But the Russian general still preserved his German heart, this heart so strong in suffering, so unfaltering in its faith, so faithful in its love, so great in hope, humble in its obedience, modest in its desires; this German heart of his was the cause of much suffering to him, for it could not adapt itself to his Russian instructions, and despite his efforts to render it callous, would insist upon overflowing with pity and sympathy. He loved Berlin, for in this city he had passed the best years of his youth. And now he was called on to act as a cruel tyrant, an unfeeling barbarian, to sow broadcast death and destruction in this city, from which he yearned so to win a little love, a little sympathy for her rejected son.

But now his German heart was forced into silence by the exigencies of Russian discipline, and the general had to obey the orders of his superior officer, General von Fermore. His chief had ordered him to exercise the utmost severity and harshness, and imposed upon him the task of scourging Berlin like a demon of vengeance. And yet Berlin had committed no other crime than that of remaining faithful to her king, and of not wishing to surrender to the enemy.

A fresh dispatch had just arrived from General von Fermore, and its contents had darkened the brow of Tottleben with anxious care. He had received orders to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. This noble and handsome building, which rose in proud splendor in the midst of a populous town, was to be destroyed without reference to the fact that the blowing up of this colossal edifice would scatter death and ruin throughout unfortunate Berlin.

"I will not do it," said he, pacing up and down the room, and crushing the accursed paper which brought the cruel order in his clinched hand. "I cannot be such a barbarian. Fermore may command me to do barbarous actions, but I will not accept such commands! I will not obey! No one but myself knows of this order. I will ignore it. The Empress Elizabeth has always been very gracious toward me, and will forgive me for not executing an order which certainly never proceeded from her own kind heart." At this moment the door opened, and the adjutant entering, announced Count de Lacy.

Tottleben's countenance assumed a gloomy expression, and, as with hasty step he advanced toward the Austrian general, he muttered to himself, "I perceive the bloodhounds have got the scent, and are eager for blood." In the mean time Count de Lacy approached him with a friendly and gracious smile. He seemed not to be at all aware that Tottleben did not accept the hand which the Austrian general held out to him with a hearty greeting.

"I come to chat for a short quarter of an hour with your excellency," said Count de Lacy, in very fluent German, but with the hard foreign accent of a Hungarian. "After a battle won, I know nothing pleasanter than to recall with a comrade the past danger, and to revel again in memory the excitement of the fight."

"May I request your excellency to remember that the Austrians cannot count the conquest of Berlin in the list of their victories," cried Count Tottleben, with a sarcastic smile. "It was the Russian army which besieged Berlin, and Berlin surrendered to us."

"You are very kind to remind me of it," said Count de Lacy, with his unchangeable, pleasant smile. "In the mean time may I request a more particular explanation than this polite reminder?"

"You shall have it, sir," cried Tottleben, passionately. "I mean to say that Berlin is not Charlottenburg, and to request that the vandalism which the Austrian troops practised there, may not be transferred to Berlin. Be satisfied with the booty which your soldiers stowed away in their knapsacks at that place, and have the kindness to order the Austrian army to learn a little discipline and humanity from the Russians."

"From the Russians?" asked Count de Lacy, with ironical astonishment. "Truly one is not accustomed to learn humanity from that quarter. Does your excellency mean to say that the Austrians are to learn good manners from the Russians?"

"Yes, from the Russians," replied Tottleben—"from my soldiers, who neither plunder nor rob, but bear in mind that they are soldiers, and not thieves!"

"Sir," cried De Lacy, "what do these words mean?"

"They mean that I have promised my protection to the people of Berlin, and that I am prepared to afford it to them, even against our own allies. They mean that I have made myself sufficiently strong to bid you defiance, sir, and to defend Berlin against the cruelty and inhumanity of the Austrian army. The Russian army will compel it to be humane, and to pause in the cruel rage with which they have desolated unhappy Germany."

Count de Lacy shrugged his shoulders. "What is Germany to you, and why do you feel for her?" asked he jeeringly. "I beg you, count, let us not speak of Germany. What to us is this lachrymose, fantastic female Germania, which has been betrothed to so many lords and wooers, that she can remain faithful and true to none? Germania will then only be happy when one of her lovers has the boldness to kill off and tread under foot all his rivals and so build himself up an undisputed throne. That is Austria's mission, and our duty is to fulfil it. We are the heralds who go before Germania's Austrian bridegroom, and everywhere illuminate the heavens with the torches of our triumphs. If the torches now and then come too near some piece of humanity and set it on fire, what is that to us? Germany is our enemy, and if we have a puling compassion on our enemy, we become traitors to our own cause. That's all. But what is the use of this strife and these recriminations?" asked he, suddenly breaking into a smile. "I have only come to ask your excellency when you intend to light these new wedding-torches which are to redden the sky of Berlin?"

"What wedding-torches?" inquired Tottleben, turning pale.

"Well, those which are to burst out from the mint and factory buildings," said De Lacy, with a smile of indifference. "I anticipate with extraordinary pleasure this exhibition of fireworks which the town of Berlin is going to give in honor of our presence."

"You mean to say in disgrace of our presence," exclaimed Tottleben, ardently.

Count de Lacy looked at him with a compassionate shrug of the shoulders. "My dear count," said he, with cutting coldness, "when a man becomes a Russian general, he must have a Russian heart, and not allow himself to be influenced by any German softness or sympathy. Otherwise it might happen that they might make a mistake, and not being able to deprive you of your German heart, might take your German head instead."

General Tottleben drew back with astonishment, and stared at him.

Count de Lacy continued, smiling, and in a quiet tone: "I warn you to guard against your own mildness and your German heart. General Fermore is my friend, and often consults me about the meaning of German words. How would you like it if I should explain the word treason in a manner dangerous to yourself, and if this explanation should result in translating your excellency into Siberia?"

"General Fermore is neither my commander nor my master," cried Tottleben, proudly.

"But the lord and master of your lady and mistress, the high and mighty Empress Elizabeth—remember that. Will your excellency now condescend to inform me at what time the Berlin armory shall rise fluttering in the air like a bird?"

"And do you know that, too?" asked Tottleben, with painful astonishment.

"I have already told you that the Russians and Austrians are faithful allies, and have no secrets from each other, as far as their designs upon Germany are concerned. Oh, it will be a splendid feu de joie for the house of Austria, when the Prussian armory is blown into the air! When are we to enjoy this spectacle, general?"

General von Tottleben sank his head in silence on his breast. Count de Lacy regarded him with a cold and piercing glance. Tottleben felt this look, and understood its important significance. He knew that his whole future, his freedom, perhaps even his life, hung upon this moment.

"In three hours from now the spectacle will take place," said he, with a forced laugh. "In three hours the wedding-torches shall be lighted, and in order to make it the pleasanter, we will have the wails of the people of Berlin as a musical accompaniment."

"In three hours, then," said Count de Lacy, bowing low; "I hasten to announce it to my officers. I am burning with impatience to witness this rare spectacle."

Count de Lacy departed, and General Tottleben was again alone.

For a long time did he pace his room in abstract meditation, anger and pity, fear and terror struggling in his soul. He was perfectly aware of the danger which threatened him. He knew that Count Fermore hated him as a dangerous rival for the smiles of the empress, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to overthrow him. He was therefore obliged to yield to this cruel necessity; the Berlin armory must be sacrificed.

Suddenly his countenance lighted up, and his features assumed an expression of joy. He hastened rapidly to the door and summoned his body servant and slave, Ivan Petrowitsch. "Ivan," said he, with the stern and cold composure of a Russian—"Ivan, I have a commission for you, and if you are successful in its execution, I will not have your son Feodor hung, although I know that yesterday, contrary to my order, he was present at the plundering of a house."

"Speak, master, what am I to do? I will save my son, even if it cost my own life."

"It will cost your life, Ivan."

"I am your property, master, and my life belongs to you," said the serf, sadly. "You can have me whipped to death any time it pleases you. Say, then, what I must do to save my son."

"Fifty Cossacks are to ride immediately to the powder-mills to bring powder. You will accompany them."

Ivan looked at him with astonishment. "Is that all I have to do?" asked he.

Tottleben was not yet sufficiently Russian. His German heart would assert its rights. As he met the inquiring look of Ivan, he turned his eye away. He forgot that it was only a serf he was speaking to, and not a human being.

But he soon recalled it. "You will accompany these Cossacks to the powder-mills, I say, and as you do so you will smoke your pipe, and see that the tobacco burns well, and that you are burning tinder on top of it."

An expression of comprehension shone in Ivan's eyes. "I will smoke, master," said he, sadly.

"When you are in the powder-mills, and the Cossacks are loading the powder, you will help them, and in doing so you will let the pipe fall out of your mouth," said Tottleben, in an undertone, and his voice trembled ever so little. There was a pause—Ivan leaned, pale and trembling, against the wall. General Tottleben had turned away, as if afraid to encounter the pallid, terrified countenance of his slave.

"If you do not execute my command," said he, finally, "I will have your only son hung, as he deserves to be. If you betray to any one soever a word of my order, I will have your wife whipped to death. Now think of it."

Ivan shook as if in an ague. His teeth chattered together. "I will smoke, master," said he, at last, with an effort, "and I will drop my pipe in the powder-mills. Have pity on my son, master, and spare my wife!"

"I will do so, Ivan," said Tottleben. "I will give them both their freedom, and a pension."

Ivan dropped his head, and a convulsive groan burst from his breast.

"Time passes; make haste!" cried the general, with assumed harshness.

"I go, master," sighed Ivan. "You will not, then, string up my poor Feodor, nor have my wife whipped?"

"If you execute my order strictly and punctually, I will care for them."

Two tears coursed slowly down Ivan's brown cheek. "I will carry out your orders, master; I will smoke, and I will drop my pipe. Farewell, master!"

He approached his master with slavish humility, and kissed the seam of his garment. "Farewell, master. I thank you, for you have always been a kind master to me," said he, and his tears moistened the general's coat.

