A light smile played over Tottleben's countenance. Gotzkowsky had understood how to soften his anger. "Almost—only," said he, "woe be to my soldiers if they equal the Austrians in rudeness!" With hasty steps he traversed the apartment, and called his adjutant. "Send patrols through the whole town," was his order to the officer as he entered, "and give orders to all the soldiers to maintain strict discipline. Whoever dares to plunder, is guilty of disobedience to military orders, and shall be tried by military law. The gallows for thieves and marauders—say so to my men; they know that General Tottleben keeps his word. Are you satisfied now?" he asked Gotzkowsky, as the adjutant left the room.

"I thank your excellency," said Gotzkowsky, hesitating.

"Thank God that at last you are satisfied, and have nothing more to ask!" cried Tottleben, almost cheerfully.

"But indeed I have a great deal yet to ask, and if you allow me I will ask your excellency a question. You have just issued an order. How high up does this order reach?"

"How high up?" asked the general, surprised.

"I mean does this order which forbids the soldiers from robbing and plundering under pain of death, affect only the common private, or must the higher officers also obey it?"

"I would advise every one to do so," cried Tottleben, with a harsh laugh. "The order is for all."

"Even the highest officers?"

"Not even the generals are excepted." "Then, sir," said Gotzkowsky, drawing himself up and advancing a step toward the general, "I accuse before you an officer who has had the presumption to disobey your general order. You forbid, under severe penalty, robbery and plundering, and yet he is intent on them. You have strictly ordered the army to preserve discipline, and not to ill-treat nor abuse the defenceless, and yet a general is about to do it."

"Who dares that? Give me the name of this general!"

"It is General von Tottleben," answered Gotzkowsky, quietly.

Count Tottleben stepped back and gazed at him in amazement.

Gotzkowsky did not lower his eyes, but met his flashing glance firmly. "Are you beside yourself?" asked the general, after a long pause. "Is your life such a burden to you that you are determined to lose it?"

"If my head were to fall, it would only be a confirmation of what I have asserted—that General von Tottleben issues an order, and does not respect it himself; that while he forbids his soldiers to rob and steal, under penalty of death, even he commits those very offences."

The excess of this boldness had the effect upon the general on which Gotzkowsky had calculated. He had speculated somewhat on the leonine nature of Tottleben's character.

The general, instead of annihilating his foolhardy antagonist, found pleasure in his presumption, and it flattered him that he was esteemed too magnanimous to revenge himself for a few words of insult.

"Look here, my friend, you are so outrageously bold that you make me laugh. For the sake of its rarity, I will hear you out, and try to remain cool. Speak on, then. Accuse me—but woe to you if I justify myself! Fail not to prove what you say."

"The proverb says, 'Small thieves are hung, while great ones go free,'" replied Gotzkowsky, shrugging his shoulders. "You wish to prove the truth of this proverb. The soldier who enters the house for theft and plunder, you condemn; but you acquit the general who devastates a whole town, and in the arrogance of his victory wishes to make himself, like Erostratos, immortal by incendiarism and arson."

"Do not presume too much on my forbearance," interrupted Tottleben, stretching his arm out threateningly toward the bold speaker. "Erostratos was a violator of temples."

"You are not less one!" cried Gotzkowsky; "you mean, with impious hand, to cast a firebrand into the holy temple of labor. Erostratos only destroyed the temple of an imaginary deity; but you, sir, are worse—you wish to destroy factories!"

"Do you know what that means?"

"It means to deprive the poor man of the morsel of bread which, by the sweat of his brow, he has earned for his wife and children! It means to rob him who possesses nothing but the craft of his hands and his body, of his only right—the right to work. You are going to destroy the gold and silver manufactories, to burn the warehouse, to tear down the brass works in the New Town Eberswald! And why all this? Why do you intend to leave behind you this memorial of your vandalism? Because your empress is angry with our king!"

"Because enemies wish to revenge themselves on enemies," interrupted the general.

"Do that!" cried Gotzkowsky, warmly. "Revenge yourself on your enemy, if you consider the destruction of his property a noble revenge. Destroy the king's palaces; rob him, if you choose, of his most ennobling enjoyment! Rob him of his pictures; do like the Saxons, who yesterday destroyed Charlottenburg. Send your soldiers to my house; there hang splendid paintings bought by me in Italy by the king's order. I know that our noble king anticipates much pleasure in carrying them some day to Sans Souci. But revenge yourself, take these pictures, set fire to these noble works of art, but spare what belongs to the poor man!"

