiful money be mine, and—No, I do not believe you," she cried, her face reassuming its gloomy, suspicious look. "You promise it to me to-day, that I may assist you, and persuade Marie to the marriage, but to-morrow, when old Trude is of no more use, you will send me away penniless. Oh, I know how it is. I have lived long enough to understand the tricks of rich people. I will see the cash first—only for that will I sell myself."

"The old woman pleases me," said Ebenstreit. "She is practical, and she is right.—If I promise you the money in an hour, will you persuade Marie to cease her foolish resistance, and be my wife? Will you watch over her, and tell us if any thing unusual occurs?"

"Four hundred thalers is a pretty sum," repeated Trude, in a low voice to herself. "I might buy myself a place in the hospital, and have enough left to get me a new bed and neat furniture and—"

Here her voice was lost in unintelligible mumbling, and, much excited, she appeared to count eagerly. With her bony forefinger she numbered over the fingers of her left hand, as if each were a fortune that she must verify and examine.

The mother and the banker regarded each other with mocking looks; the general looked at the money, grumbling: "If I had had four hundred thalers the last time I played, I could have won back my money in playing again."

"Old woman," said Ebenstreit, "have you not finished with your reckoning?"

"Yes," she said, with an exultant laugh, "I have done! Four hundred thalers are not sufficient. I must have five, and if you will give them to me in cash in an hour, then I will do every thing that you wish, and persuade Marie to the marriage. I will watch her day and night, and tell you every thing that she says and does. But I must have five hundred in cash!"

Ebenstreit turned his dull-blue eyes to Frau von Werrig with a triumphant smile. "Did you not tell me the old woman could not be bought? I knew that I was right. You did not offer her money enough; she will sell herself dear as possible."

"Yes, as dear as she can," laughed Trude—"five hundred is my price."

"You shall have it in cash in an hour," said Ebenstreit, in a friendly manner.

"So much money," whined the general; "it would have saved me if I had had it that last time."

"My son-in-law, I must confess you are exceedingly generous," remarked the mother.

"No sum would be too great to assure me my bride. Go now, Trude, you shall have the money in time.—Will you allow me, father, to send your servant to my office for it?"

"Send Leberecht here, Trude!"

The old woman hurried out of the room, but the door once closed, her manner changed. One might have supposed a sudden cramp had seized her, from her distorted face, and twitching and panting, and beating the air with her clinched fists, and her quivering lips uttering broken words.

Approaching footsteps warned her to assume her general manner and expression, and cease her manipulations. "The ladies and gentlemen wish you in the parlor," mumbled Trude to the servant descending the stairs. "But where have you been, and what have you to do up there?"

"I was looking for you, lovely one—nothing more!"

"Well, now you have found me, tell me what you want? I know you were sneaking about, listening, because you thought I was with Marie. I understand you better than you think I do. I have found many a viper, and I am familiar with their aspect. Go! they are waiting for you, and let me find you again spying about, and I will throw a pail of water on you!"

With this friendly assurance Trude dismissed Leberecht, and hastened with youthful activity to the little garret-room, when Marie fell upon her neck, weeping bitterly.

"Calm yourself—do not weep so—it breaks my heart, my dear child."

"And mine cannot break. I must endure all this anguish and survive this shame. Help me, my good mother, stand by me! It is impossible for me to marry that dreadful man. I have sworn constancy to my beloved Moritz, and I must be firm, or die!"

"Die? then you will kill me!" murmured the old one, "for, if you go, I must go also. But we will not give up yet, as we are both living; we will not despair for life. I am going once more to Moritz's lodgings; it may be he has returned, and will rescue you."

"Oh, do, good Trude; tell him that I have courage and determination to risk and bear every thing—that I will await him; that nothing would be too difficult or dangerous to serve to unite me to him! Tell him that I prefer a life of poverty and want by his side, to abundance and riches in a splendid palace with that detested creature—but no, say nothing about it, he knows it well! If he has returned, tell him all that has happened, and that I am resolved to brave the utmost, to save myself!"