General Tottleben was as yet unable completely to convert his German heart into a Russian one. He felt himself touched by this humble and heroic submission of his slave. He felt as if he must give him some comfort on his fatal road.

"Ivan," said he, softly, "your death will save, perhaps, not only the property, but also the lives of many hundred other men."

Ivan kissed passionately his proffered hand. "I thank you, master. Farewell, and think sometimes of your poor Ivan."

A quarter of an hour afterward was seen a troop of fifty Cossacks, on their swift-footed little horses, racing down Frederick Street. Each man had a powder-sack with him, and seeing them ride by, people whispered to each other, "They are riding to the powder-mills. They have shot away all their own powder, and now, in true Cossack style, they are going to take our Prussian powder." At that time Frederick Street did not reach beyond the river Spree. On the other bank began the faubourgs and the gardens. Even Monbijou was then only a royal country seat, situated in the Oranienburg suburb. The powder-mills, which lay beyond the gardens, with a large sandy plain intervening, were sufficiently remote from the town to prevent all danger from their possible explosion.

Ivan, the serf of Count von Tottleben, rode by the side of the officer of the Cossacks. He pranced his pony about, and was cheerful and jolly like his comrades, the merry sons of the steppe. As they reached the gate they halted their horses, and gazed with evident pleasure on the desert, wild, sandy plain, which stretched out before them.

"How beautiful that is!" exclaimed Petrowitsch, the hetman of the Cossacks. "Just look—what a handsome steppe!"

"Just such a fine sand steppe as at home in our own country!" sighed one of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a song of his home.

"This is the finest scenery I have seen in Germany," cried another. "What a pleasure it would be to race over this steppe!"

"Come on, then, let us get up a race over this splendid steppe," said a fourth, "and let us sing one of the songs we are used to at home."

"Yes, agreed! let us!" cried all, ranging quickly their horses in line.

"Wait a moment," cried Ivan; "I can't sing, you all know, and I've only one sweetheart, and that's my pipe. Let me then light my pipe so that I can smoke." He struck fire with his steel, and lighting the tinder, placed it in the bowl of his pipe. No one saw the sad, shuddering look which he cast at the glowing tinder and his spark-scattering pipe. "Now forward, boys, and sing us a lively song from home," said Ivan.

"Hurrah! hurrah!"

They charge over the beautiful plain, and sing in a pealing chorus, the favorite song of the Cossack, at once so soft and sad:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?"

Big tears ran down poor Ivan's cheek. No one saw them, no one observed him. He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the smoke out of his pipe. No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills. No one heard the sad words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee, Leave my happy, heather plains? Ah! this parting does not grieve thee, Though still true my heart remains. Far from thee I roam, Sadly see the sunbeams shining, Lonely all the night I'm pining Far from thee alone."

They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring from their saddles.

Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he passes about his pipe; he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.

And now all's right. The pipe is alight. Like brilliant eyes of fire the burning tobacco shines out of the bowl. Ivan puts it back in his mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach the gates of the powder-mills.

The Russian sentinels let them pass, and, joking and laughing merrily, the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with powder for the blowing up of the arsenal. How joyous and careless they are, these sons of the steppe! How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of powder are ranged in endless rows!

And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin to load the powder into their sacks.

What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch? Why do the big drops of sweat run down thy forehead? Why do thy limbs tremble, and why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?

They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!

Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.

Suddenly he utters a cry, a heart-rending, pitiful cry. The burning pipe drops from his mouth!

Then rises a wild yell—an awful, horrible report!

The earth quakes and trembles, as if about to open, to vomit forth the burning stream of a thundering crater. The sky seems blackened by the fearful smoke which fills the air far and wide. Everywhere may be seen human bodies, single shattered limbs, ruins of the exploded building, flying through the air, and covering the groaning, trembling earth. But no syllable or sound of complaint, no death-rattle is now heard. All is over.

The powder-mills have flown into the air, and, though far distant from Berlin, yet this terrible explosion was felt in every part of the city.[1] In the Frederick Street the houses shook as if from an earthquake, and countless panes of glass were shattered.

With darkened brow and a burst of anger did General von Tottleben receive the news that the powder-mills had blown up, and fifty Cossacks had lost their lives thereby. He mourned for the unfortunate Cossacks and his poor serf, Ivan Petrowitsch. Still more did he lament that it was now impossible to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. But it was not his fault that the commands of his empress could not be executed. The Russians had shot away all their powder, and the stock in the powder-mills having been destroyed, there was none left to carry into execution this grand undertaking.

[Footnote 1: Archenholz: "History of the Seven Years' War," p. 194.]

* * * * *



CHAPTER VI.

JOHN GOTZKOWSKY.

A sad and anxious period had the unfortunate city of Berlin yet to pass through. With fear and trembling did the inhabitants await the approach of each morning, and in spiritless despondency they seemed to have lost all capacity for helping themselves.

There was but one man who, unterrified and unwavering, with the cheerful courage of a noble soul, exposed himself to danger, to suffering and grief, who proposed to himself but one object—to help others as far as lay in his power, and to avert fresh misfortune, additional care and anxiety from the too heavily laden inhabitants of Berlin.

This one man was John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of Berlin. In this day of their trouble the inhabitants looked up to him as to a helping angel; the poor prayed to him, the rich fled to him with their treasures; with him the persecuted found refuge, the hungry shelter and food.

For Gotzkowsky there was no rest or leisure, nor did he feel care or sorrow. The tears he had shed about Elise he had buried in his heart, overcoming a father's grief by the power of his will. At this time he only remembered that he was called to the sacred duty of succoring his fellow-men, his suffering brothers—to be a father to the needy, a deliverer to the oppressed.

The doors of his house were open to all who sought refuge with him. The wives and children and aged parents of his workmen rushed there with screams and loud lamentations, and he received them all, and gave them beds in his splendid halls, and his gilt and silken ottomans served for refreshing places to hungry and freezing poverty.

But not the poor alone, the wealthy also found refuge in his house. They knew that Gotzkowsky's word had much influence, not only with General Bachmann, but also with General von Tottleben, and that this latter had ordered that Gotzkowsky should always have free admission to him. In their anxiety and need they put aside the proud bearing of their rank and dignity, and hastened to him to plead for help and rest, to hide their treasures and place their lives and fortunes under his guardianship.

But while hundreds sought refuge and safety there, Gotzkowsky himself was like a stranger in his own house. Day and night was he seen on the streets; where-ever danger and alarm prevailed, he appeared like a rescuing angel; he brought help when all else despaired, and the power of his eloquence and his pleading words silenced even the rough insolence of the enemy's soldiers. A hundred times did he expose his own life to save some unfortunate. In the New Frederick Street he rushed through the flames into a burning house to save a child which had been forgotten.

Elsewhere he fought singly against twenty Austrian soldiers, who were about to carry off two young girls in spite of their heart-rending shrieks and entreaties. The rescued maidens sank at his feet, and bathed his hand with their tears.

Gotzkowsky raised them to his heart, and said, with an indescribable expression: "Should I not have compassion on you? Am not I a father? Thank my daughter, for it was she who saved you."

But now, at last, exhausted Nature demanded her rights. After two days and nights without rest, Gotzkowsky tottered toward his own house. As he crossed the threshold he asked himself with an anxious heart—"Will Elise come to meet me? Has she cared for me?" And trembling with care and love, he went in.

Elise did not come to meet him. No one bade him welcome but his servant Peter. Gently at last, indeed almost timidly, he ventured to inquire after his daughter.

"She is in the large hall, busy nursing the wounded who have been carried there."

Gotzkowsky's countenance expressed great delight and relief at this report. Elise had not, then, buried herself in the solitude of her room in idle complaint, but had sought, like himself, comfort for her suffering in helping and sympathizing with others. In this moment he appreciated the infinity of his love. He yearned to take her to his heart, and pour out to her all his unappreciated, doubted love, and convince her that she, his daughter, the only child of his wife, was the true end and object of his life. But unhappy, oppressed Berlin left him no time to attend to the soft and gentle dictates of his father's heart. He had scarcely got into his house, when two messengers arrived from the town Council, bringing him six thousand dollars in cash, with the urgent request that he would take charge of this sum, which would be safe only with him. The town messengers had scarcely left him, when there arrived the rich manufacturers, Wegeli and Wuerst, with a wagon-load of gold and silver bars which Gotzkowsky had promised to keep in his fire-proof cellars.

His house had become the treasury of the whole of Berlin; and if it had been destroyed, with all these gold and silver ingots, these diamonds and silver ware, money and papers, all the Exchanges of Europe would have felt the disastrous consequences.

At last, all these treasures were stowed away, and Gotzkowsky addressed himself to rest, when the door of his room was suddenly opened, and General von Bachmann entered hastily.

"Gotzkowsky," said he, "I have come with important intelligence, and to redeem the promise I made to my friend Sievers." Approaching more closely to Gotzkowsky, he said to him in an undertone: "General von Tottleben has just received orders to destroy and burn all royal factories and mills."

Gotzkowsky turned pale, and inquired with horror, "Why this barbarous proceeding?"

General Bachmann shrugged his shoulders. "It is the order of the commander-in-chief, Count von Fermore," said he; "and Tottleben will have to be all the more particular from the fact that, instead of the arsenal, fifty of our soldiers were blown into the air. Here, in the mean while, take this paper, and see whether, among the factories to be destroyed, one of yours has been included by mistake."

Gotzkowsky looked over the list with dismay. "Did not your excellency say that only royal factories were to be destroyed?"

"Yes, so runs the order."

"But the factories that stand on this list are not royal institutions. The brass-works in Eberwalde, the gold and silver factories, and the warehouse in Berlin, do not belong to the king, and are they going to be so barbarous as to destroy them? That cannot be. I will hasten to General Tottleben, and entreat him to revoke this cruel order."

General Bachmann shook his head sadly. "I am afraid it will be in vain," said he. "Besides, you incur great risk in your undertaking. The general is in a very angry, excited mood, and your intercession will only increase his bitterness and anger."

"I fear not his anger," cried Gotzkowsky boldly. "If no one else dares to tell him the truth, I will do it; and with argument and entreaty compel him to be humane, and to respect the property of others. Come, sir, let us go to General Tottleben!"