He spoke with noble warmth, with glowing eloquence, and against his will Tottleben's German heart was touched, and moved him to clemency and compassion. But he would not listen to it. General Fermore's dispatches lay before him, and compelled him to be harsh.

"You think you speak wisely, and yet you talk nothing but impudent nonsense," said he, with assumed severity. "Who thinks of destroying the poor man's property? The royal property shall be destroyed, and nothing else."

"But the gold and silver manufactories and the warehouse are not the property of the king," said Gotzkowsky quickly. "Not a penny goes thence into the king's treasury."

The general's countenance brightened up considerably. "Not into the king's treasury?" said he; "where, then, does it go?"

"The money, your excellency, which is earned at the gold and silver factories and at the warehouse is devoted to a praiseworthy and touching purpose. Perhaps you are a father—have children; and when you go into battle you think of them, and utter a silent prayer, intrusting them to God's care, and praying that they may not be left orphans."

Count Tottleben muttered some untelligible words, and stretched out his hand deprecatingly. His lips trembled, and to conceal his agitation he turned away.

Gotzkowsky cried out joyously: "Oh, I see in your eyes that you are vainly trying to compel yourself to look at me in anger. Yes, you are a father. Well, then, father, spare the orphans! From the proceeds of the gold and silver factories, and the warehouse, the new, large orphan-house in Potsdam is supported. Oh, you cannot be so cruel as to deprive the poor children, whom the pitiless war has rendered fatherless, of their last support, of their last refuge!"

The general stepped up to him, and grasped his hand. "God be my witness that I will not! But is this so certainly? Do you speak the truth?"

"Yes, it is the truth!"

"Can you swear to it?"

"Yes, with the most sacred oath."

The general paced the room in silence several times, and then, pausing before Gotzkowsky, laid his hand on his shoulder. "Listen," said he. "I have often been reproached at home for being too soft and pitiful. But never mind! I will once more follow my own inclination, and act in spite of the orders which I have received. You must help me. Put all that you have just stated down on paper. Write down that these buildings are not the property of the king, but of the orphan-house. Swear to it with a sacred oath, and affix your signature and seal. Will you do this?"

"Gladly will I do it," cried Gotzkowsky, his face radiant. "Never have I signed my name with a happier heart than I will have when I sign it to this affidavit, which will procure for us both the heart-felt blessings of so many children."

He stepped to the general's writing-table, and, following his direction, seated himself and wrote.

Tottleben in the mean while walked up and down pensively, his arms folded. His features wore a thoughtful and mild expression. No trace of the late angry storm was visible. Once he stopped, and murmured in a low voice: "Orphans one dare not plunder. Elizabeth has a tender heart, and if she learns the reason of my disobedience, she will be content. Yes, my course is the right one."

"I have finished, sir," said Gotzkowsky, standing up and handing him the paper on which he had written.

Tottleben read it over carefully, and laid it alongside of the dispatches to his empress. He then called to his adjutant and ordered him immediately to place strong safeguards over the gold and silver manufactories and the warehouse, and to protect these against any attack.

Gotzkowsky clasped his hands, and directed his eyes to heaven with joyful gratitude, and in the deep emotion of his heart he did not perceive that the general again stood before him, and was looking at him with inquiring sympathy. His voice first awakened him from his reverie. "Are you contented now?" asked Tottleben, in a friendly tone.

"Content, general," said Gotzkowsky, shaking his head, "only belongs to him who lies in his coffin."

Again the general's brow grew dark. "What is troubling you now? Don't hesitate—"

"To speak on, your excellency?" inquired Gotzkowsky, with a gentle smile.

"No—to put yourself in your coffin," answered the other, rudely.

"I have not time for that, as yet," replied Gotzkowsky, sadly. "Both of us, general, have still too much to do. You have to add fresh laurels to your old ones—I have to clear thistles and thorns from the path of my fellow-men."

"Ah! there are more thorns, then?" asked Tottleben, as he sank down into a chair, and regarded Gotzkowsky with evident benevolence.

"A great many yet, sir," answered Gotzkowsky, sighing. "Our whole body is bloody from them."

"Then call on the regimental surgeon to cure you," said Tottleben, with a coarse laugh.