"I will go, dear child, but I have first my work to do, and enough of it too—but listen to what they have made me become." Hastily, in a low voice, she related to Marie the story of her corruption, excited as before, her limbs shaking and her fists clinched. "They say we old women resemble cats, but from to-day forth I know that is a shameful lie! If I had possessed their nature and claws, I should have sprung at the throat of this rascal, and torn out his windpipe; but, instead of that, I stood as if delighted with his degrading proposal! Oh, fie! the good-for-nothing kidnapper would tempt a poor creature! Let us wait, they will get their reward. He shall pay me the five hundred thalers, and then this trader of hearts shall recognize that, however much ill-earned money he may throw away, love and constancy are hot to be bought. We will teach him a lesson," and with this, the old servant ceased, gasping for breath.

"Go now, Trude, and learn if he has returned; upon him depends my happiness, and life even—he is my last hope!"

"I am going, but first I would get the wages of my sin, and play the hypocrite, and tell a few untruths; then I will go to Moritz's lodgings, and the baker also. Do not despair; I have a joyful presentiment that God will have pity upon us and send us aid." Trude kissed and embraced her child, and scarcely waited an hour, when she was demanded in the parlor to receive her money.

Herr Ebenstreit was heartily delighted with her zealous impatience, and handed her ten rolls of gold, reminding her of the conditions.

"I have already consoled her a little, and she begins to change. I hope every thing will turn for good. Just leave her alone with me."

"But first, I must go and see my aged brother, who will take care of my money," replied Trude. "He is a safe man and will not spend it."

"Trude," cried the general, "what an old fool! to seek at distance what is so near you. I will take your money, and give you interest. Do you hear? I will take care of it!"

"Thank you, general, I'd rather give it to my brother, on account of the relationship." She slipped out of the room, hid the money in her bed, and hurriedly left the house.

Scarcely an hour passed ere Trude returned as fleetly as she went. She cast only a look into the kitchen, and hastened up to Marie's room. Her success was evident in her happy, smiling face, and coming home she had repeated to herself, "How happy Marie will be!" almost the entire way.

She had but closed the door, when the mean little Leberecht glided from behind the chimney, and crept to listen at the door.

Within was a lively conversation, and twice a shout of joy was heard and Marie, exultant, cried, "Oh, Trude! dear Trude! all goes well, I fear nothing now. God has sent me the savior which I implored!"

Leberecht stood, bent over, applying his ear to the keyhole, listening to every word.

Oh, Trude! if you could only have seen the traitor, glued to the door, with open eyes and mouth! Could you have seen the eavesdropper rubbing his hands together, grinning, and listening in breathless suspense!

Why cannot you surprise him, Trude, and fulfil your threat to deluge him and chase him away from your child's door? They forgot the necessity of prudence, and the possibility of being overheard. At last it occurred to the old servant, and she tore open the door, but no one was there—it was deserted and still.

"God be thanked, no one has listened," whispered Trude. "I will go down and tell them that I hope, if we can stay alone all day, you will be calmer and more reasonable."

"Do it, Trude; I do not dare to see any one for fear my face will betray me, and my mother has very sharp eyes. Return soon."

She opened the door, and saw not the eavesdropper and spy, who had but just time to conceal himself, and stand maliciously grinning at the retreating figure of the faithful servant.

He slipped lightly from his hiding-place down to his sleeping-room, in a niche under the stairs. For a long time he reflected, upon his bedside—his watery blue eyes staring at nothing. "This must be well considered," he mumbled. "There is, at last, a capital to be won. Which shall I do first, to grasp a good deal? Shall I wait, or go at once to Herr Ebenstreit? Very naturally they would both deny it, and say that I had made up the whole story to gain money. I had better let the affair go on: they can take a short drive, and when they are about an hour absent, I will sell my secret at a higher price. Now I will pretend to be quite harmless, and after supper let the bomb burst!"



CHAPTER XXV. THE ELOPEMENT.

Evening had set in. The card-table had been arranged, and Leberecht had rolled his master to it, taking his place behind his chair. The hour of whist the general impatiently awaited the entire day, and it was regularly observed. Even in the contract with his adopted son it had been expressly mentioned as a duty, that he should not only secure to them yearly income, but also devote an hour to cards every evening.

Herr Ebenstreit regarded it as a tax, which he must observe until married. The general was much his superior at cards, and, moreover, played the dummy, and the stake being high, it was quite an income for the future father-in-law, and regarded by him as the one bright spot in his daily life.

The cards had been dealt, and Leberecht had assorted the general's, and placed them in his gouty hand, when Trude entered, exultingly.

"What has happened? What makes you interrupt us?" cried the general. "Did you not remember that I have told you always not to disturb us at this hour."

"Yes, general, but I thought good news was never amiss."

