Elise rose with difficulty and gave the necessary orders to the servants; and while the latter were hurrying to and fro, serving up breakfast, Gotzkowsky reclined on the sofa, half asleep from exhaustion; and Bertram and Elise sat opposite to each other in silence. Suddenly there were heard in the distance wild yells, and loud noises and cries. Then hasty steps flew up the staircase; the hall door was pulled open, and a soldier rushed in. With breathless haste he bolted the door behind him, threw off the white cloak which concealed his figure, and the broad-brimmed hat which covered his head, and sank with a loud sigh into a chair. Gotzkowsky hurried up to him and looked at him attentively. Elise, with an instinctive feeling of the danger which threatened Feodor, turned to the door behind which he was hidden.

"The artilleryman, Fritz!" cried Gotzkowsky, with visible astonishment.

"Yes, it is me," groaned the soldier. "Save me, Gotzkowsky; do not deliver me up to these barbarians!"

Gotzkowsky laid his hand on his shoulder with a friendly smile. "I would not betray the enemy himself, if he sought refuge in my house; and you ask me not to betray the most valiant and renowned defender of Berlin. Bertram, this man here, this simple cannoneer, has performed miracles of valor, and earned for himself an enviable name in these last unfortunate days. It was he who had charge of the only two cannon Berlin possessed, and who, never tiring, without rest or relaxation, gent death into the ranks of the enemy. Be assured, my son, you have fought these two days like a hero, and it cannot be God's wish that, as a reward for your bravery, you should fall into the hands of the enemy."

"They pursue me everywhere," said the artilleryman. "Hunted by De Lacy's chasseurs like a wild beast, I fled down the street hither. You told me yesterday that if ever I wanted a friend in need, you would be one to me. Therefore have I come to you. The Austrians have sworn vengeance on the cannoneer, whose balls swept their ranks so murderously, and have set a large price on my head."

"Ah!" cried Gotzkowsky, laughing, "the Austrians advertise rewards before they have got the money to pay them. Let them set a thousand ducats on your head, my son. They will have to do without the ducats, and your head too, for Berlin will give them neither. If we must pay the money, the Russian shall have it; and as for your head, well, I will pay for that with my life. You have fought like a lion, and like lions we will defend you."

"What have I gained by fighting?" said Fritz, with a mournful shrug of the shoulders. "The enemy have succeeded in getting into the town, and their rage is tearful. They have sworn to kill me. But you will not give me up! and should they come here and find me, then have pity on me and kill me, but do not give me up to the enemy!"

"To kill you, they must kill both of us first!" cried Bertram, taking the brave cannoneer by the hand. "We will hide him in your house; won't we, Father Gotzkowsky?"

"Yes, and so safely that no one will be able to find him!" cried Gotzkowsky, cheerfully, raising the soldier up by the hand. "Follow me, my son. In my daughter's chamber is a safe hiding-place. The mirror on the wall covers a secret door, behind which is a space just large enough to conceal a person. Come."

He led the artilleryman toward the door of Elise's room. But before this door Elise had stationed herself, her cheeks burning and her eyes flashing. The danger of her lover lent her courage and determination, and enabled her to meet the anger of her father unflinchingly.

"Not in there, father!" said she, in a tone almost commanding; "not into my room!"

Gotzkowsky stepped back in astonishment, and gazed at his daughter. "How," asked he, "do you forbid me the entrance?"

"Behind the picture of the Virgin in the large hall is a similar hiding-place," said Elise, hurriedly; "carry him thither."

Gotzkowsky did not answer immediately. He only gazed firmly and inquiringly into Elise's countenance. Dark and dismal misgivings, which he had often with much difficulty suppressed, now arose again, and filled his soul with angry, desperate thoughts. Like Virginius of old, he would have preferred to kill his daughter to delivering her into the hands of the enemy.

"And why should he go there, and not remain here?" asked he at last with an effort.

"Remember, father," stammered she, blushing, "I—"

She stopped as she met the look of her father, which rested on her with penetrating power—as she read the rising anger of his soul in the tense swollen veins of his brow, and his pale, trembling lips.

Bertram had witnessed this short but impressive scene with increasing terror. Elise's anxiety, her paleness and trembling, the watch which she kept over that door, had not escaped him, even on his entrance, and filled him with painful uneasiness. But as he now recognized in Gotzkowsky's features the signs of an anger which was the more violent for the very reason that he so seldom gave way to it, he felt the necessity of coming to the assistance of his distressed sister. He approached her father, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

"Elise is right," said he, entreatingly. "Respect her maiden hesitation."

Gotzkowsky turned round upon him with an impatient toss of the head, and stared him full in the face. He then broke into a fit of wild, derisive laughter.

"Yes," said he, "we will respect her maiden hesitation. You have spoken wisely, Bertram. Listen: you know the partition behind the picture of the Madonna in the picture-gallery. Carry our brave friend thither, and take heed that the spring is carefully closed."

Bertram looked at him sadly and anxiously. He had never before seen this man, usually so calm, so passionately excited.

"You will not go with us, father?" asked he.

"No," said Gotzkowsky, harshly; "I remain here to await the enemy."

He cast on Elise, still leaning against the door, a threatening look, which made her heart tremble. Bertram sighed, and had not the courage to go and forsake Elise in this anxious and critical moment.

"Hasten, friend," said Gotzkowsky, sternly. "The life of a brave man is at stake. Hasten!"

The young man dared not gainsay him, but he approached Gotzkowsky, and whispered softly: "Be lenient, father. See how she trembles! Poor sister!"

And with a painful glance at Elise, he took the hand of the artilleryman, and led him out of the room.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVII.

THE EAVESDROPPER.

Elise was now alone with her father. She had sunk down near the fatal door, and her colorless lips murmured faint prayers.

Gotzkowsky stood there, still relentless; but his agitated countenance, his lowering brow, his flashing eyes, betrayed the deep and passionate emotion of his soul. Struck and wounded fatally in his most sacred feelings, he felt no pity, no compassion for this poor trembling girl, who followed his every motion with a timid, anxious eye. His whole being was filled with burning rage against his daughter, who, his misgiving heart told him, had trampled his honor in the dust.

A long and dreadful pause occurred. Nothing was heard but Gotzkowsky's loud, heavy breathing, and Elise's low-muttered prayers. Suddenly Gotzkowsky drew himself up, and threw his head proudly back. He then walked to the door leading into the balcony, and to the opposite one, and ascertained that they were both closed. No one could intrude, no one interrupt this fearful dialogue.

Elise was terribly conscious of this, and could only whisper, "Pity, pity, merciful God! I shall die with terror!"

Gotzkowsky approached her, and, seizing her hand, raised her rapidly from the floor. "We are alone now," said he with a hoarse, harsh voice. "Answer me, now. Who is concealed there in your room?"

"No one, my father."

"No one!" repeated he, sternly. "Why, then, do you tremble?"

"I tremble because you look at me so angrily," said she, terrified.

Her father cast her hand passionately from him. "Liar!" cried he. "Do you wish me to kill him?"

He took his sword from the table, and approached the door.

"What are you going to do, my father?" cried she, throwing herself in his way.

"I am going to kill the thief who stole my daughter's honor," cried Gotzkowsky, his eyes flashing with rage.

"Father, father, by the God in heaven I am innocent!" cried she, convulsively, striving to hold him back.

"Then let me have the proof of this innocence," said he, pushing her back.

But she sprang forward with the agility of a gazelle, rushed again to the door, and clung with both hands to the lock.

"No, no, father, I remain here. You shall not insult yourself and me so much as to believe what is dishonorable and unworthy of me, and to require a proof of my innocence."

This bold opposition of Elise only excited Gotzkowsky's anger the more, and was to him a fresh proof of her guilt. His rage overpowered him; with raised arm and flashing eye he strode up to Elise, and cried out: "Away from the door, or by Heaven I will forget that I am your father!"

"Oh," cried she breathlessly, "you have often forgotten that, but think now; remember that I am the daughter of the wife whom you loved! Trust me, father. By the memory of my mother, I swear to you that my honor is pure from any spot; and, however much appearances may be against me, I am nevertheless innocent. I have never done any thing of which my father would have to be ashamed. Believe me, father; give me your hand and say to me—'I believe your innocence; I trust you even without proof!'"

She sank down on her knees, raising her arms imploringly to him, while burning tears streamed down her cheeks. Gotzkowsky gazed at her long and silently, and his child's tears touched the father's heart.

"Perhaps I do her injustice," said he to himself, looking thoughtfully into her weeping face. "She may be really innocent. Let us try," said he, after a pause, pressing his hands to his burning temples. As he let them drop, his countenance was again calm and clear, and there was no longer visible any trace of his former anger. "I will believe you," said he. "Here, Elise, is my hand."

Elise uttered a cry of joy, sprang up from her knees, rushed toward her father, and pressed her burning lips on his extended hand. "My father, I thank you. I will ever be grateful to you," cried she, fondly.