"You only can cure us," said Gotzkowsky, seriously, "for only you are able to inflict such severe wounds. You are not satisfied with having conquered and humiliated us, but you wish to tread us in the dust, and make our cheeks, which were pale with sadness, now redden with shame. You have ordered that the citizens of Berlin should be disarmed. You are a brave soldier, sir, and honor courage above all things. Now, let me ask you, how could you bear to exhibit the certificate of your cowardice? Could you survive it? You look at me in anger—the very question makes you indignant; and if that is your feeling, why would you subject the citizens of Berlin to such disgrace? With our weapons we have fought for our just rights and our liberty. God has willed it that we should be subdued nevertheless, and that you should be the conquerors. But methinks it would redound more to your honor to be the conquerors of honorable men than of cowardly slaves! And when you require of us, the conquered, that we shall give up our manly honor, our weapons, you convert us into abject cowards, and deprive yourselves of all honor in having conquered us. Let us then, sir, keep our weapons; leave us this one consolation, that on our tombstones can be inscribed: 'Freedom died, but with arms in her hand!'" and Gotzkowsky, quite overcome by his painful emotions, leaned back against the wall, breathless, his imploring looks fixed upon the general.

But the latter avoided meeting his eyes, and directed his own darkly toward the ground.

Gotzkowsky perceived the indecision, the wavering of the general, and he felt that he must now risk every thing to overcome his resistance. "Leave us our weapons. Oh, you are a German! spare your German brethren."

Tottleben sprang from his seat as if a venomous snake had stung him. Dark and terrible were his features, his eyes flashed fire, and raising his right hand threateningly, he cried out: "You remind me in an evil hour that I am a German. Germany drove me out to find in a foreign land the appreciation which my own country refused me! Had I been a foreigner, Germany would long ago have proclaimed my fame; but, being the son of the family, the mother drives me out among strangers—and that they call German good-nature!" and he broke out into a bitter, scornful laugh.

"It is but too true," said Gotzkowsky, sadly. "Our mother Germany is fond of sending her greatest sons out from home on their pilgrimage to fame. For her great men she has but the cradle and the grave. But show your unfeeling mother that you are better than she is; prove to her how unjust she has been. Be magnanimous, and leave us our weapons!"

"I cannot, by Heaven! I cannot do it," said Tottleben, sadly, in a low tone. "I must obey the higher authorities above me—the empress and the commander-in-chief, General Fermore. My orders are very strict, and I have already yielded too much. It is written in these dispatches that the arms must be given up."

"The arms?" said Gotzkowsky, hastily. "Yes, but not all arms. Take some of them—we have three hundred inferior rifles—take them, sir, and fulfil the letter of your orders, and save our honor."

General von Tottleben did not answer immediately. Again he paced the room, from time to time casting sharp, piercing glances at Gotzkowsky, whose firmness and animation seemed to please him. He stopped suddenly, and asked in a voice so low that Gotzkowsky was scarcely able to distinguish the words—"Do you think the Germans will praise me, if I do this thing?"

"All Germany will say, 'He was great in victory, still greater in his clemency toward the conquered,'" cried Gotzkowsky, warmly.

The general dropped his head upon his breast in deep meditation. When he raised it again, there was a pleasant smile upon his face. "Well, then, I will do it. I will once more remember that I am a German. Where are the three hundred rifles?"

"In the armory, sir."

The general made no reply, but stepped toward his writing-table hastily. He wrote off a few lines, and then with a loud voice called his adjutant again to him. As the latter entered, he handed him the writing. "Let the disarming take place. There are not more than three hundred muskets. Let the citizens bring them to the Palace Square. There they will be broken up, and thrown into the river."

"O general!" cried Gotzkowsky, his countenance radiant with delight, when the adjutant had left the room, "how I do wish at this moment that you were a woman!"

"I a woman!" cried Count Tottleben, laughing, "why should I be a woman?"

"That I might kiss your hand. Believe me, I never thanked any man so truly and sincerely as I now do you! I am so proud to be able to say, 'Berlin is conquered, but not dishonored!'"

Tottleben bowed amicably toward him. "Now, after this proof of my generosity, the town will hasten to pay its war-tax, will it not?" Then seeing the dark cloud which gathered on Gotzkowsky's brow, he continued with more vehemence, "You are very dilatory in paying. Be careful how you exhaust my patience."

"Pray let me know, sir, when it is exhausted," said Gotzkowsky. "It is cruel to drive an exhausted animal beyond his strength. Do you not think so?"