"What have you pleasant to tell us?" harshly demanded Frau von Werrig.

"My young lady's compliments," cried Trude, triumphantly; "she begins to see that she must yield to her fate, and that it will do no good to resist any longer. She will be ready for the ceremony at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning."

The general uttered a cry of joy, and struck the table so violently, with his hand, that the cards were thrown together.

His wife bowed dignifiedly, and the happy bridegroom gave old Trude some gold-pieces upon the favorable news.

"Has she, then, been converted by your persuasion?" he asked.

"Through my persuasion and her own good sense. She understands that, if she cannot marry her dear Moritz, Herr Ebenstreit is the most fit husband, because he loves her, and is so generous to her old parents. One thing she would like an answer to—can I accompany her to her new home?"

"Yes, old woman, it will be very agreeable to have so sensible a person," said Ebenstreit. "Tell Marie that it gives me pleasure to fulfil her wish."

"In that case I would repeat that Fraulein begs for indulgence and forbearance until to-morrow, and would like to remain alone to compose herself."

"I do not wish, in the least, to see her," said her mother; "she can do what she likes until then."

"I will tell Marie, and she will rejoice," cried Trude.

"Tell her, from her father, that it is very agreeable to him not to see her pale, wretched-looking face again till morning.—Now, my son, pay attention, and you, Trude, do not presume to interrupt us again. Leberecht, play out my ace of hearts."

The latter, with his eyes cast down, and with a perfectly indifferent manner, played the card indicated, and Trude left the room quietly and unobserved.

"Every thing is arranged, my child," said Trude, as she re-entered Marie's room. "They are playing cards, which always lasts two hours, then Herr Ebenstreit goes away, and the family will go to bed. You have eighteen hours, before you will be discovered. Hark! it strikes seven, and it is already quite dark. When the post-horn sounds, then it is time."

"Oh, Trude! my dear mother, my heart almost ceases to beat, with anxiety, and I quake with fear," sighed Marie. "I am conscious that I have commenced a fearful undertaking!"

"They have driven you to it—it is not your fault," said Trude, consolingly. "Every human being is free to work out his own good or bad fortune, and, as our dear Old Fritz says, 'to be happy in the future world in his own way.' They have sold you for money, and you only prove to them that you are no slave."

"And I prove also that I am a disobedient daughter," added Marie, trembling. "At this hour, it weighs like a heavy burden upon my heart, and the words of Holy Writ burn into my very soul—'Honor thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee.'"

"You have honored them all your life," said Trude, solemnly; "I can witness it before God and man. You have worked for them without thanks or love, receiving only contempt. It is also written, 'Thou shalt leave father and mother, and cleave unto thy husband.' You still follow the commands of God, and may it bring you happiness and blessing. My prayers and thoughts go with you, my child! a mother could not love her offspring more tenderly than I do you."

"No mother could more tenderly and faithfully care for her than you have for me, Trude," cried Marie, pressing her lovingly to her breast. "Through you alone is my rescue possible, for you give us the money to undertake the long journey."

"Not I," she laughed; "it is Herr Ebenstreit, and that makes it the more amusing; the wicked always set the traps into which they fall themselves." Suddenly the loud, quivering tones of the post-horn were heard, "Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus."

"He has come!" cried Marie, and her face beamed with delight. "He calls me! I am coming!—Farewell, dear, peaceful room, where I have so toiled, wept, and suffered! I shall never see thee again! My beloved calls me, and I go to follow him even unto death! Pardon me, O God! Thou seest that I cannot do otherwise! They would force me to perjury, and I dare not break my oath! I cannot forsake him whom I love!—When they curse me, Trude, kneel, and implor God to bless me, who is the Father of love! My conscience does not reproach me. I have worked for them when they needed it; now their adopted son, to whom they have sold their name, allows them a yearly rent, and I can work for myself."

"Hark! there is the post-horn again, you must go," murmured Trude, struggling to force back her tears.

"Bless me, mother," implored Marie, kneeling.

"God's blessing go with you," she said, laying her hands upon her head, "and may it render of no avail the curses of men, but permit you to walk in love and happiness!"

"Amen, amen!" sighed Marie, "now farewell, dear mother, farewell!"

Marie rose, and kissing Trude again, flitted down the stairs, and out of the house, Trude following, holding her breath and listening in fearful excitement.

Again resounded the post-horn.