Gotzkowsky held her hand firmly in his own, and while speaking to her approached, apparently by accident, the door so bravely defended by Elise. "You are right, my child; I was a fool to doubt you, but I am jealous of my honor, the most precious property of an honest man. Much can be bought with gold, but not honor. True honor is bright and clear as a mirror, and the slightest breath dims it. Oh, how would this envious, grudging, malignant world rejoice if it could only find a spot on my honor! But woe to him who dims it, even if it were my own child!"

Elise turned pale and cast down her eyes. Gotzkowsky perceived it. He still held her hand in his, and approached the door with her, but he compelled his voice to be gentle and mild.

"I repeat," said he, "I wronged you, but it was a terrible suspicion which tortured me, and I will confess it to you, my child. The Russian flag of truce which came into town to negotiate with the authorities was accompanied by ten soldiers and two officers. While the commissioner was transacting business in the Council-chamber above, they remained below in the lower story of the building. I accompanied the commissioner, as he left the Council, down-stairs, and we found his military escort in a state of anxiety and excitement, for one of the officers had left them two hours before, and had not yet returned, and they had called and hunted for him everywhere. The Russians were furious, and cried out that we had murdered one of their officers. I succeeded in quieting them, but my own heart I could not quiet; it felt convulsively cramped when I heard the name of this missing officer. Need I name him?"

Elise did not answer. She looked at her father, with tears in her eyes, and shook her head languidly.

Gotzkowsky continued: "It is the name of a man to whom I formerly showed much friendship; toward whom I exercised hospitality, and whom I made free of my house, and who now shows his gratitude by stealing the heart of my daughter, like a pitiful thief. Oh, do not attempt to deny this. I know it, Elise; and if I have hitherto avoided speaking to you about this matter, it was because I had confidence in your sound sense, and in the purity of heart of a German girl to sustain you in resisting a feeling which would lead you astray from the path of duty and honor. I do not say that you loved him, but that he wished to seduce you into loving him clandestinely, behind your father's back. That is his gratitude for my hospitality."

Speaking thus, Gotzkowsky pressed his daughter's hand more firmly in his own, and continued approaching more closely to the door. "Only think," continued he, "the mad thought crossed my mind—'How if this man should be rash and foolhardy enough to have gone to my daughter?' But I forgot to tell you his name. Feodor von Brenda was the name of the treacherous guest, and Feodor von Brenda was also the name of the officer who left the commissioner, perhaps in search of some love adventure. But why do you tremble?" asked he in a loud tone, as her hand quivered in his.

"I do not tremble, father," replied she, striving for composure.

Gotzkowsky raised his voice still higher till it sounded again. "Forgive me this suspicion, my daughter. I should have known that, even if this insolent Russian dared to renew a former acquaintance, my daughter would never be so mean, never stoop so low as to welcome him, for a German girl would never throw away her honor on a Russian boor."

"Father," cried Elise, terrified and forgetting all her prudence, "oh, father! do not speak so loud."

"Not so loud? Why, then, some one can hear us?" asked Gotzkowsky, pressing the arm of his daughter. "I will speak loud, I will declare it aloud. He is a scoundrel who conceals himself in a dastardly and dishonorable manner, instead of defending himself! a coward who would put the honor of a maiden in the scale against his own miserable life. No German would do that. Only a Russian would be base enough to hide himself, instead of defending his life like a man!"

At this moment the door of the bedroom was violently torn open, and the Russian colonel appeared on the threshold, his cheeks burning and his eyes flashing with anger.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE TWO CANNONEERS.

Elise uttered a cry of terror, and stared at her lover with wide-opened eyes. But Gotzkowsky's countenance was illuminated with a dark and savage joy. "Ah, at last, then!" said he, letting go the arm of his daughter, and grasping his sword.

But the colonel advanced proudly and collectedly toward him. "Here am I, sir," said he; "here am I, to defend myself and avenge an insult."

"I have driven you out of your hiding-place, as the fox draws the badger out of his kennel," cried Gotzkowsky, with derisive laughter, purposely calculated to irritate the anger of the young officer to the highest pitch.

The two men stood opposite to each other, and gazed at one another with faces full of hatred and rage. Elise threw herself between them, and falling on her knees before her father, exclaimed, "Kill me, father; save your honor—kill me!"

But Gotzkowsky slung her pitilessly aside. "Away!" cried he, roughly. "What do you here? Make room for us! Here is a man with whom I can fight for my honor."

Feodor stepped quickly toward Elise, who was still kneeling on the floor, wringing her hands, and sobbing from intense pain. He raised her up, and whispering a few words in her ear, led her to the sofa. He then turned to Gotzkowsky, and said, "Your honor is pure and unspotted, sir! Whatever you may think of me, you must respect the virtue of your daughter. She is innocent."

"Innocent," cried Gotzkowsky derisively, "innocent! why, your very presence has polluted the innocence of my daughter."

"Father, kill me, but do not insult me!" cried she, a dark glow suffusing her cheeks.

"Pour out your anger on me," said Feodor ardently. "It is a piece of barbarism to attack a defenceless girl."

Gotzkowsky laughed out loud and scornfully: "You speak of barbarism, and you a Russian!"

An exclamation of rage escaped the colonel; he seized his sword and drawing it quickly advanced toward Gotzkowsky.

"At last!" cried Gotzkowsky, triumphantly, raising his blade. But Elise, beside herself, and heedless of the flashing steel, threw herself between them. With burning words she entreated Feodor to spare her father, and not to raise his sword against him. But Gotzkowsky's voice overpowered hers. Such wild words of contempt and insulting rage issued from his lips, that the young officer, hurt in his military honor, did not dare to listen to the voice of his beloved. It was he now who pressed Elise back, and with raised arm placed himself opposite to her father.

"You must kill me, sir, or wash out this insult with your blood," cried he, preparing himself for the combat.

Both were then silent. It was a terrible, unearthly silence, only broken by the clash of their swords or the occasional outcries of anger or savage joy, as one or the other received or gave a blow. Elise raised her head to heaven and prayed; every thing became confused before her eyes, her head swam, and she felt as if she would go crazy. She prayed God that He would release her by madness or death from the suffering of this hour, or that He would point out to her some way of deliverance or escape. But in the violence of their dispute and combat, the two men had not heard that there arose suddenly in the house a loud tumult and uproar; they had not perceived that a guard of soldiers was drawn up in the street, and that the commanding officer with a loud voice was demanding the delivery of the cannoneer who had taken refuge in this house.

As no attention was paid to the demand, the officer had ordered his soldiers to break open the doors of the house and enter by force. But Bertram had anticipated this proceeding by having the door opened, and requesting the Austrian officer to search the house with his men, and convince himself that no one was concealed in it. With most industrious energy, and mindful of the price which had been set on the head of the cannoneer, the soldiers searched every room in the house, and had finally arrived at the closed door of the hall.

Just as the combat between the two had reached its greatest violence, it was interrupted by fierce blows at the door from butts of muskets, and they were compelled to refrain from their imbittered struggle. They stopped and listened, but Elise sprang from her knees, rushed with a cry of delight to the door and threw it open. An officer of De Lacy's chasseurs entered with some of his soldiers, while the rest of the men filled the entrance hall and passages of the house with noise and confusion.

With a commanding tone the Austrian officer demanded the delivery of the cannoneer, who, he asserted, had been seen by all to take refuge in this house, whence it was impossible that he could have escaped, as it had been immediately surrounded. And as no one answered his threats, but only a sullen silence was opposed to his violently repeated demand, he swore that he would burn down the house and let no one escape if the refugee was not given up at once.

Gotzkowsky had at first stood like one stunned, and scarcely heard what the officer demanded of him. Gradually he began to recover from his stupefaction and regain strength to turn his attention to things around him. He raised his head from his breast, and, as if awaking from a dream, he looked around with bewildered amazement. The Austrian officer repeated his demand still more haughtily and threateningly. Gotzkowsky had now recovered presence of mind and composure, and declared with a determined voice, that no one was concealed in his house.

"He is here!" cried the Austrian. "Our men have followed his track thus far, and marked this house well. Deliver him up to us, to avoid bloodshed," and, turning to his soldiers, he continued, "Search all the rooms-search carefully. The man is hidden here, and we—"

Suddenly he interrupted his order, and gazed earnestly at the door through which his soldiers were pressing in.

"Had not this cannoneer, as he fled thither, a white cloak around him, and did he not wear a broad-brimmed hat?" asked he.

As the soldiers answered affirmatively, the officer stepped toward the door, and drew from under the feet of his men the cloak and hat of the cannoneer. A wild yell of joy broke from the soldiers.

"Do you still persist in denying that this man is concealed here?" asked the officer, raising the cloak.

Gotzkowsky did not answer, but gazed on the ground absorbed in deep thought.