The general nodded his assent in silence.

"You are of my opinion," cried Gotzkowsky. "Well, then, you will be just, and not exact of this exhausted city, wearied unto death, more than she can perform."

With glowing words and persuasive eloquence he explained to the general how impossible it was for the city to pay the demanded war contribution of four millions.

Tottleben let himself again be persuaded. In the presence of this ardent, eloquent German patriot, his German heart resumed its power, and compelled him to mercy and charitableness. He consented to reduce the tax to two millions of dollars, if Gotzkowsky would guarantee the punctual payment of the bonds given by the body of merchants, and give two hundred thousand of it in cash down, as hush-money to the Austrians.

The latter declared himself gladly willing to accept the orders, and to stand security with his whole fortune for their payment. Both then remained silent, as if fatigued by the long and severe war of words, from which Gotzkowsky had always come out victorious.

The general stood at the window, looking into the street. Perhaps he was waiting for Gotzkowsky to give vent to his warm and delighted gratitude before he took leave. But Gotzkowsky did neither the one nor the other. He remained with folded arms, his countenance full of earnest courage and bold determination.

"I will finish what I have commenced," said he to himself. "I will keep my word, and not move from the spot before I have pleaded for all those to whom I promised my assistance. The general is at liberty to curse my importunity, if I only do my duty toward my fellow-citizens." As he still remained silent, Tottleben turned toward him laughingly.

"What," said he, "are you dumb? Is your eloquence exhausted? Indeed, when I think of all that you have got out of me to-day, it almost makes me smile." And he broke out into a merry, good-natured laugh.

"Well, laugh, sir," said Gotzkowsky, "I know you are fond of a laugh. For example, you have just played a little joke on the Jews, and made them believe that they have to pay an imposition—"

"Made believe?" interrupted Tottleben, hastily. "Man! be satisfied that I have remitted two millions to the citizens. Don't speak up now for the Jews."

"But the Jews are a part of the citizens."

"Are you crazy, man?" cried Tottleben, violently. "Is the Jew a citizen with you?"

"Yes," answered Gotzkowsky, "as far as paying goes. The Jew is obliged honestly to contribute his proportion of the war-tax. How can you, with any semblance of justice, require of him another further tax, when he has already, in common with us, given up all he possesses?"

"Sir," cried Tottleben, with suppressed vexation "this is enough, and more than enough!"

"No," said Gotzkowsky, smiling. "It is too much. The Jews are not able to pay it—"

"I will remit their contribution," cried the general, stamping violently on the floor, "to please you—just to get rid of you—but now—"

"But now," interrupted Gotzkowsky, insinuatingly, "one more favor."

The general stepped back astounded, and looked at Gotzkowsky with a species of comical terror. "Do you know that I am almost afraid of you, and will thank God when you are gone?"

"Then you think of me as the whole town of Berlin thinks of you," said Gotzkowsky.

The general laughed. "Your impudence is astonishing. Well, quick, what is your last request?"

"They are preparing at the New Market a rare and unheard-of spectacle—a spectacle, general, as yet unknown in Germany. You have brought it with you from Russia. You are going to make two men run the gantlet of rods—not two soldiers convicted of crime, but two writers, who have only sinned in spirit against you, who have only exercised the free and highest right of man—the right to say what they think. You are going to have two newspaper writers scourged, because they drew their quills against you. Is not that taking a barbarous revenge for a small offence?"

"A small offence," cried the general, whose countenance had resumed its dark, fierce expression. "Come, that's enough. Stop, if you do not wish me to take back all that I have granted you. Do you call that a small offence? Why, sir, the editor of Spener's Journal called me an adventurer, a renegade. Ah! he at least shall feel that I have the power of punishing."

"Why," said Gotzkowsky calmly, "that would only prove to him that he had hit you on a tender spot."

"And the scribbler of the Vossian Gazette, did he not venture even to attack my gracious empress?" continued Tottleben, perfectly carried away by his indignation. "He wrote a conversation between peasants, and in it he made fun of the empress. He even went so far as to make his own king join in the dirty talk, in the character of a peasant. Sir, I am very much surprised that you should defend a man who carries his impudence so far as to canvass and scandalize the conduct of his own king in such a disrespectful and audacious manner."