"They are gone," murmured Trude, bowing her head and praying long and fervently.

The general was particularly fortunate this evening, which caused him to be unusually cheerful and satisfied. After every rubber he gathered up the thalers, until he had amassed a most satisfactory pile. As the clock struck ten, Frau von Werrig declared that they must finish and go to bed.

The general yielded, with a sigh, to her decision, for he knew, by long years of experience, that it would be in vain to defy her will. He shoved his winnings into a leather bag, which he always carried with him, and gave Leberecht the order to roll away his chair, when the servant, with a solemn bow, stepped closely to him, and begged the general to listen to him a moment.

"Well, what have you to say?" he asked.

"I have only one request—that you will permit me to prove that I am a faithful servant, who looks out for the good of his employers. You have given Trude five hundred thalers that she might watch over your daughter. I can show you how well she deserved it, and how differently your humble servant would have done.—Have the goodness, Frau von Werrig, to call Trude to bid Fraulein come down, for you have something important to communicate to her."

His mistress proudly regarded him and seemed to try to read his meaning in his smiling, humble face. "And if my daughter comes, what have you to say?"

"If she comes, then I am a miserable fool and scoundrel, but I beg you to call Trude."

It was a long time before the old woman appeared, confused and sleepy, asking—"what they wanted at such a late hour?"

"Go and tell my daughter that I wish to see her at once."

Trude trembled, but composed herself, saying, "There is time enough to-morrow. Fraulein has been asleep a long time."

"She lies," sneered Leberecht, taking the precaution to protect himself behind the general's arm-chair. "She knows that she is not in bed."

"Oh, you sneak, you rascal," cried Trude, shaking her fist at him, "how dare you say that I tell a lie? How can such a miserable creature as you impute to others what you do yourself every time that you open your mouth?"

"Frau von Werrig, she is only quarrelling, in order to gain time—every moment is precious. I beg you to go up-stairs, and see for yourself, if your daughter is there."

"Fraulein has locked the door so as not to be disturbed."

"Ah," said Leberecht, "Trude has locked it, and has the key in her pocket."

"Give up the key," shrieked the general, who in vain tried to rise, "or I will call the police, and send you to prison."

"Do it, but I will not give it to you."

"Do you not see she has it?" cried Leberecht.

"Oh, you wretch, I will pay you—I will scratch your eyes out, you miserable creature!"

"Trude, be quiet," commanded Ebenstreit; "the general orders to give up the key—do it!"

"Yes, do it at once," shrieked Frau von Werrig, "or I will dismiss you from my service."

"That you will not have to do, as I shall go myself. I will not give up the key."

"The door is old, and with a good push one could open it," said Leberecht.

"Come, my son, let us see," said the mother.

They hastened up to the room, while the general scolded, furiously that he must sit still. Leberecht and Trude cast furious, menacing glances at each other.

Suddenly a loud crash was heard.

"They have broken open the door!" cried the general.

"I said that it was old and frail—what do you say now, beautiful Trude?"

The old woman wiped with her hand the drops of perspiration from her forehead, caused by her anguish. "You are a bad fellow, and God will punish you for your treason, that you have tormented a noble, unhappy girl. I saw that you were an eavesdropper, and you know all."

"She is gone!" shrieked the mother, rushing into the room.

"The room is empty," cried Ebenstreit. "Marie is not there. Tell us, Leberecht, what you know about it."

"I will, if we can agree about the pay—the old woman bothers me, and beg the young gentleman to go into the next room with me."

"O Almighty God, have compassion upon my poor little Marie," murmured Trude, kneeling, and covering her face.

Ebenstreit in the mean time withdrew to the other room, followed by the servant.

"Speak!" commanded his master, "and tell me what you have to say."

Leberecht shrugged his shoulders. "We are two men who have urgent business with each other. I am not at present a servant and you the master. I am a man who has an important secret to sell, and you are the man who would buy it."

"What strange, unheard-of language is this?" said Ebenstreit, astonished.

"The language of a man who cannot only deprive the rich banker Ebenstreit of a lovely wife, but of his title also. You said yourself, sir, this morning, that it was only valid if you succeeded in marrying the daughter of General von Leuthen. No none knows where you can find your bride but me."

"And Trude," said Ebenstreit, quickly.

"You know she will not betray Fraulein, and you have not even tried to make her."

"You are mistaken; Trude is as easily bought as any one."