As the soldiers thronged into the room, the young Russian colonel had withdrawn himself to a remote part of the room, and taken the most lively interest in the scene acted before him. A word from him would have brought the whole affair to an end, for, as an involuntary listener, he had heard all that had transpired concerning the cannoneer. Consequently he knew exactly the hiding-place in which the latter had been concealed. But it had never come into his mind to play the informer and traitor. He was only intensely interested in the issue of the scene, and firmly determined, if the danger should grow more urgent, to hasten with his weapon to Gotzkowsky's assistance, and to defend him against the fury of the Austrians.

Gotzkowsky still stood silent. He was trying to devise some plan by which he might save the brave defender of Berlin, whose presence, after such positive proof, he could no longer deny.

As suddenly as lightning an idea seemed to penetrate his mind, his countenance cleared, and he turned with a singular expression in his eye to Colonel von Brenda.

"Well!" asked the officer, "do you still deny it?

"No, I cannot deny it any longer," said he, in a determined tone. "You are right, sir; the cannoneer who shattered your ranks is here in my house!"

The soldiers broke out again in a triumphant roar. But Elise looked at her father with anxious terror, and sought, trembling, to read in his countenance the meaning of these words. "Can he possibly be capable of betraying this man whom he has sworn to protect?" thought Feodor, and yielding to his curiosity he approached the group in the middle of the hall. Suddenly he felt Gotzkowsky's hand laid on his shoulder, and met his dark eye, full of hatred.

"Well," said Gotzkowsky, with a loud, defiant voice, "you are looking for the artilleryman, Fritz. Here he is!"

A scream and a burst of laughter were heard. It was Elise who uttered the scream, and the colonel who greeted this unexpected turn with a merry laugh. But Gotzkowsky did not allow himself to be confused by one or the other.

He laid his arm on Feodor's neck, and forced his countenance to assume a friendly expression. "Dear friend," said he, "you see it is vain any longer to deny it. Our stratagem has unfortunately failed."

"What stratagem?" asked the Austrian and Feodor, simultaneously.

Gotzkowsky replied in a sorrowful tone to Feodor: "Do not disguise yourself any longer, my son! you see it is useless." Then turning to the officer, he continued: "We had hoped that he might escape detection in this Russian uniform, left here by the adjutant of General Sievers, who was formerly a prisoner of war in my house, but unfortunately the hat and cloak have betrayed him."

Feodor von Brenda looked at Gotzkowsky with admiring wonder, and this rapidly invented ruse de guerre pleased him astonishingly.

It was a piquant adventure offered him by Gotzkowsky's hate and cunning, and he did not feel inclined to throw away such an original and interesting chance of excitement. He, the Russian colonel, and Count von Brenda, the favorite of the empress, degraded to a Prussian cannoneer, whose life was in danger! His wilful and foolhardy imagination was pleased with the idea of playing the part of a criminal condemned to death.

"Well," asked the Austrian officer, "do you acknowledge the truth of this statement, or do you deny being the cannoneer, Fritz?"

"Why should I deny it?" answered Feodor, shrugging his shoulders. "This gentleman, who ought to have saved me, has already betrayed me. I am the man whom you seek!"

With a scream of surprise, Elise threw herself toward her lover.

"No!" cried she, loudly, "no, he is—"

Her father's hand pressed heavily on her lips. "Another word, and you are a murderess!" whispered he.

The officer looked suspiciously at them. "You do not deny," asked he of Feodor, "that you are he who directed such a murderous fire on our lines? You do not deny that you are the artilleryman, Fritz, and that this cloak and hat belong to you?"

"I deny nothing!" replied Feodor, defiantly.

The officer called to some of his men and ordered them to shoulder arms, and take the prisoner in their midst; enjoining them to keep a sharp watch on him, and at the first attempt to escape, to shoot him down. But when he demanded his sword of the colonel, the latter recoiled, shocked, and resisted.

He now became aware of his foolhardiness and rashness, and that he had not considered or foreseen the dangerous and perhaps dishonorable consequences. However, as he had gone so far, he considered that it would be disgraceful and cowardly to retreat now. He was also desirous of pursuing to the end this adventure which he had begun with so much boldness and daring. He drew his sword, and with considerable strength breaking it in pieces, he threw them at the feet of the Austrian officer.

That officer shrugged his shoulders. "Your insolence will only make your situation worse. Remember, you are our prisoner."

"He must and shall die!" shouted the soldiers, thronging around Feodor, angrily.

The officer ordered silence. "He must die," said he, "that is true; but we must first carry him to the general, to obtain the price offered for him."

The soldiers surrounded him and shoved him toward the door. But Elise broke through the crowd. With flashing eyes, and cheeks burning with a feverish excitement, she rushed toward Feodor. "No!" cried she, with all the ardor of love, "no, I will not leave you. You are going to your death!"

Feodor kissed her lightly on the forehead, and replied with a smile, "I fear nothing. Fortune does not forsake a brave soldier."

He then took her by the hand and led her to her father. Gazing on him with a long and speaking look, he continued: "Here, Father Gotzkowsky, I bring your daughter to you: be a better father to her than you have been a friend to me. These are my farewell words."

He leaned forward as if to give Gotzkowsky a parting embrace, and whispered to him: "I hope we are now quit! I have atoned for my fault. You will no longer wish to punish your daughter for my transgression."

He then threw the white cloak around him, and bidding Elise, who leaned half fainting against her father, a tender farewell, he stepped back into the ranks of the guard.

"Attention! shoulder arms!" commanded the officer; and the Austrians left the hall with closed ranks, the prisoner in their midst.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIX.

FATHER GOTZKOWSKY.

The door had closed behind the soldiers and their prisoner. Gotzkowsky and Elise remained behind, silent and immersed in the deep sorrows of their souls. Neither spoke a word; both stood motionless and listened.

They heard the soldiers hurry down the steps; they heard the house door violently thrown open, and the officer announce in a loud voice to those of his soldiers who were waiting in the street, the lucky capture of the artilleryman.

A cry of triumph from the Austrians was the answer; then was heard the loud word of command from the officer, and the roll of the drum gradually receding in the distance until it was no longer audible. Every thing was silent.

"Have mercy, Father in heaven have mercy! They are leading him to death!" cried Elise in a heart-rending tone, and she sank on her knees in prayer.

"The brave cannoneer is saved!" murmured Gotzkowsky in a low voice to himself, and he too folded his hands in prayer. Was it a prayer of gratitude, or did it proceed from the despairing heart of a father?

His countenance had a bright and elevated expression; but as he turned his eyes down on his daughter, still on her knees, they darkened, and his features twitched convulsively and painfully. His anger had evaporated, and his heart was filled with boundless pity and love. He felt nothing but painful, sorrowful compassion for this young girl who lay deathly pale and trembling with suffering on the floor. His daughter was weeping, and his heart yearned toward her to forgive her every thing, to raise her up and comfort her.

Suddenly Elise started up from her knees and strode toward her father. There was something solemn and imposing in her proud bearing, her extraordinary composure, which only imperfectly veiled her raging grief and passionate excitement.

"Father," said she solemnly, and her voice sounded hoarse and cold, "may God forgive you for what you have done! At this moment, when perhaps he is suffering death, I repeat it, I am innocent."

This proud composure fell freezingly on Gotzkowsky's heart, and drove back all the milder forgiving impulses. He remembered only the shame and the injured honor of his daughter.

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

"And yet I am innocent, father!" cried Elise vehemently. "Read it on my forehead, see it in my eyes, which do not fear to meet yours. I am innocent!"

And completely overpowered by the bitter and desperate anguish of her soul, she continued, still more excited, "But how does all this concern you? It was not my honor that you were interested in; you did not seek to avenge that. You only wished to punish me for daring to assert my freedom and independence, for daring to love without having asked your leave. The rich man to whom all bend, whom all worship as the priest of the powerful idol which rules the world, the rich man sees with dismay that there is one being not dazzled by his treasures who owns an independent life, a will of her own, and a heart that he cannot command. And because this being does not of her own accord how down before him he treads it in the dust, whether it be his own child or not."

"Elise," cried Gotzkowsky, shocked, "Elise, are you mad? Do you know that you are speaking to your father?"

But her tortured heart did not notice this appeal; and only remembering that perhaps at this moment her lover was suffering death through her father's fault, she allowed herself to be carried away by the overpowering force of her grief. She met the flashing eye of her father with a smile of contempt, and said, coldly: "Oh yes, you may look at me. I do not fear your angry glances. I am free; you yourself have absolved me from any fear of you. You took from me my lover, and at the same time deprived yourself of your child."

"O God!" cried Gotzkowsky in an undertone, "have I deserved this, Father in heaven?" and he regarded his daughter with a touching expression.

But she was inexorable; sorrow had unseated her judgment, and "Oh!" cried she in a tone of triumph, "now I will confess every thing to you, how I have suffered and what I have undergone."

"Elise!" cried he painfully, "have I not given you every thing your heart could desire?"

"Yes!" cried she, with a cruel laugh, "you fulfilled all my wishes, and thereby made me poor in wishes, poor in enjoyment. You deprived me of the power of wishing, for every thing was mine even before I could desire it. It was only necessary for me to stretch out my hand, and it belonged to me. Cheerless and solitary I stood amidst your wealth, and all that I touched was turned into hard gold. The rich man's daughter envied the beggar woman in the street, for she still had wishes, hopes, and privations."