"The king is great enough to be able to bear this calumny of little minds. Whosoever is truly great, is not afraid of free speaking nor of calumny. Have you never heard the story of how the king was riding by, where the people were collected at the corner of a street, stretching out their necks to read a pasquinade which had been hung on the wall, and was directed against the king himself? The king reigned in his horse, and read the hand-bill. The people stood in silent terror, for the paper contained a sharp abuse of the king, and a libel on him in verse. What does your excellency think the king did when he had read this most treasonable placard?"

"He had the mob cut it down, as it deserved to be, and the author strung up on the gallows," cried Tottleben.

"Not at all, sir," replied Gotzkowsky. "He said, 'Let the paper be hung lower; the people can't see to read it up so high.' He then saluted the crowd, and rode off, laughing."

"Did the great Fritz do that?" said Tottleben, unconsciously using the epithet which the Prussian people had applied to their king.

"He did it because he is great," replied Gotzkowsky.

"Strange, hard to believe," muttered the general, folding his arms, and striding up and down. After a pause, Gotzkowsky inquired, "Would you not like to emulate the great king, general?"

Count Tottleben awoke from his reverie. Approaching Gotzkowsky, he laid his hand upon his shoulder; his expression was indescribably mild and gentle, and a melancholy smile played around his lips. "Hark'ee, I believe it would do me good if we could be always together. Come with me. Settle in Russia. The empress has heard of you, and I know that she would be rejoiced if you came to Petersburg. Do it. You can make a large fortune there. The empress's favor will elevate you, and she will not let you want for orders or a title."

Gotzkowsky could hardly suppress a smile of contempt. "Orders for me! A title! What would I do with them? Sir, I am more powerful than all your counts, for the greatness of the nobility lies in the past, in mouldering ancestors; but the greatness of the manufacturer lies in the future, and the future belongs to industry. I founded the first large factories here in Berlin, and the manufacturers who come after me can call me their ancestor. No other nobility do I desire, count."

"You would then be capable of refusing a count's title?" asked Tottleben, in astonishment.

Gotzkowsky shrugged his shoulders. "If I had wished for nobility I could long ago have bought a countship of the holy German empire, for such things are for sale, and thirty thousand ducats is the highest price for a count's title; and as for the orders, my own ribbon-factory turns out the ribbons for them."

General Tottleben looked at him for a long time in mild astonishment. "You are a wonderful man, and I wish I were like you. If I had thought as you do, my life would have been a less stormy one, and less tossed by care and restlessness. I would have—"

The general was interrupted by the hasty entrance of the adjutant. He was the bearer of dispatches brought by a courier who had just arrived. The courier, he said, had ridden so hard, that his horse had fallen dead on his arrival.

Tottleben tore open the dispatches and read them rapidly. His countenance immediately lost its former expression of mildness and gentleness. His German heart was silenced by the will of the Russian general.

He seemed to forget Gotzkowsky's presence, and turning to his adjutant, with proud military bearing, he said: "These dispatches contain important and surprising information. They announce that the Prussian army is drawing on in forced marches, with the king at its head. We cannot give him battle here, and must, in consequence, arrange for a rapid retreat from Berlin. Call all the generals and staff-officers together. Let the alarm be sounded. In three hours the whole army must have left the city. And, further, summon the Town Council to the New Market, that we may take our leave, for we must not leave Berlin as fugitives, but as conquerors, who are proceeding on their march."

"And the poor editors who are to be flogged?" asked Gotzkowsky, when the adjutant had left.

The general smiled, as he took Gotzkowsky amicably by the hand. "We will hang them a little lower," said he, significantly. "Come, accompany us to the market-place!"

NOTE.—Count von Tottleben expiated his clemency toward Berlin very dearly. A few months later he was sent to Petersburg under arrest, accused principally of having behaved too leniently and too much in the German interest for a Russian general.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIII.

THE EXECUTION.

The morning was cold and rainy, the wind howled down the empty streets, rattling the windows, and slamming the open house-doors. Surely the weather was but little suited for going out, and yet the Berlin citizens were to be seen flocking toward the New Market in crowds, regardless of wind and rain.

The Berliners have, from time immemorial, been an inquisitive race, and where any thing is to be seen, there they rush. But this day there was to be a rare spectacle at the New Market.