"You say that because she has taken five hundred thalers from you. She has not helped you, and it is useless to ask for your money, as she has not got it."

"How so? Has she given it away?"

"You provided the money for your bride to run away and marry elsewhere, as Trude gave it to them."

Ebenstreit stamped his foot with rage, striding backward and forward in furious excitement, while Leberecht watched him, sardonically smiling. "Let us come to an end with this business," said Ebenstreit, stopping before his servant. "You know where Fraulein can be found, and you wish to sell the secret—tell me your price."

"Three thousand thalers, and a clerkship in your bank, which you intend to continue under another name."

"You are beside yourself. I am not so foolish as to grant such senseless demands."

"Every hour that you wait I demand a thousand thalers more, and if you stop to reflect long your betrothed and your title both are lost."

"You are a miserable scamp!" cried Ebenstreit, enraged; "I will inform the police. There are means enough to force you to give the information."

"I do not believe it. Trude will not tell you, and I should like to know what can force me if I will not. The king has done away with torture, and I have informed you how to make me speak. Three thousand thalers and a clerkship in your office. Take care! it is almost eleven o'clock—at midnight I shall demand four thousand."



CHAPTER XXVI. UNDER THE STARRY HEAVENS.

It was a beautiful, clear, moonlight night. The world reposed in silence. Mankind with their cares and sorrows, their joys and hopes, had gone to rest. Over town and village, over highway and forest had flitted the sweet, consoling angel—Sleep. The sad were soothed, the heavy-laden were lightened of their burdens, to the despairing were brought golden dreams, to the weary rest. Sighing and sorrowful, he turned from those with a sad face whose conscience banished repose, and, ah! their number was legion. To the wakeful and blissful he smilingly glanced, breathing a prayer and a blessing; but these were few and far between—for happiness is a rare guest, and tarries with mortals but fitfully. As he glided past the joyful couple who, with watchful love and grateful hearts, sat in the carriage rolling over the silent, deserted highway, two tears fell from his eyes, and his starry wings were wider outspread to rush more quickly past.

"Look, my dear Marie, two stars just fell from heaven. They are a greeting to you, loved one, and they would say they guide us on our way."

"Oh, Philip, it is a sign of ill-luck! Falling stars betoken misfortune!"

She clung closer to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. He pressed her more lovingly to his heart. "Do not fear, dear Marie; separation only could cause us unhappiness—we have long borne it, and now it is forever past. You have given yourself to me for my own, and I am yours, heart and soul; we speed on through the night to the morning of the bright, sunny future, never more to be parted."

"Never!" she fervently murmured. "Oh, may God hear our prayer. Never, never to part! Yet, while the word falls from my lips, a shudder creeps through my soul."

"Wherefore this despair, dearest? Reflect, no one will be apprised of our flight till early morning, and then they will not know whither we have fled. Meanwhile we rush on to Hamburg, where a packet-ship sails every Wednesday for England; arriving there, we will first go to Suffolk, to my old friend the vicar of Tunningham. I was his guest many weeks last year, and he often related to me the privilege which had been conferred on the parish church for a long time to perform valid marriages for those to whose union there were obstacles interposed elsewhere. He will bless the union of our love, and will accord me the lawful right to call you my own before God and man. We will not return at once to Germany. I have many connections and literary friends in London, who will assist me to worthy occupation. Besides, I closed an agreement some weeks since with the publisher Nicolai in Berlin for a new work. I will write it in London; it will be none the less favored coming from a distance."

"My flowers and paintings will also be as well received in as in Berlin," added Marie, smilingly.

"No, Marie, you shall not work. I shall have the precious care of providing for you, which will be my pride and happiness. Oh, my beloved, what a crowning bliss to possess a sweet, dear wife, who is only rich in imperishable treasures, and poor in external riches! What delight to toil for her, and feel that there lives in my intellect the power to grant her every wish, and to compensate her in the slightest degree the boundless wealth of her affection! To a loving mind there is no prouder, happier feeling than to be the only source of support to the wife of his love—to know that she looks to him for the fulfilment of her slightest wish in life. I thank my Maker that you are poor, Marie, and that I am permitted to toil for you. How else could I reward you for all you have sacrificed for me?"