Gotzkowsky listened to her, without interrupting her by a word or even a sigh. Only now and then he raised his hand to his forehead, or cast a wandering, doubtful look at his daughter, as if to convince himself that all that was passing was not a mad, bewildering dream, but painful, cruel reality.

But when Elise, breathless and trembling with excitement, stopped for a moment, and he no longer heard her cutting accents of reproach, he pressed both hands upon his breast, as if to suppress a wail over the annihilation of his whole life. "O God!" muttered he in a low voice, "this is unparalleled agony! This cuts into a father's heart!"

After a pause, Elise continued: "I too was a beggar, and I hungered for the bread of your love."

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

But she did not perceive the loving, almost imploring looks which her father cast upon her. She could see and think only of herself and her own tormented heart.

"Yes," said she, "you love me as one loves a jewel, and has it set in gold in order to make it more brilliant. You loved me as a costly ornament of your rooms, as something which gave you an opportunity of exercising the splendor of your liberality, and to be produced as an evidence of your renowned wealth. But you did not love me as a father; you did not perceive that I wept in secret, or if you did see it, you consoled me with diamonds, with rich dresses, to make me smile. But you did not give me your father's heart. At last the rich man's child discovers a happiness not to be bought with gold or treasures, a happiness that the millions of her father could not purchase for her. This happiness is—love. The only possession that I have owned, father, contrary to your will, you have deprived me of, because it was mine against your will. Now, poor rich man, take all your gold, and seek and buy yourself a child with it. Me you have lost!" and staggering back with a sob, she sank fainting on the carpet.

A dread silence now reigned in the room. Gotzkowsky stood motionless, with his eyes directed toward heaven. The cruel, mocking words of his daughter sounded over and over again in his ears, and seemed to petrify the power of his will and chain him fast, as if rooted to the floor. Gradually he recovered from this apathy of grief. The stagnant blood revived in his veins, and shot like burning streams of fire to his heart. He bent over his daughter, and gazing for a long time at her, his features assumed a gentler and softer expression. Tenderly with his hand he smoothed the tresses from her clear, high forehead; and as he did so, he almost smiled again, so beautiful and charming did she seem to him in her death-like repose.

"She has fainted," whispered he, low, as if fearful of awakening her. "So much the better for her; and when she recovers, may she have forgotten all the cruel words that she has uttered!"

He laid his hand on her head as if to bless her, and love and forgiveness were expressed in his looks. A perfect peace seemed to pervade his whole frame. In this moment he forgave her all the pain, all the suffering she had caused him. He pardoned her those unjust reproaches and accusations, and with lofty emotion, raising his eyes toward heaven, he exclaimed, "O God! thou seest my heart. Thou knowest that love alone has possession of its very depths, love to my child! and my child has no faith in me. I have worked—I am rich—I have amassed wealth—only for her. I thought of my child as I sat at my desk during the long, weary nights, busied with difficult calculations. I remembered my daughter when I was wearied out and overcome by this laborious work. She should be happy; she should be rich and great as any princess; for this I worked. I had no time to toy or laugh with her, for I was working for her like a slave. And this," continued he with a sad smile, "this is what she reproaches me with. There is nothing in which I believe, nothing but my child, and my child does not believe in me! The world bows down before me, and I am the poorest and most miserable beggar."

Overpowered by these bitter thoughts, which crowded tumultuously upon his brain, he leaned his head upon his hand and wept bitterly. Then, after a long pause, he drew himself up erect, and, with a determined gesture, shook the tears from his eyes.

"Enough!" said he, loudly and firmly, "enough; my duty shall cure me of all this suffering. That I must not neglect."

He rang the bell, and ordered the servant-maids, who appeared, to raise up the insensible girl and bear her to her room.

But when the maidens called the waiting-man to their assistance to raise their mistress, Gotzkowsky pushed them all aside, and carried her softly and gently, as carefully and tenderly as a mother, to a couch, on which he placed her. He then pressed a fervent kiss upon her brow. Elise began to move, a faint blush overspread her cheeks, she opened her eyes. Gotzkowsky immediately stepped back, and signed to her maids to carry her into her room.

He looked after her until she had disappeared, his eyes dimmed with tears. "My child," said he, in a low voice, "she is lost to me. Oh, I am a poor, pitiable father!" With a deep groan he pressed his hands to his face, and nothing was heard but the painful sobs wrung from the heart of this father wrestling with his grief.

Suddenly there arose from without loud lamentations and cries for help. They came nearer and nearer, and at last reached Gotzkowsky's house, and filled its halls and passages. It was not the outcry of a single person. From many voices came the sounds of lamenting and weeping, screams and shrieks:

"Help! help! have pity on us, save us! The Austrians are hewing us down—they are burning our houses—save us!"

Gotzkowsky dropped his hands from his face and listened. "What was that? who cries for help?" asked he, dreamingly, still occupied with his own sorrows, scarcely conscious of the reality. But suddenly he started, and from his eyes beamed life and courage. "Ah!" cried he aloud, "mankind is suffering, and I am thinking of my own griefs. I know these voices. The wives and children of my workmen, the poor and oppressed of the city are calling me. The people need me. Up, Gotzkowsky! give them your heart, your life. Endeavor to be a father to the unfortunate, and you will not be poor in children!"

Without the wailing and cries for help continued to resound, and the voices of weeping and trembling women and plaintive children cried aloud, "Gotzkowsky, help us! have pity on us, Father Gotzkowsky!"

"Father!" cried he, raising his head, his countenance beaming with delight. "They call me father, and yet I complain. Up! to my children who love me, and who need my help!"

* * * * *



BOOK II.



CHAPTER I.

THE TWO EDITORS.

On the morning succeeding the night of horrors and confusion in which Berlin had surrendered to the conqueror, the vanguard of the Russians marched into the town through the Koenig's Gate. But the commanding general, Tottleben, wished to make his triumphal entry with his staff and the main body of his army through the Kottbuss Gate, and had ordered the magistracy of the town to meet him there, and to bring with them a deputation of the merchants, to determine what contribution should be laid upon them. But before the Russian general could make his entry, the vanguard of De Lacy's army corps had penetrated into the Frederick Street suburb, and were committing the most atrocious acts of cruelty in the New Street. With wild yells they entered the houses to rob and plunder, ill-treating those who refused to give up their valuables, and by violent threats of incendiarism, raising forced levies from the frightened inhabitants.

But it was not alone this lust of plunder in the soldiers which spread terror and dismay in each house and in every family. Count De Lacy possessed a list of those persons who, by word, deed, or writing, had declared against Austria or Russia, and he gave it to his officers, with the order that they should not hesitate at any measures, any threats or acts of violence, to obtain possession of these people. Besides which, he promised a considerable reward for each "traitor" brought to him; and it was therefore no wonder that these officers, with brutal and avaricious zeal, had scarcely arrived in the city before they commenced the pursuit of these outlaws. With fearful yells they rushed into the houses, shouting out the names of those on the pursuit of whom they were bent, and whose seizure would secure them a golden reward.

Naturally enough, the writers and journalists were the first on whom the vengeful wrath of the conqueror was poured, for it has ever been the lot of authors to suffer for the misfortunes of the people, to be made responsible for the being and thinking, the will and action of the nation to which they belong. But it is only in days of misfortune that the responsibility of authors and poets commences. They must answer for the ill luck, but are never rewarded for the happiness of the nation.

Three names, especially, did De Lacy's chasseurs cry out with a raging howl for vengeance, through the Frederick-Stadt and down the Linden Street, and they searched for their owners in every house.

"De Justi! De Justi!"—with this cry one of the Austrian officers rushed through the street, knocked with his sword violently against the closed house doors, and demanded with savage threats the delivery of this criminal for whose arrest a high premium had been offered.

M. De Justi was indeed a notorious criminal. Not that he had written much or badly, but principally because he had dared to use his sharp pen against the Austrian empress, and her allies the Russians and Saxons. It was especially three pamphlets which excited the wrath of the victorious enemy. These pamphlets were called: "Proof that the Empress should be deposed;" "Why and wherefore Certain Nations in Europe are disposed to become Anthropophagous," and lastly, "Account of the life of Count Bruehl." He had offended not only the Austrians, but also the Russians and Saxons. It was therefore natural that these three powers reigning in Berlin should wish to take their revenge on the writer of these insulting pamphlets.

But De Justi had been prudent enough to escape from the pursuit of his revengeful enemies. During the siege he had betaken himself to the house of a friend in a more secure street, and had hidden in the cellar, where it was impossible to find him. As they could not get possession of the writer, they were obliged to cool their wrath on his treasonable writings. They were dragged in his stead, as prisoners of state and dangerous criminals, to headquarters at the New Market.