The editors of the two newspapers were to run the gantlet; and besides, General von Tottleben had summoned the Town Council and Jews thither, to receive his last orders and resolutions before he left Berlin. People were, therefore, very much excited, and curious to witness this double show, and in their eagerness they forgave the hostile general, who had prepared such a delightful entertainment for them, all the terrors of the last few days. Two gentlemen—two learned men—were to be flogged. That was, indeed, a precious and delightful sight for cold, hungry, ragged poverty, which always takes delight in seeing those whom fortune has favored, suffer and smart.

How often had these shoemakers and tailors worried and fretted themselves over their pot of beer, that the newspaper writers should have had the hardihood and stupidity to write so violently against the Russians, without taking into account that the Russians would one day occupy Berlin, and take revenge on its innocent citizens! It served these newspaper writers quite right that they should be punished for their arrogance. And, besides, the good people would see the Russian general and his staff, and the grand Town Council and the chief magistrate, who, in his golden chain and his robes of office, was to hand over to the hostile general a present of ten thousand ducats. The Berliners were, therefore, quite happy, and delighted to hear the hollow sound of the drum, and the Russian word of command.

A regiment of Russian soldiers marched past the corner of the Bishop Street, toward the market-place. They ranged themselves in two long lines, leaving a lane between them, just wide enough for a man to pass through. Then came two provost-marshals, and walked slowly down the lane, delivering to each soldier one of the long slender rods they carried under their arms.

The Russian soldiers were now armed, and awaited the victims they were to chastise. These were dragged out of the guard-house. First came tottering the gray-headed Mr. Krause, slowly and sadly; then came Mr. Kretschmer, formerly the brave, undaunted hero of the quill—now a poor, trembling, crushed piece of humanity. They stood in the middle of the square, and, bewildered with terror, their help-imploring looks swept over the gaping, silent multitude, who gazed at them with eager countenances and malicious joy, and would have been outrageously mad if they had been denied the enjoyment of seeing two of their brother-citizens scourged by the enemy's soldiers.

"I cannot believe it!" whimpered Mr. Krause; "it is impossible that this is meant in earnest. They cannot intend to execute so cruel a sentence. What would the world, what would mankind say, if two writers were scourged for the articles they had written? Will the town of Berlin suffer it? Will no one take pity on our distress?"

"No one," said Mr. Kretschmer, mournfully. "Look at the crowd which is staring at us with pitiless curiosity. They would sooner have pity on a murderer than on a writer who is going to be flogged. The whole town has enjoyed and laughed over our articles, and now there is not one who would dare to beg for us."

At this moment another solemn procession came down the Bishop Street toward the square. This was the Town Council of Berlin. Foremost came the chief burgomaster Von Kircheisen, who had recovered his speech and his mind, and was memorizing the well-set speech in which he was to offer to the general the thanks of the town and the ten thousand ducats, which a page bore alongside of him on a silken pillow.

Behind the Council tottered trembling and broken-hearted the elders of the Jews, including those of the mint, in order to receive their final condemnation or release from General Tottleben.

The people took no notice of the Council or of the Jews. They were busy staring with cruel delight at the journalists, who were being stripped by the provost-marshals of their outer clothing, and prepared for the bloody exhibition. With a species of barbarous pleasure they listened to the loud wailing of the trembling, weeping Krause, who was wringing his hands and imploring the Russian officer who had charge of the execution, for pity, for mercy.

The Russian officer was touched by the tears of sorrow of the editor; he did have pity on the gray hairs and bowed form of the old man, or perhaps he only acted on instructions received from General Tottleben. He motioned to the provosts to lead the other editor to the lane first, and to spare Mr. Krause until Mr. Kretschmer had been chastised. The provost seized hold of Mr. Kretschmer and dragged him to the terrible lane; they pushed him in between the rows of soldiers, who, with rude laughter, were flourishing the rods in their hands.

Already the first, the second, the third blow has fallen on the back of the editor of the Vossian Gazette, when suddenly there sounds a powerful "Halt!" and General Count von Tottleben appears, with Gotzkowsky at his side, and followed by his brilliant staff.

With a wild scream Kretschmer tears himself loose from the hands of the provost-marshals, and rushes toward the general, crying out aloud; Mr. Krause awakens from his heavy, despairing brooding, and both editors sink down before the Russian general.

With a mischievous smile, Tottleben looked at Mr. Kretschmer's bleeding back, and asked, "Who are you?"

"I am the Vossian Gazette" whined out Mr. Kretschmer, "whom you have accused of such cruel things. Ah! we have suffered great injustice, and we have been represented as worse than we really are. Oh, believe me, your excellency, I have been belied. I never hated Russia!"