"You cannot suppose, dear Philip, that the riches of my obtrusive lover would have been any attraction to me. Money could never compensate for the loss of your love. You are my life, and from you alone can I receive happiness or unhappiness. At your side I am rich and joyous, though we may outwardly need; without you I should be poor with superfluity. I am proud that we in spirit have freed ourselves from those fictitious externals with which the foolish burden themselves. Oh, my beloved Philip, my whole soul is exultant that we are never more to part—no, not even in eternity, for I believe that love is an undying sentiment, and the soul can never be darkened by death which is beaming with affection."

"You are right, Marie, love is the immortality of the soul; through it man is regenerated and soars to the regions of eternal light. When I recall how desolate and gloomy was my life, how joyless the days dragged on before I loved you, I almost menaced Heaven that it created me to wander alone through this desert. The brightest sun's rays now gild my future, and it seems as if we were alone in paradise, and that the creation entire glorified my happiness, and all the voices of Nature shouted a greeting to you, dearest. Oh, Marie, if I lived a thousand years, my heart would retain its youthful love and adoration for you, who have saved me from myself, have freed my soul from the constraining fetters of a sad, joyless existence. Repose your head upon my heart, and may it rest there many happy years, and receive in this hour my oath to love, esteem, and honor you as my most precious treasure! You shall be wife, child, sister, and friend. My soul shall be frank and open to you; for you I will strive and toil, and will cherish and foster the happiness received from you as my most treasured gift. Give me your hand, Marie."

She laid it within his own strong, manly hand, gently pressing it.

The large full moon, high above them, lighted up these noble faces, making the eyes, which were bent upon each other, more radiant. Swiftly the carriage rolled on, the night-breeze fanning their cheeks and waving back their raven curls.

Moritz raised their clasped hands, and gazed at the starry heaven.

"We lift them up unto Thee, O God. Thou hast heard my oath, O Eternal Spirit, who dwellest among the stars; receive it, and bless the woman I love!"

"Receive also my oath, O my Maker. Regard the man to whom I have sworn eternal fidelity, bless him, and bless me. Let us live in love and die in constancy."

Moritz responded, "Amen, my beloved, amen!"

They embraced each other fervently. Onward rolled the carriage through the tranquil, blissful night. Oh why cannot these steeds borrow wings from the night-wind? Why cannot the soaring spirit bear aloft its earthly tenement? With divine joy and heavenly confidence you gaze at the stars. You smilingly interchange thoughts of the blissful future, whilst dire misfortune approaches, and will soon seize you in its poisonous grasp! Do you not hear it? Does not the echo of swift-prancing steeds ring in your ears? Do you not hear the shrieking and calling after you?

They listen only to the voice of tenderness speaking in their hearts, and would that the solemn quiet of this dialogue might not be broken by a loud word from their lips.

The post-horn sounded! They halted at a lonely house near the highway. It is the station. Change horses! There is not a light to be seen. Three times the postilion blew a pealing blast ere they could awake the inmates. The window was at last opened, and a sleepy, complaining voice questioned the number of horses and the distance of the next post.

Slowly they were brought forward, and still more slowly were they attached to the carriage, and all arranged. What matters it? The night is lovely, and like a dream it seems to remain under the starry heavens, spread out like a canopy above them.

Does not your heart tell you that sorrow strides on like the storm? Do you not hear the voices still shrieking after you?

The postilion mounted his horse, and again the trumpet pealed forth its merry air, and was answered with a shout of triumph from the swift pursuers.

Marie raised her head from Philip's shoulder. "What was it? Did you not hear it?"

"What, my beloved, what should I hear? Do the stars salute you? Do the angels greet their sister upon earth?"

"Hark! there it is again! Do you not hear it? Listen! does it not seem as if one called 'Halt! halt!'"

"Yes, truly, I hear it now also! What can happen, love? Why trouble ourselves about the outer world and the existence of other beings?"

"I know not, but I am so anxious, my heart almost ceases to beat, with terror!"

"Halt! halt!" the wind carries forward the shriek, and above their heads it sounds like the screeching of ravens.

"Strange! For whom are they calling?" Moritz looked back along the highway. White and clear it lay in the moonlight, but, far in the distance was a black mass, taking form and shape at every moment!

Horsemen! horsemen! in full speed they come!

"Postilion! drive on! quick! Let the horses gallop! There is a forest near—drive us to that, that we may hide ourselves in the thicket! Onward, postilion! we are not thieves or murderers. A hundred thalers are yours, if you save us!"

The postilion beat his horses! In full chase they followed—more and more distinctly were heard the curses and yells.