The two other writers, whom the Austrians pursued with furious zeal, were the two newspaper editors, Kretschmer and Krause. These two had no idea of such pursuit; indeed, they did not even know that the Austrians had penetrated into the city. In the safe hiding-place in which both of them had passed the night they had only learned that Berlin had surrendered to the Russians, and that General Tottleben had ordered the magistrates to receive him the next morning at the Kottbuss Gate at eight o'clock.

It was intended that the reception should be a brilliant and solemn one, and that the general should be mollified and conciliated by humble subjection; it was also determined to endeavor, by an offering of money made to him individually, to induce him to make the contribution laid on the town moderate and light.

The news was like a thunder-clap to the two editors, for it compelled them to leave their safe hiding-place, and to venture out into the dangerous world. For these gentlemen, editors of such renowned journals, who prided themselves on giving their readers the most recent and important intelligence, would not dare to be absent at the reception of the Russian general. For the love of their country they had to forget their own fears, and, for the honor of their journals, face danger like true heroes.

Day had scarcely dawned, and deep silence and death-like stillness reigned at the Kottbuss Gate. The wings of the gate were closed, and the watchman had withdrawn into his little box, and was resting from the events of the past days. Dawn still lay like a veil over poor, anxious Berlin, and concealed her tears and bloody wounds.

The silence was suddenly interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and around the nearest corner glided the cowering figure of a man. He remained still for a minute and listened; then, convinced that all around him was quiet and silent, he crept along, keeping anxiously close to the houses, and reached unperceived the pillar on the right side of the gate, in the dark shadow of which he concealed himself. This man was no other than Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the Vossian Gazette, who made himself comfortable in his hiding-place.

"This is quite nice and right," said he, shoving a stone behind the pillar, in order to raise himself to a higher point of view. "From here I can hear and observe every thing."

So, settling himself on the stone, he leaned back in the corner of the door-pillar, as if it were the leathern arm-chair in his sanctum. A comfortable smile stole over his features.

"This time," said he, "at least, I have forestalled my rival, good Mr. Krause. To-morrow the Vossian Gazette will be the only one which will be able to report, from actual observation, on the formal entry of the Russian general. Oh, how vexed Spener's will be! There is seven o'clock striking. In an hour the ceremony will begin. Spener's Journal still sleeps, while the Vossian Gazette wakes and works, and is alert to satisfy the curiosity of Berlin."

Poor, benighted editor of the Vossian! You, indeed, could not see him, but the veil of the dawning day, which spread over Berlin, concealed your rival, as well as yourself, in its folds. His drawn-up figure was not visible to your dimmed sight, as he sneaked along the houses, and hid himself behind the pillar on the left of the gate. While you were rejoicing over the long sleep of Spener's Journal, its editor, Mr. Krause, was standing opposite to you, behind the pillar, whither he had come, notwithstanding his sixty-eight years, like you, to witness the entrance of the Russians. And happy was he in spirit at this victory obtained over his rival, the editor of the Vossian Gazette, and it made him very proud indeed to think that this once he had forestalled Mr. Kretschmer, and consequently would have the monopoly of describing in the morning's paper, to the people of Berlin, the magnificent and pompous entrance of the Russians!

The editor of the Vossian Gazette had no idea of the vicinity of his rival. He continued to congratulate himself on the advantage he had obtained, and proceeded cheerfully in his soliloquy. "It makes me laugh to think of Spener's Journal. I, myself, advised Mr. Krause to conceal himself, and the good man faithfully followed my advice. Perhaps the little old gentleman dreams that I am at this moment sitting by my fireside, while there is so much matter for my newspaper here. Good matter, too, that can be moulded into an interesting article, is not so common that it can be carelessly squandered. Sleep, therefore, sleep, good Spener—the Vossian wakes."

But Spener did not sleep. He was at the opposite pillar, smirking and saying to himself, "How lucky it is that I have anticipated the Vossian!" He then was silent, but his thoughts were active, and in the bottom of his heart he instituted some very serious reflections upon the superfluousness of a second newspaper, how perfectly unnecessary it was in fact.

"This Vossian Gazette is perfectly intolerable," thought he. "There ought to be a law prohibiting the publishing of more than one newspaper in each town. Then the public would always get reliable news, and draw its political opinions from one source, which would be undoubted, and it would accept as true what we gave forth for truth. If the government would follow this plan, and allow only one newspaper to each town, and conciliate this one with money or patronage, mankind would be much happier and more contented, and less liable to be distracted by the most opposite political views and information. What profits the existence of this Vossian Gazette? What does it do but rob me of my subscribers? By Heavens! I wish the Russian would exterminate it thoroughly."

While Mr. Krause was thus speaking to himself, Mr. Kretschmer had followed the same course of thought, and, very naturally, arrived at a similar conclusion. He, too, had to confess that Spener's Journal was very inconvenient, and hated its editor from the bottom of his heart. In the vehemence of his vexation, he overlooked the necessary precaution, and cried out, "Cursed be this rival, this man who has the presumption to imagine he can compete with me!"

Mr. Krause shuddered at the sound of this voice, which seemed to him as it were the echo of his own unspoken thoughts, but he mastered his alarm, and cried aloud, "Did any one speak?" "Did any one speak?" sounded back again, and two heads were seen protruding from the pillars on each side of the gate, the eyes in them inquiringly peering at each other. The morning in the mean while had become lighter, and, with an inward shudder, the two gentlemen recognized each other.

"It is Spener's! May the devil take him!" thought Mr. Kretschmer.

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

But while they thought this to themselves, they rushed forward and embraced each other, with greetings and assurances of friendship, to all appearances warm and sincere.

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

"Oh, what happiness! my dear Kretschmer!"

And they shook each other's hands and repeated their asseverations of friendship and esteem, but, at the same time, breathed in their hearts their curses and execrations. But the two editors were not the only persons who had sought the Kottbuss Gate at this early hour. An Austrian officer with a guard of soldiers, in his search after the two editors, had also reached the spot, and was marching with his men from the corner near the gate, looking eagerly right and left and up at all the windows. His eye fell upon these two men who were shrinking from his sight, uttering pious ejaculations to Heaven. The officer approached them and demanded their names. Neither answered. The officer repeated his question, and accompanied it with such threats as convinced Mr. Krause of the imperative necessity of answering it. He bowed, therefore, respectfully to the officer, and pointing to his friend, said, "This is Mr. Kretschmer, the editor of the Vossian Gazette."

Kretschmer cast upon him a look full of hatred and revenge. "And this," said he, with a wicked smile, "is Mr. Krause, editor of Spener's Journal."

An expression of joyous triumph shone in the countenance of the officer: "You are my prisoners, gentlemen," said he, as he beckoned to his soldiers to arrest them.

Pale did Mr. Krause grow as he drew back a step. "Sir, this must be a mistake. We are quiet, peaceable citizens, who have nothing to do with the war, but only busy ourselves with our pens."

"Our arrest is contrary to all national law," cried Mr. Kretschmer, at the same time endeavoring to defend himself from the weapons which were pointed at him.

The officer laughed. "In war we know no national law. You are my prisoners." And disregarding their struggles and cries for help, they dragged the two editors as prisoners to the guard-house at the New Market.

* * * * *



CHAPTER II.

THE CHIEF MAGISTRATE OF BERLIN.

After a short interval of quiet and lonesomeness at the Kottbuss Gate, there appeared, first far down the street, then approaching nearer and nearer, a solemn procession. Foremost staggered the chief burgomaster, Von Kircheisen, in full uniform, adorned with his golden chain, which rustled as it rose and sank with his hurried, feverish respiration. He was followed by the second burgomaster, with the Town Council, and deputation of merchants, headed by Gotzkowsky. With solemn, serious air, these gentlemen took up their position at the gate.

The chief burgomaster then beckoned Gotzkowsky to his side. "Stand by me, my friend," said he, with a groan, and offering his hand to Gotzkowsky with a dismal air. "I am suffering terribly, and even the two bottles of Johannisberger are not sufficient to inspire me with courage. Is it not terrible that the honorable Council should be obliged to attend in person? It is an unheard-of indignity!"

"Not only for you, but for the Berlin citizen is the insult equally great," said Gotzkowsky.

Herr von Kircheisen shook his head in a most melancholy manner. "Yes," said he, "but the Berlin citizen does not feel it so deeply. It does not affect his honor as it does that of the magistracy."

Gotzkowsky smiled scornfully. "Do you think," asked he, "that the magistrates possess a different kind of honor from that of any citizen of the town? The sense of honor is keener among the people than it is among the noblest lords."

The chief burgomaster frowned. "These are very proud words," replied he, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Pride belongs to the citizen!" cried Gotzkowsky. "But believe me, noble sir, my heart to-day is not as proud as my words. It is sore with pain and grief over our deep, unmerited degradation."

"Silence, silence!" whispered the chief magistrate, leaning tremblingly on Gotzkowsky's arm. He heard a noise behind the closed gates, and his mind misgave him that the dreaded enemy was at hand.