"No, sir. I am not going with you," said Bachmann, laughing. "I am not a man to tremble on the eve of battle, and yet I fear to meet Tottleben's angry looks. In his wrath he is like a Jupiter Tonans, ready to launch his thunderbolts, and dash to pieces all who approach him."

"I am not afraid of his thunder!" cried Gotzkowsky, fervently. "The property and welfare of Berlin are in danger. I must go to the general!"

"Then go along," said Bachmann, "and may God give power to your words! I have warned you, and that is all I can do."

Gotzkowsky did not answer him. Trembling with eagerness and impatience, he dressed himself, and throwing his cloak around him, he once more left his house, with the alacrity of a young man.

General Bachmann looked after him, smiling thoughtfully. "He is a noble fellow," said he, "and Berlin has good reason to be grateful to him, and to love him. But who knows? perhaps, for that very reason, she will one day hate him. Noble-mindedness is so soon forgotten! It is the solid weight that sinks to the bottom, while light deeds float on top. Mankind is not fond of being grateful. I would like to know whether Berlin will ever show a due appreciation of this noble man?"

* * * * *



CHAPTER VII.

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

The Russians had at last allowed themselves to be carried away by the example set them by the Austrians and Saxons. Like them, they roamed through Berlin, robbing and plundering, unmindful of discipline, and forgetting the severe punishments which Tottleben inflicted on those whose misdeeds reached his ear.

Like the Austrians, the Cossacks entered houses with wanton arrogance, and, under the pretext of being Russian safeguards, they stole, and robbed, and ill-treated in the rudest manner those who opposed their demands. They had even managed to reduce their robbery and extortion to a kind of system, and to value the human person after a new fashion. It was a sort of mercantile transaction, and the Cossacks were the brokers in this new-fashioned business. Stealthily and unheard, they slipped into houses, fell upon the unsuspecting women and children, and dragged them out, not to capture them as the Romans did the Sabine women, but to hold them as so much merchandise, to be redeemed by their friends and relatives at high and often enormous ransoms.

But the Cossacks drew but small profit from this hunt after noble human game. They were only servants, acting under orders from their officers. These latter divided the booty, throwing to the Cossacks a small reward for their skill in robbing.

Thus, for some days, Berlin was not only subjugated by the enemy, but a prey to robbers and slave-dealers, and moans and lamentations were heard in every house. All the more merrily did the enemy's soldiers carouse and enjoy themselves, laugh and joke. For them Berlin was nothing more than an orange to be squeezed dry, whose life-blood was to be drawn out to add new zest to their own draught of life.

The young Russian officers were sitting together in the large room of their barracks. They were drinking and making merry, and striking their glasses noisily together; draining them to the health of the popular, handsome, and brilliant comrade who had just entered their circle, and who was no other than he whom Gotzkowsky's daughter, in the sorrow of her heart, was mourning as dead!—no one else than the Russian colonel, Count Feodor von Brenda.

He had been right, therefore, in trusting to Fortune. Fortune had favored him, as she always does those who boldly venture all to win all, and who sport with danger as with a toy. Indeed, it was an original and piquant adventure which the Russian colonel had experienced, the more piquant because it had threatened him with death, and at one moment his life had been in extreme danger. It had delighted him for once to experience all the horrors of death, the palpitation, the despair of a condemned culprit; to acquire in his own person a knowledge of the great and overpowering feelings, which he had read so much about in books, and which he had not felt in reality even in the midst of battle. But yet this bold playing with death had, toward the last, lost a little of its charm, and a moment arrived when his courage failed him, and his daring spirit was overpowered by his awed physical nature. There was not, as there is in battle, the excitement which conquers the fear of death, and drunk with victory, mocks one to his face; there was not the wild delight which possesses the soldier in the midst of a shower of balls, and makes him, as it were, rush toward eternity with a shout. No, indeed! It was something quite different which Colonel von Brenda, otherwise so brave and valiant, now felt.

When the Austrian soldiers had pronounced his sentence of death, when they formed a ring around him at the Gens-d'Armes Market, and loaded their pieces for his execution, then the haughty Russian colonel felt a sudden change take place; his blood curdled in his veins, and he felt as if thousands of small worms were creeping through them, gliding slowly, horribly to his heart. At length, in the very despair which oppressed him, he found strength to cast his incubus from his breast, and with a voice loud and powerful as thunder to cry out for help and succor. His voice was heard; it reached the ear of General Bachmann, who came in person to set free the wild young officer, the favorite of his empress, from the hands of the Austrians.

This adventure, which had terminated so famously, Count Brenda now related to his friends and comrades. To be sure, the general had punished the mad freak with an arrest of four-and-twenty hours. But after undergoing this punishment, he was more than ever the hero of the day, the idol of his comrades, who now celebrated his release from arrest with loud rejoicing and the cracking of champagne bottles. After they had laughed and joked to their satisfaction, they resorted to the dice.

"And what stake shall we play for?" asked Feodor, as he cast a look of ill-concealed contempt on his young companions, who so little understood the art of drinking the cup of pleasure with decency, and rolled about on their seats with lolling tongues and leering eyes.

Feodor alone had preserved the power of his mind; his brain alone was unclouded by the fumes of champagne, and that which had made the others mad had only served to make him sad and gloomy. The drunkenness of his comrades had sobered him, and, feeling satiated with all the so-called joys and delights of life, he asked himself, with a smile of contempt, whether the stammering, staggering fellows, who sat next to him, were fit and suitable companions and associates of a man who had made pleasure a study, and who considered enjoyment as a philosophical problem, difficult of solution.

"And for what stake shall we play?" he asked again, as with a powerful grip he woke his neighbor, Lieutenant von Matusch, out of the half sleep which had crept over him.

"For our share of the booty!" stammered the lieutenant.

Feodor looked at him with surprise. "What booty? Have we, then, become robbers and plunderers, that you speak of booty?"

His comrades burst into a wild laugh.

"Just listen to the sentimental dreamer, the cosmopolite," cried Major von Fritsch. "He looks upon it as dishonorable to take booty. I for my part maintain that there is no greater pleasure, and certainly none which is more profitable. Fill your glasses, friends, and let us drink to our hunting. 'Hurrah! hurrah for human game!'"

They struck their glasses together, and emptied them amidst an uproar of laughter.

"Colonel, you shall have your share of the booty!" said Lieutenant von Matusch, laying his heavy, shaky hand on Feodor's shoulder. "We never intended to cheat you out of your portion, but you were not here, and therefore up to this time you could have no share in it."

As Feodor pressed him with questions, he related how they had formed a compact, and pledged themselves to have their booty and captives in common.

"We have caught more than a dozen head, and they have ransomed themselves handsomely," cried Major von Fritsch. "We have just sent out ten of our men again on the chase."

"Oh! I hope they will bring in just such another handsome young girl as they did yesterday," cried Matusch, rubbing his hands with delight. "Ah, that was a pleasant evening! She offered us treasures, diamonds, and money; she promised us thousands if we would only release her at once! She wept like a Madonna, and wrung her snow-white hands, and all that only made her prettier still."

Colonel Feodor looked at him in anger. In contact with such coarse and debauched companions his more refined self rose powerful within him, and his originally noble nature turned with loathing from this barren waste of vulgarity and infamy.

"I hope," said he, warmly, "that you have behaved as becomes noble gentlemen."

Matusch shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "I do not know what you call so, colonel. She was very pretty, and she pleased me. I promised to set her free to-day, for the ransom agreed on, and I have kept my word."

As he spoke thus, he burst into a loud laugh, in which his friends joined with glee.

But Feodor von Brenda did not laugh. An inexplicable, prophetic dread overpowered him. What if this young girl, described to him with so much gusto, and who had been so shamefully ill-treated, should prove to be his Elise, his beloved!

At this thought, anger and distress took possession of him, and he never loved Elise more ardently and truly than he did at this moment when he trembled for her. "And was there no one," cried he, with flashing eyes, "no one knightly and manly enough to take her part? How! even you, Major von Fritsch, allowed this thing to happen?"

"I was obliged to do so," replied the major. "We have made a law among ourselves, which we have all sworn to obey. It is established that the dice shall determine to which of the officers the booty shall belong; and he who throws the highest number becomes the owner of the person. He has to negotiate about the ransom. This, however, of course is divided among his comrades."

"But if the person is poor?" asked Feodor, indignantly, "if she cannot pay?"

"Then she belongs to him who has won her; he must decide on her fate. He is—"

The major stopped suddenly. The other officers raised themselves in their seats, and listened with breathless attention.

"I think I hear the signal," whispered the major. He had not deceived himself. A shrill, piercing whistle sounded a second time. The officers sprang from their seats, and broke into a loud cry of triumph:

"Our Cossacks are coming. They have caught something! Come, come, let us throw the dice."

With fierce eagerness, they all rushed to the table, and stretched out their hands for the bones. Immediately a deep, expectant silence ensued. Nothing was heard but the rattling of the dice, and the monotonous calling of the numbers thrown. Feodor alone remained at his place, lost in deep thought, and his tortured heart kept asking itself the question, "Could it be her whom the barbarians had captured and ill-used?" This question burnt in his brain like a red-hot dagger, upsetting his reason, and driving him almost mad with anger and grief. Still the rattling of the noisy dice went on—the calling of the numbers. No one took notice of the young man, who, in desperate distress, his clinched fist pressed against his breast, paced up and down the farther end of the room, uttering broken words of anger and grief. No one, as has been said, noticed him, nor did any one remark that at this moment the door in the background of the hall was opened, and six Cossacks entered, bearing a litter on their shoulders.

Feodor von Brenda saw them, and, with deep compassion, he regarded the veiled, inanimate figure lying on the litter, which was set down by the Cossacks.

"Colonel von Brenda," cried Major von Fritsch at this moment, "it is your turn."

"Oh, he is too sentimental!" laughed out Matusch. "Is not that the fact, colonel?"