"Oh, God in heaven, have mercy upon us in our need!"

"Faster, postilion!—in mercy, faster!"

"Halt! halt!—in the name of the king, halt!"

This startled the postilion, and he turned to listen, and again a furious voice yelled, "In the name of the king, halt!"

The postilion drew up. "Forgive me, sir, but I must respect the name of the king."

Forward galloped the horsemen.

"Philip," whispered Marie, "why do we live—why do we not die?"

He folded her in his arms, and passionately kissed her, perhaps for the last time. "Marie, be mindful of our oath—constant unto death!"

"Constant unto death!" she repeated.

"Be firm and defy all the storms of life!"

Marie repeated it, with heightened courage.

The horsemen surrounded the carriage, the riders upon panting steeds! Two officers in uniform sprang to the side, laying their hands upon Moritz's shoulder. "Conrector Philip Moritz, we arrest you in the name of the king! You are accused of eloping with a minor, and we are commanded to transport you to Spandau until further orders!" Upon the other side two other horsemen halted. The foremost was Herr Ebenstreit, who laid his hand upon Marie, and saw not or cared not that she shudderingly shrank away.

"My dear Marie, I come as the ambassador of your parents, and am fully empowered to lead your back to your father's house."

She answered not, but sat immovable and benumbed with terror, the tears rolling down her cheeks.

"You arrest me in the name of the king," cried Moritz; "I bow to the law. I beg only to speak to that man," pointing to Ebenstreit, with contempt. "Sir, dismount, I have important business with you!"

"We have nothing to say to each other," answered Ebenstreit, calmly.

"But I!" cried Moritz, springing forward, furious as a lion, "I have something to say to you, you rascal, and I will treat you accordingly!"

He savagely tore the whip from the postilion's hand, and struck Ebenstreit in the face. "Now," cried he, triumphantly, "I have forced you to give me satisfaction!"

The police swung themselves from their saddles, and Leberecht quickly dismounted. They clinched Moritz by the feet and hands. It was a desperate struggle, and Marie gazed at them with folded hands, praying without words. They seized him and held him fast with manacles. A shriek, and Marie sank fainting. Moritz's head sank upon his breast, almost in the agony of death.

"Take him to the next station, my friends," commanded Ebenstreit, "the carriage is already ordered to remove him to Spandau." He dismounted, and now took the place by Marie, who still lay in a dead faint. "Postilion, mount and turn your carriage, I retain you until the next station. If you drive quickly, there is a louis d'or for you."

"I will drive as if the devil were after me, sir!" shouted the postilion, and turned to gallop off, when Ebenstreit ordered him to halt, and Leberecht to get up on the box. Then turning to the officers, "Gentlemen," said he, proudly, "you are witnesses to the ill-treatment and insults of this woman-stealer. You will certify that the blood flowed down my face."

"I will myself make it known before all men," cried Moritz, with a contemptuous laugh. "I have insulted you and branded you."

"We will give our evidence," respectfully replied the officers. "As soon as we have delivered our prisoner at Spandau, we will announce ourselves to you."

"Then you will receive from me the promised reward of a hundred thalers. If you hush up the entire adventure, so that it is not noised about, after three months, still another hundred."

"We will be silent, Herr Ebenstreit."

"I believe you; a hundred thalers is a pretty sum. Forward, Leberecht, make the postilion push on, that we may arrive in Berlin before daybreak, and no one know of this abominable affair."

The postilion laughed with delight, at the thought of the louis d'or. Upon the box sat Leberecht, a smile of malicious triumph upon his face. "This has been a lucky night," said he; "we have all done a good business, but I am the most fortunate, with my three thousand thalers and a fine place. I wish he had waited an hour later, and then I should have had another thousand!"

Ebenstreit sat with triumphant smile also, by his betrothed. "Money is the king of the world—with it one can accomplish all things," said he to himself; "if I had been a poor fellow, the general would not have chosen me, nor the king have given me a title, nor could I have won back my beautiful bride. Money gives position, and I hope will give me the power to revenge myself for the pain in my face." He turned menacingly toward Moritz, who saw it not.

With bowed head, speechless, as if numb with the horror of his misfortune, he rode with fettered hands between the two officers, incapable of fleeing, as they had even bound a cord around his arms, each end held fast by one of the riders.

The stars and the moon shone down upon him as brightly beautiful as an hour previous. Oh, Marie, you were right, falling stars betoken misfortune! Your star has fallen!