Suddenly there sounded on the other side of the walls the loud notes of a trumpet, and the warder hastened to throw open the gate. A rare and motley mixture of Russian uniforms now came in sight. There were seen Cossacks, with their small horses and sharp lances; body-guards, with their gold-adorned uniforms; hussars, in their jackets trimmed with costly furs, all crowding in in confused tumult and with deafening screams and yells, that contrasted strangely with the silence inside the gates, with the noiseless, deserted streets, the closed windows of the houses, whose inhabitants scorned to be witnesses to the triumphal entry of the enemy. Only the ever-curious, ever-sight-loving, always-thoughtless populace, to whom the honor has at times been accorded of being called "the sovereign people," only this populace had hurried hither from all the streets of Berlin to see the entry of the Russians, and to hurrah to the conqueror, provided he paraded right handsomely and slowly in. And now a deep silence took place in the ranks of the enemy; the crowd opened and formed a lane, through which rode the Russian General Bachmann and his staff. As he reached the gate he drew in his horse and asked, in a loud, sonorous voice, in French, whether the magistrates and deputation of merchants were present.

The chief magistrate felt unable to answer; his knees tottered and his teeth chattered convulsively. He could only wag his head in silence and point with trembling hand to his companions.

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

Gotzkowsky stepped out of the crowd and approached the general with a proud step. "I am he, sir."

"I am glad to meet you," said the general, with a gracious smile. "I bring you greetings from General Sievers. He commissioned and ordered me to show you all possible favor. If I can be of service to you in any possible way, pray command me. I am General von Bachmann, and during our presence here have been appointed to the command of Berlin."

"Are you a friend of the noble Sievers?" cried Gotzkowsky, his countenance beaming with pleasure. "Oh, then, I need fear nothing for this unfortunate town, for only a noble, high-minded man can be a friend of Sievers. You will have pity on our distress!"

"Tell me wherein I can serve you, and how I can oblige you; my word has much influence on our general-in-chief, Count Tottleben."

Gotzkowsky was silent.

"Beg him to make the contribution as small as possible," whispered Kircheisen in Gotzkowsky's ear.

But Gotzkowsky took no notice of him. He fixed his dark eyes on the general, as if he wished to read his soul.

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

"Well then, general," cried Gotzkowsky, "this is my request: Spare the poor and needy of this town. Order your soldiers to be humane, and do not forget mercy. Let your warriors neither murder nor plunder; let them not deride the defenceless and conquered. Give to the world the example of a generous and noble conqueror."

The general looked into Gotzkowsky's noble countenance with increasing astonishment, and his features assumed a more benevolent expression. "I give you my word that your petition shall be granted," said he; "I will give my soldiers strict orders, and woe be to him who does not obey them! But you have spoken for others, and I would like to oblige you personally. Have you no request to make for yourself?"

"Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Gotzkowsky, "I beg you to allow me to hasten to the Council-hall to report to the elders of the citizens your kind promise."

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

But as Gotzkowsky turned to hasten away, Herr von Kircheisen seized him with a convulsive grasp and drew him back. "My God! you are not going to leave me?" he whined out. "Only think—"

"That the brave and noble citizens may lay the general's words as a balm to their wounds—that is what I am thinking of," cried Gotzkowsky, tearing himself loose and hurrying away with rapid strides.

"And now for you, most worthy burgomaster," said General Bachmann, sternly, "your name, if you please?"

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

The general repeated his question in a louder and sterner voice, but the burgomaster still maintained the same obstinate silence.

"Have you, by some unlucky chance, forgotten your name, sir?" asked the general with a lowering brow.

The angry, piercing look he fastened on him, seemed to awaken the burgomaster from his lethargy.

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

"We came as conquerors, sir," said General Bachmann; "and it is usual for conquerors to dictate their terms before they enter a captured city. In the name of our general, Count Tottleben, I have to communicate to you what sum we demand from you as a war contribution. This demand amounts to four millions of dollars in good money."

The burgomaster stared at the general with glazed eyes, broke out into a loud laugh, and staggered back on the wall of the gate-warder's house.

"I implore you, collect yourself," whispered the second burgomaster, as he endeavored to support the reeling, staggering chief. "Remember our weal or woe depends upon you!"

Von Kircheisen grinned an idiotic laugh. "Four millions of dollars!" screamed he aloud. "Four millions of dollars! Hurrah! hurrah for the Russians!"

The countenance of the general became still more threatening, and an angry light flashed from his eye. "Do you dare to mock me?" asked he, in a harsh tone. "Beware, sir; and remember that you are the conquered, and in our power. I demand from you a decided answer. You understand my demand, do you not?"

But still he answered not. He stared at General Bachmann with a vacant smile, and his head wagged from side to side like the pendulum of a clock.

"This is disgraceful conduct," cried the general, "conduct which does little honor to the chief magistrate of Berlin. But I warn you, sir, to beware! I have promised the poor and suffering my protection, but I well know how to punish those who abuse our magnanimity. If you do not answer me this time, sir, by Heaven I will have you carried off under arrest and let a court-martial pronounce judgment on you!"

The chief magistrate continued dumb. The pale and terror-stricken countenances of those present were turned toward him. The members of the Council implored and besought him to put aside this unnatural stubbornness.

Von Kircheisen answered their pleadings with a loud-sounding laugh. He then stared at the general, his features worked and struggled, writhed, and finally he opened his mouth.

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

But no, he did not speak; he only distorted his face. A cry of dismay sounded from the lips of the deputation, a cry of anger from the Russian general, who, turning to his adjutant, ordered him immediately to arrest the burgomaster and carry him off. And now there arose an indescribable scene of confusion and terror. Pale with fright, the Council and deputation of merchants had flocked around Von Kircheisen to protect him from the advancing soldiers who sought to arrest him, while he, in the midst of all the horror and tumult, continued to giggle and make grimaces. The enraged soldiery had already commenced to push aside Kircheisen's defenders with blows from the butts of their muskets, when a man made his way through the crowd. It was Gotzkowsky, who, with a loud and full voice, demanded the cause of this singular uproar. A hundred voices were ready to answer him, and explain the scene in confused, unintelligible jargon.

But General Bachmann beckoned him to his side. "Tell me, sir, is this chief burgomaster a fool or a drunkard, or is he, indeed, so demented as to intend to mock us?"

As Gotzkowsky looked at the deathly pale, convulsed countenance of the magistrate, who renewed his shrill, screeching laugh, he comprehended the racking and terrible torture which the unfortunate man was suffering. He hastened to him, seized him by the arm, and led the tottering figure toward the general.

"This man is neither a fool nor a madman, your excellency; suffering has robbed him of speech, and he laughs, not in derision, but from the convulsion of intense sorrow."

And as the offended and angry general would not believe him, and commanded his soldiers anew to arrest the burgomaster, and the soldiers with renewed rage pressed on him, Gotzkowsky placed himself before him, and protected him with his proud and respect-inspiring person.

"General Bachmann," cried he, warmly, "I remind you of your oath. You vowed to me to protect the suffering. Well, then, this man is a sufferer, a sick man. I demand, from the noble friend of General Sievers, that he have compassion on the sick man, and allow him to be escorted safely and unmolested to his house."

"Can you give me your word that this man did not act thus out of arrogance?" asked the general, in a milder tone; "are you convinced that he is sick?"

"I swear to you, please your excellency, that the chief magistrate of Berlin has never been a healthy man; that, for many years, he has been subject to fits of convulsive laughter."

General Bachmann smiled. "This is an unfortunate disease for the chief magistrate of a city," said he, "and it seems to me as if the citizens of Berlin did wrong in choosing for their burgomaster a man who laughs and cries indifferently, and to whom the misfortunes of his fellow-citizens apparently serves only for a joke. But you reminded me of my promise, and you shall see that I will keep it."

He beckoned to his soldiers, and ordered them to fetch a litter on which to carry the sick burgomaster home. He then turned, with a smile, to Gotzkowsky, and said: "Sir, the Council of Berlin have cause to be grateful to you; you have saved their chief from death."

Herr von Kircheisen did not laugh now. His features jerked and distorted themselves still, but a stream of tears gushed from his eyes.

With an unspeakable expression he seized Gotzkowsky's hand, and pressed it to his lips, then sank unconscious in the arms of his deliverer.

* * * * *



CHAPTER III.

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

Berlin was now given up to the enemy, and through the once cheerful and pleasant streets could be heard nothing but screams and shrieks of terror, mingled with the wild curses and boisterous laughter of the conqueror, who, not satisfied with attacking the trembling inhabitants to rob them of their possessions and property, ill treated them out of sheer cruelty, and took delight in hearing their screams and looking at the contortions caused by pain.

And who was this enemy, who, in scorn of all humanity and civilization, tortured the unfortunate and hunted them down?

They were not Russians, nor wild hordes of Cossacks. They were Austrians and Saxons, who, robbing and plundering, murdering and destroying, violating and burning, rushed through Berlin, filling all the inhabitants with terror and alarm.