Feodor remained musing and pensive. "It is a woman," said he to himself—"perhaps a young and handsome woman like Elise. How if I should try to save her? I have luck at the dice. Well, I will try." And with a firm step he approached the table. "Give me the bones," cried he. "I will throw with you for my share of the booty."

The dice rattled and tumbled merrily on the table.

"Eighteen spots!"

"The highest throw!"

"Colonel von Brenda has won!"

"The woman is mine!" cried Feodor, his countenance beaming with joy.

His comrades looked at him with astonishment. "A woman! How do you know beforehand that it is a woman?"

Feodor pointed silently to the back part of the room. There stood the Cossacks, next to the litter, waiting in solemn silence to be noticed.

"A woman! Yes, by Heavens! it is a woman," cried the officers. And, with boisterous laughter, they rushed toward the Cossacks.

"And where did you pick her up?" asked Major von Fritsch.

"Don't know," answered one of the Cossacks. "We crept along a wall, and when we had climbed to the top, we saw a garden. We got down slowly and carefully, and waited behind the trees, to see if any one would come down the long avenue. We did not have long to wait before this lady came by herself. We rushed on her, and all her struggles, of course, went for nothing. Luckily for her and us, she fainted, for if she had cried out, some one, perhaps, might have come, and then we would have been obliged to gag her."

The officers laughed. "Well," said the major, "Colonel Feodor can stop her mouth now with kisses." In the mean while, Lieutenant Matusch threw the Cossacks a few copper coins, and drove them out of the room, with scornful words of abuse.

"And now let us see what we have won," cried the officers, rushing to the litter. They were in the act of raising the cloth which concealed the figure, but Feodor stepped forward with determined countenance and flashing eyes.

"Let no one dare to raise this veil," said he haughtily. His comrades rushed, with easily aroused anger, on him, and attempted again to approach the veiled woman. "Be on your guard!" cried Feodor, and, drawing his sword from its scabbard, he placed himself before the litter, ready for the combat. The officers drew back. The determined, defiant countenance of the young warrior, his raised and ready sword, made them hesitate and yield.

"Feodor is right," said the major, after a pause; "he has fairly won the woman, and it is his business now to settle about the ransom."

The others cast their eyes down, perhaps ashamed of their own rudeness. "He is right, she belongs to him," murmured they, as they drew back and approached the door.

"Go, my friends, go," said Feodor. "I promise you that I will settle with her about her ransom, and give up beforehand all claim to my share!"

The countenances of the Russian officers brightened up. They nodded and smiled toward him as they left the room. Count Feodor von Brenda was now alone with the veiled and insensible woman.

* * * * *



CHAPTER VIII.

BY CHANCE.

As soon as the officers had left the room, Feodor hastened to close the door after them carefully, to prevent any importunate intrusion. He then searched thoroughly all the corners of the room, and behind the window-curtains, to make sure that no one was concealed there. He wished to be entirely undisturbed with the poor woman whose face he had not yet beheld, but toward whom he felt himself attracted by a singular, inexplicable sensation. As soon as he was convinced that he was quite alone, he went to her with flushed cheeks and a beating heart, and unveiled her.

But scarcely had he cast his eyes on her, when he uttered a cry, and staggered back with horror. This woman who lay there before him, lifeless and motionless, pale and beautiful as a broken flower, was none other than Elise Gotzkowsky, his beloved! He stood and stared at her; he pressed his hands to his forehead as if to rouse himself from this spell which had hold of him, as if to open his eyes to truth and reality. But it was no dream, no illusion. It was herself, his own Elise. He approached her, seized her hand, passed his hands over her glossy hair, and looked at her long and anxiously. His blood rushed like a stream of fire to his heart, it seethed and burned in his head, in his veins; and, quite overcome, he sank down before her.

"It is she," murmured he softly, "it is Elise. Now she is mine, and no one can take her from me. She belongs to me, my wife, my beloved. Fate itself bears her to my arms, and I were a fool to let her escape again."

With passionate impetuosity he pressed her to his heart, and covered her lips and face with his kisses. But the violence of his affection aroused Elise. Slowly and stunned she raised herself in his arms, and looked around, as if awakened from a dream. "Where am I?" asked she, languidly.

Feodor, still kneeling before her, drew her more closely to his heart. "You are with me," said he, passionately, and as he felt her trembling in his arms, he continued still more warmly: "Fear nothing; my Elise, look not so timidly and anxiously about you. Look upon me, me, who am lying at your feet, and who ask nothing more from Fortune than that this moment should last an eternity."

Elise scarcely understood him. She was still stunned—still confused by the dreams of her swoon. She passed her hand over her forehead, and let it drop again list-less and powerless. "My senses are confused," whispered she in a low voice, "I do not hear; what has happened to me?"

"Do not ask, do not inquire," cried Feodor, ardently. "Think only that love has sent an angel to you, on whose wings you have reposed on your passage hither to me. Why will you ask after the nature of the miracle, when the miracle itself brings delight to our eyes and hearts? Therefore, fear nothing, gentle, pure being. Like an angel do you come to me through the deluge of sin. You bear the olive-branch of peace, and love and happiness are before us."

But as he was about to press her still more closely to his heart, a shudder pervaded her whole frame. "Oh, now, I recollect," she cried, vehemently; "now I know all! I was alone in the garden. There came those terrible men. They seized me with their rude hands. They wounded my heart with their horrible looks, which made me shudder. Whither have they brought me? where am I?"

"You are with me," said Feodor, carrying her hand to his lips.

For the first time, then, she looked at him—for the first time, she recognized him. A deep blush of joy suffused her cheeks, and an angelic smile beamed on her lips. She felt, she knew nothing further than that her lover was at her side, that he was not dead—that he was not lost to her. With an outcry of delight she threw herself into his arms, and greeted the lost, the found one, with warm and happy words of love. She raised her eyes and hands to heaven. "Oh, my God, he lives!" cried she, exultingly. "I thank Thee, God, I thank Thee. Thou hadst pity on my sufferings."

"Love protected me," said Feodor, gazing at her passionately. "Love saved me by a miracle. Still more miraculously, it brings you to my arms. Fear not, Elise. No other eye than mine has seen you. No one knows your name. That sweet secret, is only known to Love and ourselves."

Elise trembled. This imprudent speech woke her out of the stupor which had so long had possession of her; it recalled her to the world, and dispelled the charm which his presence, his looks, and his words had thrown around her. She was now aroused, and hurried from a state of dreamy delight to one of cruel and dread reality. The ray of joy faded from her cheek, the smile died on her lips, and, extricating herself forcibly from his arms, she stood before him in her pride and anger. "Feodor," said she, terrified, "you sent those fearful men! You caused me to be kidnapped!" With an angry, penetrating glance, she looked at Feodor, who sank his eyes in confusion to the ground.

As she saw this, she smiled contemptuously, and her injured maiden honor overcame her love and tenderness. "Ah! now I understand!" said she, with cutting scorn. "I have been told of the hunt after human beings which is carried on in the town. Colonel Feodor von Brenda plays a worthy part in this game!"

Feodor wished to approach her and take her hand, but she repulsed him sternly. "Do not touch me," cried she, haughtily; "do not seek to take my hand. You are no longer he whom I love. You are a kidnapper. But let me tell you, though you have compelled my body to suffer this dishonorable deed, yet my soul remains free, and that despises you!"

It was a splendid sight to see her in her noble wrath, which seemed to elevate her whole frame, and drive a deep glow to her cheeks.

Feodor looked at her with ardent gaze. Never had he seen her so fascinating, so charmingly beautiful. Even her wrath delighted him, for it was a token of her purity and innocence.

He wanted again to draw near to her, to take her to his heart, but she drew back in pride and anger. "Go," said she, "I have nothing to do with a man who violates the most sacred laws of human honor, and like a vile thief sneaks in to destroy innocence." Her voice failed her, her eyes filled with tears, but she shook them from her. "I weep," said she, "but not for grief, nor yet for love; anger it is alone which extorts tears from me, and they are bitter—far more bitter than death." And as she thus spoke, she pressed her hands to her face, and wept bitterly.

Feodor passed his arm gently around her trembling form. In the excess of her grief she did not feel it. "No, Elise," said he, "you weep because you love me. You weep because you think me unworthy of your love. But before you condemn me, listen to me. I swear to you by the memory of my mother, the only woman in whom, besides yourself, I ever believed, that I had no part in this treachery which has been committed toward you. You must believe me, Elise! Look at me, beloved one—I can bear your looks. I dare raise my eyes to you. I am not guilty of this crime."

Her hands glided slowly from her face, and she looked at him. Their looks met, and rested for a long time on each other. She read in his eyes that he was innocent, for love is confiding, and she loved him. With a charming smile she extended both hands toward him, and he read in her looks the words of love and tenderness which her timid lips did not dare give expression to.

Feodor drew her warmly to his heart. "You believe me," cried he, passionately; and as he raised her with irresistible strength in his arms, he murmured low, "Now let us enjoy the sacred hour of happiness without inquiring what divinity we have to thank for it."

But the instinct of modesty prevailed over love. "No," cried she, as she struggled out of his arms, trembling with excitement—"no, Feodor, it is no hour of happiness in which my honor and good name are to be buried—no hour of happiness when scandal can tell from mouth to mouth how a German maiden let herself be carried into the Russian camp, and shamelessly rushed into the arms of dishonor; for so will they tell it, Feodor. No one will believe that you had no hand in this outrage. The world never believes in innocence. Whoever is accused is already condemned, even if the judge's sentence should a thousand times pronounce him innocent, No, they will point at me with the finger of scorn, and with an exultant laugh will say to each other, 'Behold the barefaced woman who deserted to the Russians, and revelled with her lover, while her native town was groaning amidst blood and tears. Look at the rich man's child, who is so poor in honor!'"

Deeply moved by her own words, she drew herself up still more in the power of her dignity and innocence, and gazed at Feodor with flashing eyes. "Count Feodor von Brenda," cried she, firmly, "will you allow your bride to be suspected and defamed? that a stain should be allowed to rest upon the name of her who is to become your wife?"