CHAPTER XXVII. THE SACRIFICE.

Since that painful night, four weeks had passed, four long ones to poor old Trude. To her beloved child they had fled in happy unconsciousness. In the delirium of fever, her thoughts wandered to her lover, always dwelling upon her hopes and happiness. In the intervals of reason she asked for him with fearful excitement and anxiety, then again her mind was clouded, and the cry of anguish was changed into a smile.

Then came the days of convalescence and the return to consciousness, and with it the mourning over crushed hopes. Slowly had Trude, the faithful nurse, who watched by her bedside day and night, answered her excited questions, and to her little by little the circumstances of the elopement—how Leberecht had played the eavesdropper and sold Marie's secret for gold; how he had previously arranged to pursue them, informing the police, ordering the horses, and sending forward a courier to provide fresh relays at every station.

Trude depicted the anger of her father and the threats of her mother to send her to prison. But before she could execute her purpose, Ebenstreit had brought home the unconscious child, and she herself had lifted her from the carriage and borne her, with the aid of her mistress, to her own little attic room.

Marie listened to these relations with a gloomy calmness and a defiant sorrow. Illness had wrought a peculiar change in her mind, and hardened the gentle, tender feelings of the young girl. Grief had steeled her soul, benumbed her heart, and she had risen from her couch as one born anew to grief and torture. Her present situation and lost happiness had changed the young, loving, tenderly-sensitive maiden to the courageous, energetic, and defiant woman, who recognized a future of self-renunciation, combat, and resignation.

Trude observed these changes with disquietude and care. She wished Marie would only once complain, or burst into tears. After the first storm of despair had passed, the tears refused to flow, and her eyes were bright and undimmed. Only once had profound emotion been awakened, as Trude asked her if she had forgotten her unhappy lover, and cared no more to learn his fate. It had the desired effect.

A deathly paleness overspread her delicate, transparent cheek. "I know how he is," she said, turning away her face, "I realize his sufferings by my own. We are miserable, lost—and no hope but in death. Ere this comes, there is a desert to traverse in heat, and dust, and storm, and frost, alone, without consolation or support. Hush, Trude! do not seek to revive miserable hopes. I know my fate, and I will endure it. Tell me what you know about him? Where is he? Have they accused him? Speak! do not fear to tell me every thing!" But fearing herself, she threw her handkerchief quickly over her face, and sat with it covered whilst Trude spoke.

"I know but little of poor, dear Moritz. He has never returned to his lodgings. A day or two after that night, two officers sealed his effects, and took away his clothes. His hostess has not the least suspicion of the mysterious disappearance of her otherwise quiet, regular lodger. The secret of the elopement has been carefully guarded, as no one of the neighbors know it, and there is no gossip about you and Moritz. Those who think he is travelling are not surprised at his having left without taking leave, as they say he was accustomed to do so. But," continued Trude, in a lower tone, "Herr Gedicke looked very sad and grave, as I asked for the Conrector Moritz. 'He has disappeared,' he sighed, 'and I know not if we shall ever see him again.' 'Oh, Jemima!' I screamed, 'you do not think that he has committed a self-injury!' 'No,' said the director, 'not he himself, he is too honorable a man. Others have ill-treated him and made him unhappy for life.' It was in vain to ask further; he knew not or he would not say any thing. I believe your family know where poor Moritz is, for your mother speaks of him as one in the penitentiary, and quite triumphantly she told me yesterday that the king, in his new book of laws, had expressly condemned the person who elopes with a minor to be sent to the house of correction for ten years, and then she laughed so cruelly, that I trembled to hear her."

As Trude related this, she searchingly glanced at Marie to observe the effect of her words, hoping to see her weep or complain and that, at last, grief would melt the icy crust around her heart.

But Marie sat motionless and without uttering a sound—not a sigh or a moan escaped her. After a long silence, when her grief was too deep for tears, she drew the handkerchief from her face, the pallor and rigidity of which startled Trude.

She sprang forward, folding her in her arms. "Marie, child of my heart, do weep, do complain! I know that he loved you dearly, and deserves that you should mourn for him. Have you no more confidence, though, in your old Trude? Is she no longer worthy to share your grief?"

Marie laid her languid head upon the bosom of her faithful nurse; a long-drawn, piercing cry of anguish was her response, she trembled violently, and the tears ran down her cheeks.