General Bachmann kept faithfully the promise he had made to Gotzkowsky, and the Russian army at first not only preserved the strictest discipline, but even protected the inhabitants against the violence of the Austrians and Saxons.

The terrified citizens had one powerful and beneficent friend—this was John Gotzkowsky. Yielding to his urgent entreaty, General von Bachmann's adjutant, Von Brinck, had taken up his quarters in his house, and by his assistance and his own influence with the general, Gotzkowsky was enabled to afford material aid to all Berlin. For those citizens who were able to pay the soldiers he procured a Russian safeguard, and more than once this latter protected the inhabitants of the houses against the vandalism of the Austrians and Saxons.

Contrary to the wish of the Russians, the Austrians had forced themselves into the city, and, in spite of the terms of the capitulation agreed upon with the Russians, had quartered themselves upon the citizens, from whom, with the most savage cruelty and threats of ingenious torture, they extorted all the gold and jewels they possessed.

Berlin was now the open camping-ground of Croats and Austrian hussars, and Russian Cossacks, and all minds were filled with dread and anxiety.

It is true that even the Cossacks forgot the strict discipline which had been commanded them, and entered the houses, robbing and compelling the inhabitants, by blows of the knout, to give them all they wanted. But yet they were less cruel than the Saxons, less barbarous than the Austrians, who, with scoffing and derision, committed the greatest atrocities. Indeed, it was only necessary to complain to the Russian general in order to obtain justice immediately, and have the Cossacks punished. Eight of them were strung up in one day at the guard-house on the New Market square, as a warning and example to the others, and expiated their robberies by a summary death. But with the Austrians and Saxons it was the officers themselves who instigated the soldiers to acts of revolting barbarity, and who, forgetful of all humanity, by their laughter and applause excited their subordinates to fresh ill-treatment of the inhabitants. Disregarding the capitulation, and listening to their national enmity, and their love of plunder, they pressed forward with wild screams into the royal stables, driving away the safeguard of four-and-twenty men, which General von Tottleben had placed there for their protection, and with shameless insolence defiling the Prussian coat-of-arms pictured on the royal carriages. They then drew them out into the open street, and, after they had stripped them of their ornaments and decorations, piled them up in a great heap and set them on fire, in order to add to the fright and terror of the bewildered citizens by the threatening danger of conflagration.

High blazed the flames, consuming greedily these carriages which had once borne kings and princes. The screams and fright of the inmates of the nearest houses, and the crackling of the window-glass broken by the heat were drowned by the joyous shouts of the Austrians who danced round the fire with wild delight, and accompanied the roaring of the flames with insulting and licentious songs. And the fire seemed only to awaken their inventive powers, and excite them to fresh deeds of vandalism. After the fire had burnt out, and only a heap of ashes told of what were once magnificent royal vehicles, the Austrians rushed back again into the building with terrific outcry, to the apartments of the royal master of the horse, Schwerin, in order to build a new bonfire with his furniture, and fill their pockets with his gold and silver ware.

In the royal stalls a great uproar arose, as they fought with each other for the horses that were there. The strongest leaped on them and rode off furiously, to carry into other neighborhoods the terror and dismay which marked the track of the Austrians through Berlin. Even the hospitals were not safe from their brutal rage. They tore the sick from their beds, drove them with scoffs and insults into the streets, cut up their beds, and covered them over with the feathers. And all this was committed not by wild barbarians, but by the regular troops of a civilized state, by Austrians, who were spurred on, by their hatred of the Prussians, to deeds of rude cruelty and beastly barbarity. And this unlucky national hatred, which possessed the Austrian and made him forgetful of all humanity, was communicated, like an infectious plague, to the Saxons, and transformed these warriors, who were celebrated for being, next to the Prussians, the most orderly and best disciplined, into rude Jack Ketches and iconoclastic Vandals.

In the royal pleasure-palace at Charlottenburg, where Bruehl's (Saxon) dragoons had taken up their quarters by force, they set up a new species of dragoonade, which was directed not so much against the living as against marble statues and the sacred treasures of art. All the articles of splendor, brilliancy, and luxury which had been heaped up here, every thing which the royal love of the fine arts had collected of what was beautiful and rare, was sacrificed to their raging love of destruction. Gilded furniture, Venetian mirrors, large porcelain vases from Japan, were smashed to pieces. The silk tapestry was torn from the walls in shreds, the doors inlaid with beautiful wood-mosaic were broken up with clubs, the most masterly and costly paintings were cut in ribbons with knives. To be sure, it sometimes happened that the officers rescued from the soldiers some costly vase, some rare treasure or painting, and saved it from destruction, but this was not to save the King of Prussia's property, but to appropriate it to themselves, and carry it home with them.

Even the art-collection of Count Polignac, embracing the most splendid and rare treasures of art in the palace of Charlottenburg, did not escape this mania of destruction. This collection, containing among other things the most beautiful Greek statues, had been purchased in Rome by Gotzkowsky, and had afforded the king peculiar gratification, and was a source of much enjoyment to him. In the eyes of some Saxon officers, to whom this fact was known, it was sufficient reason for its condemnation. They themselves led the most violent and destructive of their soldiers into the halls where these magnificent treasures were exposed, even helped them to break the marble statues, to dash them down from their pedestals, to hew off their heads, arms, and legs, and even carried their systematic malice so far as to order the soldiers to grind into powder the fragments, so as to prevent any restoration of the statues at a subsequent period.

The unfortunate inhabitants of Charlottenburg witnessed all this abomination that was perpetrated in the royal palace with fear and trembling, and in order to save their own persons and property from similar outrage, they offered the enemy a contribution of fifteen thousand dollars. The Saxons accepted the money, but, regardless of every obligation usually considered sacredly binding, they only became more savage and ferocious. With yells of rage they rushed into the houses, and, when the money they demanded was refused them, they stripped the men of their clothes, lashed them until the blood flowed, or cruelly wounded or maimed them with sabre-cuts; and when the women fled from them, they followed them up, and forced them by brutal ill-treatment to yield themselves. No house in Charlottenburg escaped being plundered; and so cruel were the tortures which the inhabitants suffered, that four of the unfortunate men died a miserable death at the hands of the Saxon soldiers.

They were Germans who waged against their brother Germans, against their own countrymen, a brutality and barbarous love of destruction almost unequalled in the annals of modern history. Consequently it seemed but natural that the Russians should be excited by such examples of barbarity, so unstintedly set them by the Austrians and Saxons. No wonder that they, too, at last began to rob and plunder, to break into houses at night, and carry off women and maidens by force, in order to have them released next day by heavy ransom; and that even the severe punishments, inflicted on those whom the people had the courage to complain of to the generals lost their terror, and were no restraint on these sons of the steppes and ice-fields, led away as they were by the other ruffians.

Two hundred and eighty-two houses were destroyed and thoroughly plundered in Berlin by the Austrians; the Saxons had devastated the royal palace in Charlottenburg, and the whole town. Should not the Russians also leave a memorial of their vandalism? They did so in Schoenhausen, the pleasure-palace of the consort of Frederick the Great, who had left it a few days previous, by express command of the king, to take up her residence in Magdeburg. Eight Russian hussars forced themselves into the palace, and, with terrible threats, demanded the king's plate. Only the castellan and his wife, and a few of the royal servants, had been left behind to protect the place, and the only answer they could make to the furious soldiers was, that the booty which they were in search of had been carried with the royal party to Magdeburg. This information excited their fury to the highest pitch. Like the Saxon dragoons of Charlottenburg, they devastated the Schoenhausen palace, stripped the castellan and his wife, and, with shouts of wild laughter, whipped them and pinched their flesh with red-hot tongs. And, as if the sight of these bloody and torn human bodies had only increased their desire for blood and torture, they then attacked the two servants, stripped them of their clothes, cut one to pieces like a beast, and threw the other on the red-hot coals, roasting him alive, as formerly the warriors of her Most Christian Majesty of Spain did those whom, in the pride of their civilization, they denominated "the wild heathen."[1]

[Footnote 1: The account of all these cruelties and this vandalism is verified in the original, by reference to Von Archenholz: "History of the Seven Years' War," pp.194-198.—TRANSLATOR.]

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CHAPTER IV.

THE CADETS.

The day following the occupation of Berlin, a strange and singular procession moved down the Linden Street through the Brandenburg Gate, and took the road to Charlottenburg. Bruehl's dragoons and De Lacy's chasseurs rode on each side of the line, which would have excited laughter, if pity and sorrow had not overcome the comical element. It was a procession of children decked in uniform, and having nothing military about them but their apparel, nothing manly but the dress-sword at their side.

This singular little regiment was the "Corps of Cadets," which had been made prisoners of war by the Austrians and Saxons.