In her proud excitement she did not perceive the rapid motion of his lips, nor the blush of shame which suffused his cheeks; she remarked not that he cast down his eyes and spoke to her with broken and trembling voice.

"Elise," said he, "you are beside yourself. Your excited fancy paints every thing to you in sombre colors. Who will dare to defame you? Who knows that you are here?"

"But the whole world will know it. Scandal has a thousand tongues to spread evil reports. Feodor, let me go. You say that no one knows that I am here; then no one will know that I go. Be merciful with me, let me go!"

"No," cried he, almost rudely. "I will not let you. You ask what is impossible. I were a fool if I were thus madly to cast the happiness away which I would fain purchase with my heart's blood. Twice have I risked my life to see you, to be able to kneel for one happy, undisturbed hour at your feet, and gaze on you, and intoxicate myself with that gaze. And now you ask that I shall voluntarily give up my happiness and you!"

"My happiness! my happiness! yes, even my life I ask you to preserve by letting me go hence, and return to my father's house," cried Elise, eagerly.

As she perceived that he shook his head in refusal, and met his wild, passionate looks, reading in them that she might expect no mercy from him, her anger flashed forth. Imploringly she raised her arms to heaven, and her voice sounded full and powerful: "Feodor, I swear to you by God in heaven, and the memory of my mother, that I will only become the wife of that man whom I follow of my free will out of the house of my father. I am capable of leaving my father's house; but it must be my own free choice, my free determination."

"No," said Feodor, wildly; "I will not let you go. You are mine, and you shall remain."

Elise drew nearer to him with bashful tenderness. "You must let me go now, in order one of these days to demand your pure wife from out her father's house," said she. There was something so touching, so confiding in her manner that Feodor, against his will, felt himself overcome by it; but even while submitting to this fascination he was almost ashamed of himself, and deep sadness filled his soul.

Silently they stood opposite to each other, Elise looking at him with tenderness, yet with fear—he his head bowed, wrestling with his own heart. Suddenly this silence was interrupted by a loud and violent knocking at the door. The voices of his wild companions and mad comrades were calling out loudly Feodor's name, and demanding, with vehement impetuosity, the opening of the closed door. Feodor turned pale. The thought that his Elise, this young, innocent, and modest girl, should be exposed to the insolent gaze of his riotous companions, irritated him.

Casting his angry glances around the room to seek for a hiding-place in which to conceal Elise, he perceived that this was in vain, that no escape was possible. Sadly he sank his head upon his breast, and sighed. Elise understood him; she comprehended her disconsolate and Desperate position.

"There is then no place where I can hide myself?" said she in despair. "Shame awaits me. The whole world will know that I am here!"

Outside the officers raged still louder, and demanded with more violent cries the opening of the door. Feodor still looked around him for a secret place. Nowhere was there a possibility of hiding her, or letting her escape unnoticed. His infuriated companions threatened to break the door in.

Feodor now with determination seized the large shawl which had previously enveloped Elise's form, and threw it over her face. "Well then," said he, "let them come; but woe to him who touches this cloth!"

He pressed the veiled maiden down in a chair, and, hastening to the door, drew back the bolt.

* * * * *



CHAPTER IX.

MISTRESS OR MAID.

As Feodor opened the door, his comrades rushed screaming and laughing uproariously into the room, spying round eagerly for the poor woman, the noble game which they had hunted down.

When they perceived Elise seated in a chair, veiled and motionless just as they had left her, they gave vent to a cry of delight, and began to explain to the colonel in a most confused jumble, often interrupted by bursts of laughter and merry ejaculations, the cause of their stormy interruption. A young man, they said, had just come inquiring after a young lady who had been carried off by the Cossacks. He had insisted upon seeing Colonel Feodor von Brenda, in order to offer a ransom for the captive lady.

"We have come to inform you of this," said Lieutenant von Matusch, "so that you may not let her go too cheap. This is the richest haul we have made yet."

"The daughter of the rich Gotzkowsky!" cried another officer.

"She'll have to pay a tremendous ransom," shouted Major von Fritsch.

Feodor exclaimed, with assumed astonishment, "That woman there the daughter of Gotzkowsky! Why, don't you know, my friends, that I lived for a long time in Berlin, and am intimately acquainted with the beautiful and brilliant daughter of the rich Gotzkowsky? I can assure you that they do not resemble each other in a single feature."

The officers looked at one another with amazement and incredulity. "She is not Gotzkowsky's daughter? But the young man told us that he came from Mr. Gotzkowsky."

"And from that you draw the conclusion that this is his daughter whom you have caught," cried Feodor, laughing. "Where is this man?"

Lieutenant von Matusch opened the door, and on the threshold appeared the serious figure of Bertram. He had fulfilled the vow which he had made to himself, and carefully and attentively watched and guarded every step of Elise; and while Gotzkowsky was absent from home night and day faithfully serving his country, Bertram had been a vigilant sentinel over his daughter. Indeed, Gotzkowsky's house had been, to all appearance, perfectly safe; it was the sanctuary and refuge of all the unfortunate, the only secure place where they could bestow their valuables. Russian sentinels stood before the house, and Tottleben's adjutant had his residence in it. But this security only applied to the house. As long as Elise kept herself within-doors, Bertram had no fear. But there was the large garden in which she loved to roam for hours together, and especially her favorite resort at the extreme end of the same, not far from the wall, which was so easy to climb.

Bertram had not ventured to restrain Elise from visiting this solitary and secluded spot, but he had followed her on her visits to it. There, hidden behind some tree he had, with the patience and perseverance of which love alone is capable, watched the young girl, who was neither desirous of nor grateful for guardianship. This very day he had followed her softly and unperceived into the garden. Then, when he had ascertained whither she directed her steps, he had returned into the house to complete some important business of Gotzkowsky. But impelled by anxious and unaccountable restlessness, he had hastened back into the garden; at a distance he heard Elise's cry for help, and, rushing forward, had come up just in time to see her raised over the wall by the Cossacks.

Stunned by horror at this sight, Bertram stood for a moment motionless. He then felt but one desire, one resolve, and that was—to rescue her. He hurried to the house for the purpose of proceeding to General Tottleben and invoking his assistance and support. But a sudden and painful thought arrested his steps.

Suppose that Elise had not gone against her will? Suppose that this had been a preconcerted abduction to which the semblance of violence had only been given in order, in case of failure, to maintain Elise's reputation free from stain?

With a sigh of anguish he recalled to mind when Elise had hidden her lover in her bedchamber that night when Gotzkowsky had delivered Feodor over to the Austrians. Since then father and daughter had not met, and no word of reproach had passed Elise's lips. But Bertram understood that Gotzkowsky's cruel and relentless sacrifice of her lover had forever estranged the heart of his daughter from him; that this hard though just deed had torn asunder the last link which bound her to him.

Elise could have learned just as well as Bertram had that Feodor had been accidentally saved. Her lover himself could have sent her this information, and she, who in the bitterness of her grief had torn herself loose from her father, might not have had the strength to withstand his ardent prayers. Perhaps in her sense of bereavement, trusting to her love, she might have found the sad courage to brave not only her father, but the judgment and scorn of the world, in order to be united to her lover.

Such thoughts as these arrested Bertram's steps, and compelled him to reflection. Only one thing was positive—he must save her at every hazard, even against her will, even if he should reap, as the sole reward of his devoted love, her aversion; he must save her from her own passionate, foolish heart, or from the wild lust of the unprincipled man to whom she trusted her innocence, her youth, and beauty.

But this duty he had to perform alone; he dared not trust any one with his secret, for fear of thereby defeating the object he had in view, and, instead of saving, bringing disgrace upon her. His resolve was formed. He must seek her out. He must penetrate to where she was, even if hid behind a wall of Russian soldiers. Faithful and unselfish as ever, she should find him at her side, ready to protect her against every attack, every danger, even from her own inexperience or the reckless passion of her lover. Especially above all things, her abduction must remain a secret. To her maidens, therefore, Bertram said, that their young mistress had withdrawn into her room, and shut herself in, in order, after so many sleepless nights, to enjoy a little rest. The same information he left behind for Gotzkowsky, and, providing himself with weapons, he betook himself to the search for Elise. In the first place, he naturally directed his steps to the dwelling of Colonel von Brenda. Here he learned that the latter was not at home, but had gone to an entertainment at the mess-room of his regiment. Thither he hastened, firmly resolved to overcome all obstacles, and in spite of every refusal to see the colonel, and read in his countenance whether he were an accomplice of the crime committed, or whether Elise had followed him of her own free will.

At first, he had been obstinately refused admittance; then in his despair and anguish he had made use of Gotzkowsky's name, a golden key to open the doors, as he well knew. In fact, scarcely had the gold-greedy Russian officers ascertained that the young stranger came as a messenger from Gotzkowsky and wished to inquire of Count von Brenda, after a young lady who had been carried off by the Cossacks, than with a yell of delight they rushed toward the door of the room in which were Feodor and the captured maiden. Bertram had, therefore, to thank the avarice of the Russian officers that the door was opened and he was allowed to enter.

As Bertram appeared on the threshold of the room a scream escaped the lips of the female, and he was enabled, notwithstanding the concealment, to recognize her whom he sought. His heart was convulsed with pain, and his impulse for a moment was, to rush upon this audacious, dissolute young man who stood next to Elise, to murder him, and revenge in his blood the disgrace he had brought upon her. But remembering the sacred duty he had undertaken of protecting Elise and concealing her flight as far as possible, he controlled his anger and grief, and forced himself to appear calm and collected.

Elise, in the mean while, with joyful emotion recognized Bertram. His unexpected and unlooked-for appearance did not surprise her, it seemed so natural to her that whenever danger threatened he should appear as her protector and savior. She had such confidence in Bertram's appearance whenever she stood in need of him, that when she saw him, she looked upon herself as saved, and protected from every danger which threatened her. She motioned Feodor to her side, and with a touch of triumphant pride, said to him, "It is Bertram, the friend of my youth. He has risked his life to save me from dishonor." Feodor felt the reproof which lay in the intonation of these words, and his brow grew dark. But he overcame this momentary irritation, and turning to Bertram, who was approaching him with a firm and determined step, asked him, "Well, sir, whom do you seek?"

"A young girl who has been carried off by force," replied Bertram, and he regarded the young man with angry looks. But Feodor met his glance with firmness and composure. "It is true," said he, "such an outrage has been committed; some Cossacks kidnapped a young girl in a garden and brought her here. I myself will inform the general of this dishonorable deed, for you understand, sir, that this outrage is an insult to us as well as to yourself. I have promised my protection to this young person, and I am ready to defend her against any one who dares to touch her honor or to doubt her virtue. Come, now, sir, and see whether this he the same young girl whom you seek."

He stepped toward Bertram, and as he led him to Elise, he whispered rapidly in a low tone. "Be silent, and do not betray her name, for Elise's honor is at stake."

He raised the veil, and, pointing to Elise's abashed and blushing countenance, he asked, with a derisive laugh, "Well, now, do you recognize her? Will you swear that this is Gotzkowsky's daughter?"

Bertram looked at him with assumed surprise. "Gotzkowsky's daughter?" asked he, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, it is the young lady herself who sent me, and no one is looking for her."

Colonel Feodor turned with a laugh of triumph toward his comrades. "Did I not tell you so?" cried he. "You credulous fools were hoping to get half a million ransom, and I have been bargaining with her for the last hour for a hundred dollars. She swears, with tears in her eyes, that she is not worth a hundred pence. Gotzkowsky's daughter, indeed! Do you imagine that she goes about in a plain white dress, without any ornament or any thing elegant about her? She is just as fond of dress as our own princesses and pretty women, and, like them, the daughter of the rich Gotzkowsky is never visible except in silk and velvet, with pearls diamonds. Oh! I would like myself to catch the millionnaire's daughter, for then we might bargain for a decent ransom."

"But who, then, is this woman?" roared the disappointed officers. "Why does the rich Gotzkowsky send after her, if she is not his daughter?"

"Who is she?" cried Feodor, laughing. "Well, I will tell you, as you attack so much importance to it. You have been served like the seekers after hidden treasure. You have been seeking for gold, and, instead, you have only found coals to burn your fingers. You sought after the millionnaire, the rich heiress, and, instead of her, you have only caught her—chambermaid."

"A chambermaid!" growled out his comrades, and turning their dark, lowering looks on Bertram, they inquired of him whether this woman were only a chambermaid in Gotzkowsky's house, and assailed him with reproaches and curses because he had deluded them into the belief that Gotzkowsky's daughter had been captured.

"If we had not thought so, we would not have let you in," cried Lieutenant von Matusch. "It was not worth while making so much fuss about a little chambermaid."

"It was just for that very reason," replied Bertram, "and because I knew that you would not otherwise help me, that I let you believe it was Gotzkowsky's daughter whom you had captured; otherwise you would never have let me come near Colonel von Brenda. And Mademoiselle Gotzkowsky had expressly directed me to apply to that gentleman, and I did so. You can understand my doing so, when I inform you that this young girl is my sister!"

Feodor turned himself to Elise with an expression of anger on his countenance. "Is this true?"

"It is true!" cried she, reaching her hand out to Bertram, with a look of heartfelt gratitude. "He is my brother, my faithful brother!"

But, as she read in Feeder's darkened countenance the marks of ill-concealed anger and jealousy, she turned toward her lover with a rare, sweet smile. "Oh," said she, "there is nothing nobler, nothing more sacred and unselfish, than the love of a brother."

Feodor's searching look seemed to penetrate into the inmost recesses of her heart. Perhaps he read all the love, innocence, and strength that lay therein, for his brow cleared up, and his looks resumed their open cheerfulness. Quickly he took Bertram's hand and laid it in Elise's. "Well, then," said he, "you happy pair, take each other's hands, and thank God that the danger is over. We have nothing to do with young and pretty girls—we only want rich ones. Go!"

"No, no," cried the officers, "not at all, not without ransom!" Saying which, they pressed noisily and angrily nearer, raising their clinched fists. "She must pay, or we will keep her!"

"Dare one of you touch her?" cried Feodor, drawing his sword, and placing himself in front of Elise.

"I have come to fetch my sister," said Bertram, turning to the officers, "but I knew very well that you would not let her go unless her ransom were paid. I therefore brought all my little portion with me. Take this purse full of ducats, and let it pay for her."

A cry of triumph was the answer from the soldiers as they drew Bertram toward the table that he might count out the money. While they were dividing it among themselves, talking loudly and laughing merrily, Feodor remained standing at Elise's side, neither daring to break the impressive silence. Their souls communed with each other, and they needed not words nor outward signs. At last, after a long pause, Feodor asked—

"Are you satisfied now, Elise?"

She answered him with a sweet smile, "I am thine forever!"

"And will you never forget this hour?"

"I will not forget it. I will remember that I have sworn to follow you voluntarily from my father's house, even against his will." And letting her blushing face droop upon her breast, she whispered, in a voice scarcely audible—"I await you!"

But these words, low as they had been spoken, reached the ears of two men at the same time. Not only Colonel Feodor, but also Bertram, who had drawn close up to Elise again, had overheard them. The first they filled with emotions of delight, the other with painful anguish. Bertram, however, was accustomed to wrestle with his love, and smother the expression of his pain, under the appearance of quiet composure. He approached Elise, and offered her his hand, said, "Come sister, let us go."

"Yes, go," said the colonel, with the proud superiority of a preferred rival. He extended his hand to Bertram, and continued, "Be a good brother to her, and conduct her safely home."

Bertram's countenance, usually so quiet and calm, assumed for an instant an offended and almost contemptuous air, and bitter words were on his tongue; but his angry eye accidentally met Elise's, anxiously and imploringly directed toward him. He could not master himself sufficiently to accept Feodor's hand, but at least he could control his anger. "Come, sister," said he, gently leading Elise toward the door which the colonel indicated to him by a silent nod.

Elise had not the courage to leave her lover without a word of farewell; or rather, she was cruel enough to inflict this torture on Bertram. Stretching both hands toward him, she said softly, "I thank you, Feodor; God and love will reward you for having greatly and nobly conquered yourself."

Feodor whispered to her, "And will you remember your vow?"

"Ever and always!"

In bending over to kiss her hand, he murmured, "Expect me, then, to-morrow."

"I will expect you," said she, as she passed him on her way to the door.

No word of their whispered conversation escaped the attentive ear of Bertram; and he understood it, for he loved her, and knew how to read her thoughts in her looks and her eyes. As he followed her through the long corridor, and her light, graceful figure floated before him like a vision, a deep, despairing melancholy settled on his heart, and he murmured to himself, "To-morrow she expects him!" But with desperate determination he continued to himself, "Well, then, woe to him if I find him going astray!"

* * * * *



CHAPTER X.

AN UNEXPECTED ALLY.

Thanks to Bertram's forethought and caution, he had succeeded in restoring Elise to her father's house, without her absence having been remarked, or having occasioned any surmise. In the close carriage in which they performed the journey home, they had not exchanged a word; but leaning hack on the cushions, each had rest and repose after the stormy and exciting scenes they had just passed through. Elise's hand still rested on Bertram's, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps because she had not the courage to withdraw it from him to whom she owed so much gratitude.

Bertram felt the feverish warmth of this trembling hand, and as he looked at her and remarked the paleness of her cheeks, the painful twitching of her lips, he was overcome by a feeling of deep wretchedness, of pitying sadness, and was obliged to turn his head away to conceal his tears from her.

When the carriage stopped, and he accompanied her into the house, Elise pressed his hand more firmly, and turned her gaze upon him with a look of deep gratitude, which made his heart palpitate with a mixture of delight and anguish. He wished to withdraw, he wished to let her hand go, but she held his still more firmly clasped, and drew him gently up the steps. Powerless with emotion, he followed her.

As they entered the hall which led to her room, she cast a searching look around to see if any one were present, and perceiving that they two were alone, she turned toward Bertram with an indescribable expression. She tried to speak, but the words died on her lips, a deep glow suffused her cheeks, and completely overpowered, and giddy from the tumult of her feelings, she leaned her head on her friend's shoulder.

Gently he passed his arm around her delicate, trembling figure, and his eyes beamed with a pure emotion. In the depth of his heart he renewed to God and himself his vow of fidelity and self-sacrificing love to this poor girl who lay on his bosom like a drooping flower.

Suddenly she raised her head, her face wet with tears and convulsed with deep feeling. "Bertram," she said, "I know that I am not worthy of your noble, generous love, but yet, in my crushed heart, I thank God that I possess it. A time may come when all the thoughts and feelings which now fill my soul will appear as vain dreams and illusions. It may be that some day I will look upon life as a grand delusion, a fruitless striving after happiness and repose. But never, my brother, never will that time come when I can doubt your faithful, pure affection. No power, no other feeling, will ever succeed in supplanting the deep and boundless gratitude which pervades my whole soul and binds me to you forever."

And then it seemed to him as if he felt the breath of an angel wave over his face; as if the dream and desire of his whole life had closed his lips in unexpected bliss; as if the wishes and hopes of his ardent but resigned heart had been fulfilled, and become a delightful reality.

When he recovered from this sweet dream, which for a moment robbed him of his consciousness, Elise had disappeared. But her kiss still glowed on his lips, and seemed to bless and sanctify his whole life.

This stream of happiness lasted but for a short time, and Bertram soon awoke, with a sad sigh, from his delightful fancies, to recall the painful hours he had just gone through, and to say to himself that Elise was lost to him forever, that he never could hope to rescue that heart from the lover to whom she had yielded it with all the devotion of her ardent nature. With a sorrowing heart did he remember the last words of the lovers. She had appointed a meeting for him on the morrow, she expected him, and, braving the anger of her father, had giving him a rendezvous in his house.