The commandant, Von Rochow, did not imagine that the enemy would carry his hard-heartedness to such an extent as to consider these lads of tender age as part of the garrison, and make them prisoners of war in consequence. None of these boys exceeded the age of twelve years (the larger and older ones having been drafted into the army to supply the want of officers), and he presumed that their very helplessness and weakness would be their security, and therefore had omitted to mention them specially in the surrender. But the conqueror had no compassion on these little children in uniform, and pronounced them prisoners of war. Even Liliputian warriors might be dangerous! Remember the pangs suffered by Gulliver, as, lying quietly on the ground, he was suddenly awakened by a violent discharge poured into him from behind the high grass by the Liliputians. To be sure their weapons were only armed with needles—whence we may infer that the Liliputians are the original inventors of the modern Prussian needle-percussion rifles—but, one can be killed by needle-pricks. Count De Lacy feared, perhaps, the needle weapons of the little Liliputian cadets, and treated the poor, delicate, tender children as if they were tough old veterans, accustomed to all the hardships and privations of war. With coarse abuse and blows from the butt of the musket, they were driven out into the highway, and compelled to travel on the soft, muddy roads without cloaks, notwithstanding the severe weather, and only the short jackets of their uniforms. Heart-rending was the wail of the poor little ones from whom the war had taken their fathers, and poverty their mothers—torn from their home, the refuge of their orphaned childhood, to be driven like a flock of bleating lambs out into the desert wilderness of life.

And when their feet grew weary, when their little bodies, unaccustomed to fatigue, gave way, they were driven on with blows from sabres and the butts of muskets. When they begged for a piece of bread, or a drop of water for their parched lips, they were laughed at, and, instead of water, were told to drink their own tears, which ran in streams down their childish cheeks. They had already marched the whole day without food or refreshment of any kind, and they could hardly drag their bleeding feet along. With eyes bright with fever, and parched tongues, they still wandered on, looking in the distance for some friendly shelter, some refreshing spring.

At nightfall the little cadets were camped in an open field, on the wet ground. At first, they begged for a little food, a crust of bread; but when they saw that their sufferings gave pleasure to the dragoons, and that their groans were to them like a pleasant song, they were silent, and the spirit of their fathers reigned uppermost in the breasts of these little, forsaken, trembling lads. They dried their eyes, and kept their complaints in their little trembling hearts.

"We will not cry any more," said little Ramin, who though only twelve years of age, was yet the oldest of the captives, and recognized as their captain and leader. "We will not cry any more, for our tears give pleasure to our enemies. Let us be cheerful, and that perhaps will vex them. To spite them, and show how little we think of our hunger, let us sing a jolly song."

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

"Prince Eugene," cried young Ramin; and immediately with his childish treble struck up "Prince Eugene, the noble knight."

And all the lads joined in with a sort of desperate enthusiasm, and the song of the noble knight rose from their young lips like a peal of rejoicing.

But gradually one little trembling voice after another fell, by degrees the song grew lower and shriller, and became lost in a trembling whisper; then it would rise into an unnatural and terrified scream, or sink into a whining sob or trembling wail.

Suddenly little Ramin stopped, and a cry of pain, like the sound of a snapped string, burst from his breast. "I cannot sing any more," sighed he. "Hunger is killing me." And he sank down on his knees, and raised his little arms beseechingly to one of the Austrian soldiers, who was marching beside him, comfortably consuming a roast chicken.

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

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

With similar piteous lamentations, the whole corps of trembling, weeping, starving little cadets threw themselves on their knees, and filled the air with their cries and prayers.

"Well, if you positively insist upon eating, you shall have something to appease your hunger," said the officer who commanded the chasseurs, and he whispered a few words to his corporal, who received them with a loud laugh, and then rode off.

"Now, be quiet, and wait," commanded the Austrian officer. "I have sent the corporal and some soldiers into the village to get food for you. Only wait now, and be satisfied." And the children dried their eyes, and comforted each other with encouraging words.

With what impatience, what painful longing, did they look forward to the promised food! How they thanked God, in the gladness of their hearts, that He had had pity on them, and had not allowed them to die of hunger!

They all seemed revived, and strained their hopeful eyes toward the quarter whence the corporal was to return. And now, with one voice, they broke out into a cry of joy; they had espied him returning, accompanied by soldiers who seemed to be bringing a heavy load.

They approached nearer and nearer. "Form a ring," commanded the officer, and they obeyed in expectant gladness; and around the thickly crowded ring the Austrian officers and the troop of soldiers took their stand. In silent waiting stood the cadets, and their hearts leaped for joy.

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

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

But no! The dinner came walking along by itself. With a dignified step it marched in and gave utterance to an expressive bleat. It was a live sheep, which was to be given to the poor lads who were faint from hunger. An outburst of boisterous laughter from the Austrians greeted the dignified wether, and drowned the cries of the bitterly disappointed cadets.

"A sheep!" they cried, "and what are we to do with it?"—and they began to weep afresh.

"Kill him and roast him!" jeered the officer. "You are brave soldiers. Well, you will only have to do what we often do in camp. Be your own cook and butler; none of us will help you. We want to see what sort of practical soldiers you will make, and whether you are as good hands at cooking as at crying and blubbering."

And the Austrians folded their arms, and looked on idly and with derisive satisfaction at these poor children who stood there with their heads bowed down with helplessness and grief.

At length little Ramin arose. His eyes glistened with fierce defiance, and an expression of noble courage illuminated his pale countenance.

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

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

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

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

"Have we ever killed a man?" asked Ramin, rolling his large bright eyes around the circle of his comrades. "Have we ever deprived a man of his life?"

"No!"

"Well, then, we will have it yet to do! We hope to be able to kill many an enemy, and to do that we will have to begin with some one. Let us make believe, then, that this wether is the enemy, and that we have to attack him. Now, then, down upon him!"

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

"Attention!" commanded Ramin.

The boys drew themselves up in military order right opposite the bleating sheep.

"Draw swords!"

In the twinkling of an eye they had drawn their little rapiers, which looked more like penknives than swords, and which the Austrians had left to their little prisoners of war.

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

Down they charged upon the enemy, who was standing motionless, with staring eyes, bleating loudly. The Austrian soldiers roared and screamed with delight, and confessed, with tears in their eyes, that it was the best joke in the world, and no end of fun to see these poor boys made desperate by hunger.

The first feat of arms of the little cadets was completed, the wether was slain. But now came the question how to dress him, how to convert the dead beast into nice warm roast meat.

They were well aware that none of the laughing, mocking soldiers would help them, and therefore they disdained to ask for help. Wood, a roasting-pit, and a kettle were given them—means enough to prepare a good soup and roast. But how to begin and set about it they themselves hardly knew. But gnawing hunger made them inventive. Had they not often at home skinned many a cunningly caught mole—had they not often killed and drawn a rabbit? The only difference was that the sheep was somewhat larger than a mole or a rabbit.

Finally, after much toil and trouble, and under the approving laughter of the spectators, they accomplished it. The meat simmered in the kettle, watched by two cadets, two others turning the spit. The work was done; the sheep was converted into soup and roast.

And because they showed themselves so industrious and cheerful, one and another of the soldiers softened their hearts and threw them a piece of bread or a canteen; and the poor boys accepted these alms thrown at them with humble gratitude, and no feeling of resentment or defiance remained in their hearts, for hunger was appeased; but appeased only for the moment—only to encounter new sufferings, renewed hunger, fresh mockeries. For onward, farther onward must they wander. Every now and then one of them sank down, begging for pity and compassion. But what cared the soldiers, who only saw in the children the impersonation of the hated enemy, to be tortured and worried to death as a sport?

More than twenty of these little cadets succumbed to the sufferings of this journey, and died miserably, forsaken and alone, on the high road; and no mother was there to close their eyes, no father to lean over them and bless them with a tear. But over these poor martyr-children watched the love of God, and lulled them to sleep with happy dreams and gentle fancies about their distant homes, their little sister there, or the beautiful garden in which they had so often chased butterflies together. And amidst such fancies and smiling memories they dreamed away their childish souls, beyond the grave, to a holy and happy reawakening.

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CHAPTER V.

THE EXPLOSION.

General von Tottleben was alone in his chamber—at least he had no visible company; but two invisible companions were there—Care and Sorrow. They whispered to him uncomfortable and melancholy thoughts, making his countenance serious and sad, and drawing deep and dark lines across his brow. He was a German, and was fighting in the ranks of the enemy against his German fatherland. Therein lay the secret of his care-worn features, the reading of the suppressed sighs; the broken, sorrowful words which he uttered, as with folded arms and bowed head he paced up and down his room. He was a German, and loved his country, which had repaid his love with that apathy and non-appreciation that have destroyed and killed some of the greatest and noblest men of Germany; while others have taken refuge in foreign countries, to find there that recognition which was denied them at home. General von Tottleben was only a German—why, then, should Germany take notice of him? Because he possessed information, talent, genius. Germany would have appreciated these if Von Tottleben had been a foreigner; but, as unfortunately he was only a German, Germany took no notice of him, and compelled him to seek in a foreign country the road to fame and distinction. He had gone to Russia. There his talents had been prized and employed. He was now a general in the Russian army, and the alliance between Russia and Austria compelled him to fight against his own country.