As Bertram thought over this, he paced the room up and down, panting with excitement, and wringing his hands. "If Gotzkowsky knew this, he would kill her, or die himself of grief. Die of grief!" continued he, after a pause, completely buried in his sad and bitter thoughts—"it is not so easy to die of grief. The sad heart is tenacious of life, and sorrow is but a slow grave-digger. I have heard that one could die of joy, and it seemed to me just now, when Elise rewarded me with a kiss, that I could understand this. If she only loved me, it were a blessing of God to die, conscious of her love."

Completely overcome by his painful thoughts, he remained for a while motionless and sad. But he soon recovered himself, and shook off the dark cloud which overshadowed his soul. "I am not born to die such a death. It is my destiny not to be happy myself, but to save others from unhappiness. I feel and know that Elise cannot be happy in this love. A loving heart is gifted with prophetic second sight to read the future. Elise can never be happy without her father's blessing, and Gotzkowsky will never give his sanction to this love. How can I lead her past this abyss which threatens to engulf her? May God, who sees my heart, help me! He knows how hopeless and disinterested it is. Help me, Father in heaven! show me some way of saving her noble father from the grief which lies before him."

It seemed as if God had heard his prayer, and taken compassion on his pure, unselfish spirit, and sent him assistance. A loud knocking at the door aroused him suddenly from his gloomy thoughts, and he hastened to open it.

A veiled lady stood there, wrapped in furs, and attended by a servant in rich livery. In fluent French, which it could be perceived, however, was not her native tongue, she inquired whether, as she had been told, Herr von Brink, Tottleben's adjutant, resided there. As Bertram answered this question in the affirmative, but added, that Herr von Brink was in the habit of not returning from the general's quarters before evening, she added, in a decided tone, "Well, then, I will wait for him."

Without deeming Bertram's consent necessary, she entered the hall and motioned to her servant to remain at the door.

After a pause, there ensued between the two one of those superficial, ceremonious conversations, the usual refuge of those who have nothing to say to each other; but the evident uneasiness and confusion of the young lady prevented her from joining freely in it. Her large, bright eyes strayed restlessly around the room. A hectic flush alternated on her cheeks with deathly pallor, and the smile, which occasionally played around her lips, seemed but a painful expression of mental suffering. Suddenly she raised her head, as if determined no longer to bear this constraint, or submit to the fetters of conventionality.

"Sir," said she, in a tone vibrating with excitement and anxiety, "you will excuse my asking you a question, on the answer to which depends my future happiness, my life, indeed—to obtain which I have travelled from St. Petersburg here. I have just left my carriage in which I performed the journey from that city. You can therefore judge how important the cause of this undertaking is to me, and what an influence it may have on my whole existence. Its object lies in the question I am about to put to you."

Bertram took pity on her painful agitation. "Ask" he said, "and, on the honor of a gentleman, I assure you that your question shall be answered truly, and that I am ready to serve you as far as it lies in my power."

"Are you acquainted with General Bachmann's adjutant?" asked she, shortly and hurriedly.

"I am," replied Bertram.

She trembled as in an ague. "I am come to inquire after a man of whom I have not heard for six months. I wish to know whether he is alive, or only dead to me."

"His name?" asked Bertram, with painful misgiving.

Her voice was scarcely audible as she replied: "Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda, of the regiment Bachmann."

Bertram was quite taken aback by this unexpected turn of the conversation, and she continued with great excitement, "You do not answer! oh, have compassion on me, and speak! Is he alive?"

"He is alive, and is here," answered Bertram sadly.

A cry of delight escaped the lips of the lady. "He lives," she exclaimed loudly. "God has then heard my prayer, and preserved him to me."

But suddenly the cheerful smile on her lips died away, and, dropping her head on her breast, she cried, "He is alive, and only dead to me. He is alive, and did not write me!" For a moment she stood in this position, silent and depressed; then drawing herself up erect, her eyes sparkling with passionate warmth, she said: "Sir, I crave your pardon for a poor stranger, who hardly knows what she is doing or saying. I am not acquainted with you, or even your name, but there is something in your noble, calm countenance which inspires confidence."

Bertram smiled sadly. "Fellow-sufferers always feel attracted to each other by a community of feeling. I, too am a sufferer, and it is God's will that our sorrows should spring from a common source. The name you have uttered is but too well known to me."

"You know Colonel Brenda?" she asked.

"I do know him," answered Bertram.

"The count was at one time a prisoner of war," continued the lady. "He visited this house frequently, for I have been told that it belongs to Mr. Gotzkowsky, of whom the colonel wrote me, in the commencement of his captivity, that he received him most hospitably."

"Did he write you any word of Gotzkowsky's handsome daughter?" asked Bertram, looking inquiringly into the countenance of the stranger.

She shuddered, and turned pale. "O Heaven!" she murmured low, "I have betrayed myself!"

Bertram seized her hand, his features evincing deep emotion. "Will you answer me one question?" he asked, and as she bowed her head in silence, he proceeded—"is the Count von Brenda your brother?"

"Oh, sir," she said, with a faint smile, "one does not suffer for a brother as I have suffered for Feodor. I am the Countess Sandomir, and Count Feodor is my betrothed. The good empress herself joined our hands, and blessed our union. A short time after our marriage the war broke out, and deprived me of my lover and husband. For six months I have had no tidings of him, and, tortured by anxiety and apprehension, I resolved to come myself to Germany to seek my betrothed, either to bury or nurse him, for I believed he must be sick or dead, as he did not return to me."

Bertram offered in his heart a prayer of gratitude to God. With feelings of sympathy, he then turned his eyes on the quivering features of the stranger. "Listen to me," said he, gently. "As you entered, I had just prayed to God, in the suffering and sadness of my heart, to show me some way and means of escape from the labyrinth in which Count Brenda has placed us. It would seem as if He has had compassion on us all, for at the very moment he sends you, the affianced bride of the count, and through you alone can we be saved. We must be open and candid toward each other. Therefore, listen to me. I love Gotzkowsky's daughter—I love her without hope, for she loves another."

"And this other?" asked she breathlessly.

"She loves Count Feodor von Brenda, and is about to escape with him."

"Escape!" cried the lady, and her voice sounded threatening and angry, and her eyes flashed. "Oh!" said she, gnashing her teeth, "I will prevent this, even if I kill this girl!"

Bertram shook his head sadly. "Let us rather try to kill this love in her heart. Let us contrive some means of bringing your lover back to you."

"Are there any such means?" asked she, anxiously.

Bertram did not answer immediately. His brow was clouded with deep thought, and a heavy sigh escaped him. He then asked quickly, "Will you follow me and enter into my plot?"

"I will," she said firmly.

"Above all things, then, let us be cautious. Count Feodor must have no suspicion that you are here, for your presence would drive him to some desperate resolve, and I fear Elise loves him sufficiently not to draw back from any thing."

"You are very cruel," murmured the lady. "You know not what torture you are preparing for me."

"If I did not know it, I would not undertake the enterprise that is to serve us both. I have told you that I love Elise, but I have not told you how deep and sacred this love is. I would cheerfully venture my life for her, but now I dare to interfere with her love, and earn her hatred."

"You have, then, already made your plan?"

"I have made my plan, and if you will allow me to escort you to your hotel, I will disclose it to you, so that we may arrange the particulars together."

"Come, then," said she, grasping his hand warmly, "and may God assist us, and restore to you your bride, and to me my lover!"

* * * * *



CHAPTER XI.

THE JEW EPHRAIM.

Much sorrow and tribulation were suffered during this time by the inhabitants of Berlin. But the saddest lot of all fell to the Jews, who were threatened with the greatest danger. In Berlin, as everywhere else, they only led a tolerated, reviled, and derided existence. They possessed no rights, only duties; no honor, only insults; no dignities, but humiliation and disgrace. Now they were called on to give up the last and only thing which shed some gleam of brightness on their poor, down-trodden existence—their gold and their treasures.

The Russian commander had imposed upon the Jewish community in Berlin a special tax; and as they hesitated about paying it, and declared themselves incapable of raising such a large sum, General von Tottleben had the three elders of the Jews arrested and strictly guarded in the Vincenti House in Brueder Street.

But who could despise or blame the poor Jews for not wishing to give up their gold? Gold was to them a condition of existence, their future, their happiness, their family. Gold enabled some of them to raise themselves from the dust and degradation to which the cruel severity of Christian charity had condemned them, and to indulge in human aspirations, human happiness, and human feelings. Only those among them who possessed wealth were tolerated, and dared hope by strenuous industry, ceaseless activity, and fortunate speculation, to amass sufficient fortune to found a family or beget children. The happiness of domestic life was only allowed to them on condition of their being rich.

Frederick the Great had learned with indignation that the Jewish families in Berlin far exceeded the number of one hundred and fifty-two allowed by law, and that there were fifty-one too many. Consequently a stringent decree was issued that they should no longer be counted by families, but by heads, and that when the poll exceeded the permitted number, the poorest and lowest of them should be shipped off.[1] Gold was therefore to the rich Jew a certificate of naturalization, while the poorer ones had no certainty of a home. They could at any moment be turned off, driven out of Berlin, if a richer one should by his wealth and trading acquire the right to take to himself a wife, and by her have a child. But even he, the rich one, could only have one child; only one child was allowed to him by law. For one child only could he obtain legal protection, and only in exceptional cases, as when their factories and firms succeeded remarkably well, did the king, in the fulness of his grace, allow a second child to inherit its guardianship.[2]

Of what avail, then, was it to the poor Jews to have toiled and worked so hard, driven by the necessity of paying the hateful Jewish poll-tax, and thereby procuring for themselves a temporary toleration? At any moment they could be driven off in case the rich Ephraim or the rich David Itzig, in the arrogance of their wealth, should venture to give to the world more than one child, and purchase for the sum of three thousand dollars another certificate of protection for the second! Of what avail was their wealth even to the rich Jews Ephraim and Itzig? They were nevertheless under the ban of their proscribed race. No privileges, no offices existed for them. They could only build factories or carry on commerce. All other paths of life, even agriculture and horticulture, were forbidden to them. And now they were called on to give up to the Russians their very life, the nerve of their existence, the heart which carried blood and warmth to their entire organization—their money.

Ephraim and Itzig were rich and powerful in Berlin; they could build houses, found factories, and even determine the value of money, for the mint was in their hands. They had farmed it from the king, and paid him an enormous rent for the same, which had increased each year, and in 1760 amounted to seven millions. But, thanks to this farming, the value of money had increased exorbitantly. Twenty dollars were paid for a Frederick d'or, and five-and-thirty for the mark of fine silver. Owing to the labors of these Jewish lessees, there were many millions of light money, many millions of bad eight-groschen pieces, which, to this day, are known by the name of Ephraimites, and whose repudiation at a later period ruined many thousands of honest, worthy tradesmen, while Ephraim and Itzig became wealthy and powerful thereby. Yet it was now this same money which brought misfortune to them, and was the cause of their suffering and mortal anxiety; for General Tottleben had threatened that if the Jews could not pay the tax imposed on them, he would take the mint farmers with him as hostages, and destroy their factories. Besides this, he had, as we said before, arrested their elders and sworn to send them to Siberia, if the Jews did not pay.

The payment was to be made in three days. But the three days had elapsed, and they had not been able to raise the money which was demanded of them. In this dire extremity, the two mint-contractors remembered the man whom they had hitherto most cordially hated, and whose ruin was the cherished wish of their life. They now recollected that John Gotzkowsky was the only man who, in the generosity and kindness of his heart, was capable of forgetting their former insults and injuries, and of remembering only their need and misery. They determined, therefore, to apply to him, and request his intercession and assistance, but they did this with a bitter sigh, for they felt the hatred and grudge which they nursed in their hearts toward him become only more intense and stronger.

"Who would have thought it?" said Ephraim, as, by the side of Itzig, and accompanied by some of the most wealthy Jewish merchants, he took the road to Gotzkowsky's dwelling—"who would have thought it? The powerful Russian General von Tottleben is the friend of Gotzkowsky, and the greatest men among our people are now obliged to go to Gotzkowsky's house to implore his influence and protection."

"Yes," sighed the rich merchant David, "we are obliged to apply to him to befriend us, and yet what is he compared to you? You are much richer than he is."

"Silence, unfortunate man!" cried Ephraim with a shudder, as he looked shyly around. "I am poor, and for that reason can pay nothing. I am poor, as all of us wretched Jews are. Have we not to contribute the greater portion of the war-tax? Are not all our means exhausted? Is that not enough?"

"Too much!" groaned Itzig, who till now had walked in melancholy contemplation at Ephraim's other side. "It is too much. Are we then treated like human beings? Have we any rights? Only when we have to pay, do they remember that we have the right of giving up our hard-earned property. If the Jew has no money, is he not at least a man, say I?"

"Pshaw! a man!" cried Ephraim. "Whoever is without money is no man, be he Jew or Christian. If Gotzkowsky had no money, he would be no better than we are. Why does the Russian general have any thing to do with him? Because he is rich. Why do the counts and lords pay court to him? For the same reason. Why do they call his daughter an angel, and swear she is the handsomest woman in Berlin? Because her father is the richest Christian merchant in the town. The whole world knows and admires him. And why? Because he is rich."

"No one is rich," said Itzig, shaking his head. "He who has not every thing is not rich. There is no such thing as riches, for he who has much has to give much."

"God knows we will have to give much!" whimpered Ephraim, and all his companions joined in with groans and sighs as a chorus to his speech. "They mean to take every thing from us that we own, and Itzig is right; if the Jew has not money, he is nobody. Have we not suffered as much as others? Have we not protected our people, and fed and housed our poor? No one talks about these things, but the whole town talks about Gotzkowsky. They praise him, they exalt him; they cry out his name everywhere, so that one's heart actually burns for vexation. And yet at the highest calculation he is not worth more than a million."

"He is worth more than ourselves; he is worth much more, for he has the favor of the Russian general. For this reason we must bow down before him, and flatter him, and assure him of our eternal gratitude, for it is a question not of life, but what is more precious than life—money."

With deep-drawn sighs they whined out, "Yes, we must bow to him, and flatter him, and yet we are richer than he is."

As long as they were on the street they maintained an air of pride and vexation; but as soon as they entered Gotzkowsky's house and stood in his presence, they were all gentleness, humility, and friendliness. With tears they implored Gotzkowsky to have pity, and to beg General Tottleben to have compassion on them. They vowed eternal gratitude to him, and swore with solemn oaths that if he succeeded in relieving the Jews from the special impost, they would love him forever, and be everlastingly thankful to him.

Gotzkowsky smiled in pity. "That means that you would feel yourselves under obligations to me, and, if ever you got me in your power, you would take the opportunity to ruin me. But that is of no consequence to me. This impost is a crying injustice, and therefore will I plead for you, for it never shall be said that Gotzkowsky suffered an injustice to be done when he could prevent it. Go home in peace, for, if I can, I will help you."

"How arrogant this man is!" said Itzig, when they had left the house. "One would suppose that he had all virtue and honor on lease, just as we have the mint."

"And if he has," said Ephraim with a laugh, "if he has the monopoly of virtue and honor, it is only to trade on. No doubt his speculation will turn out just as profitably as ours with the mint. No doubt he will coin it into light eight-groschen pieces, cheat the people with them, and make more than his expenses, as we have done."

"But woe be unto him," growled Itzig, "if any light coin of his virtue come into my hands! I will throw them back into his face till blood flows, and I will never forgive him that this day we have had to stand before him begging and pleading. If he ever comes to grief, I will remember it. If the Jew has no money, he is nobody. Well, we will see what Gotzkowsky is worth without money. Let me tell you we will all of us live to see that day. He has too much stupid generosity, which some day or other will run away with his purse, and then there will be a grand blow-up, honor and virtue and all, sky high. Then there will be no more talk about the great Gotzkowsky and his virtue and all that. Oh! I do so rejoice over that time a-coming. But in the mean time I am so very glad that Gotzkowsky can be of some service to us!"

[Footnote 1: Buesching's Travels, 1780.]

[Footnote 2: "Annals of the Jews in the Prussian States," Berlin.—UNGER.]

* * * * *



CHAPTER XII.

THE RUSSIAN GENERAL AND THE GERMAN MAN.

Scarcely had the Jewish deputation left Gotzkowsky's house, before he betook himself, full of the important information received from General Bachmann, to General Tottleben's residence, fully determined to venture every thing to prevent the execution of the cruel order which threatened the factories and other branches of industry. But this was not the sole object which led him there. He went there as a representative of the whole town. Every one who needed assistance applied to him, and to each one he had promised to intercede for him. Laden with petitions and commissions from the magistracy, the merchants, and the citizens of Berlin, he entered the Russian general's quarters. Deeply inspired with the importance of his commission, he traversed the halls which led to the general's private apartments, saying to himself, "This is the most important mission I have ever undertaken, for the welfare of the whole town depends upon it—a million dollars depend upon every word I may utter. Many a struggle have I had in these days, but this is the hardest of them all, and victory hangs on my tongue."

With beaming countenance and sparkling eyes, with his whole being animated with the sacredness of his office, he entered the cabinet of the Russian general. Tottleben did not offer him, as heretofore, a friendly welcome. He did not even raise his eyes from the dispatches which he was in the act of reading, and his contracted brows and the whole expression of his countenance was such as to discourage any petition or pleading. At this moment General von Tottleben was a true Russian, and, thanks to General Fermore's dispatches, he had succeeded in suppressing his German sympathy. At least he flattered himself that he had, and for that reason he avoided meeting Gotzkowsky's clear, bright eye.

Without taking any notice, he finished reading the papers, and then rose and walked about the room. After a while he seemed as if by accident to perceive Gotzkowsky's presence, and stopped short. "Have you come back already?" he asked in a sullen, grumbling tone. "I know very well that you have returned to beg for all sorts of useless trash; I can't bear such eternal begging and whining—a pitiful rabble that is all the time creeping to our feet."

"Yes, your excellency, it is nothing but a poor, pitiful rabble," said Gotzkowsky with a smile; "and for this very reason the Russians are despised all over Europe. Toward the high and mighty they behave like fawning hounds, and toward the low and humble they are rude and arrogant."

"I am not speaking of the Russians," cried the general, as he turned his lowering countenance toward Gotzkowsky, "I am speaking of you. All day long you have done nothing but beg and demand."

But Gotzkowsky met him with quiet and smiling composure. "Pardon, your excellency, it is you who demand; and because you are all the time demanding, I must all the time be begging. And, in fact, I am only begging for yourself."

Tottleben looked at him in inquiring astonishment, but in silence. "I am not begging for favor," continued Gotzkowsky, "but for justice; and if you grant this, why, it is so much gained for you. Then, indeed, the world will esteem you as not only brave, but just; and then only will history honor you as truly great—the equitable and humane conqueror. The Vandals, too conquered by the sword; and if it only depended on mere brute strength, wild bulls would be the greatest generals."

Tottleben cast a fierce, angry look toward him "For that reason," cried he, threateningly, "he is a fool who irritates a wild bull."

Gotzkowsky bowed and smiled. "It is true one should never show him a red cloak. A firm, unterrified countenance is the only way to tame him. The bull is powerless against the mind which beams out of the human eye."

It was very probably the very boldness of this answer which pleased the general, accustomed as he was to Russian servility. His features assumed a softer expression, and he said, in a milder tone: "You are an extraordinary man, and there is no use in contending with you. One is obliged to do whatever you wish. Well, now—quick, out with it—what do you want of me?"

"Justice," said Gotzkowsky. "You gave me your word that your soldiers should not rob nor plunder, and, notwithstanding, they do it."

"That is not true!" thundered the general.

"It is true," replied Gotzkowsky, calmly.

"Who dares to contradict me?" cried Tottleben, trembling with rage, and striding toward Gotzkowsky.

"I dare," answered the latter, "if you call that 'to dare' which is only convincing you of your error. I, myself, have seen your soldiers striking down the flying women with the butts of their muskets, robbing and plundering the houses. Your orders have been but poorly obeyed; and your soldiers almost equal the Austrians in rudeness and violence."