"You are both of you accused of libel," said Tottleben, sternly.

"If we are guilty of libel, it is without our knowledge," said Mr. Krause. "Besides, we are very willing to recall every thing. I confess we were in error. We did not know you and your army, and we spoke ignorantly, as the blind man does about colors. Now we are better able to judge. You are the noblest among noble men, and finer soldiers than the Russians, and a chaster woman than the Empress Elizabeth, are not to be found anywhere. Oh, yes, your excellency, Spener's Journal is ready to eat its words. Only don't let me be flogged, sir, and I will sing your praises everlastingly, and proclaim to all the world that the Prussian has no better friend than the Russian, and that God has ordained them to be brothers."

"Only don't let us be flogged," implored Mr. Kretschmer, rubbing his sore back, "I promise your excellency that the Vossian Gazette shall be as tame as a new-born infant. It shall never indulge in bold, outspoken language; never have any decided color. I swear for myself and my heirs, that we will draw its fangs. Have, therefore, mercy on us!"

The general turned away with a smile of contempt. "Enough, gentlemen," said he, roughly, and laying his hand on Gotzkowsky's shoulder, he continued: "I pardon you, not in consequence of your idle talk, but for the sake of this noble gentleman, who has begged for you. You are free, sirs!" As the two editors were about to break out into expressions of gratefulness, Tottleben said to them, "It is Gotzkowsky alone that you have to thank for your liberty."

They threw themselves into Gotzkowsky's arms; with solemn oaths they vowed him eternal, inviolable gratitude; they called him their savior, their liberator from shame and disgrace.

Gotzkowsky smiled at their glowing protestations of friendship, and withdrew himself gently from their ardent embraces. "I did not do it for the sake of your thanks, and personally you owe me therefore no gratitude."

"Gotzkowsky, have you entirely forgotten us?" said a plaintive voice near him. It was Itzig, one of the rich Jews of the mint, to whom Gotzkowsky had promised assistance.

"Ask the general," said the latter, smiling.

"He has spoken for you, and his intercession has freed you from the special tax," said Count Tottleben.

"He has saved us, the great Gotzkowsky has had pity on our wretchedness," cried the Jews, crowding around Gotzkowsky to press his hand, to embrace him, and with tears of grateful emotion to promise him their unalterable attachment.

"You have saved my life," said Itzig, "for I had determined to die rather than pay any more money. For what is life to me without money? If the Jew has not money, he is nobody. In saving my money you saved my life. If ever you should be without money, Gotzkowsky, come to me; I will lend you some at very low interest."

"I will lend it to you gratis," said Ephraim, pressing his hand affectionately in his own.

Gotzkowsky answered sadly: "If it ever came to pass that I were obliged to borrow, you would not remember this day, and I would not be the man to remind you of it."

"Remind us of it," protested Ephraim, "and you shall see that we keep our word. Come to us and say, 'Remember the tax that I freed you from,' and you shall see all that you desire shall be fulfilled."

"God grant that I may never have need to remind you of it!" said Gotzkowsky, pressing back the excited Jews, and approaching General Tottleben.

"You forget, sir, that you summoned the honorable Council of Berlin hither, and that these gentlemen are awaiting your orders."

The general seemed to awaken out of a deep reverie. "Yes," said he, as if to himself, "the German dream is finished, and now I must be a Russian again." He then turned quickly to Gotzkowsky and offered him his hand. "Gotzkowsky," said he, gently and persuasively, "consider it once more—come with me and be my teacher."

"What I can teach you is but little. It is an easy lesson for him who has a heart, an impossible one for him who has none. Learn to love mankind. That is all my wisdom, and my farewell."

The general sighed. "You will not go with me? Well, then, farewell!" And as if to disperse the painful and bitter feelings which assailed his German heart, he turned away and called, in Russian, to his adjutant: "Let us break up, gentlemen. To horse, to horse!"

But in the midst of the confusion of the soldiers, and the tramping of horses, the chief burgomaster made a way for himself. He had to sustain the honor of the Council, and pronounce the beautifully worded oration which had cost him two sleepless nights to compose; he had to place in the hands of the general the offering of Berlin gratitude.

At last he succeeded in reaching the general, and he began his speech. Full and powerful did his voice sound through the New Market, and the delighted people rejoiced over the oratorical talent of their chief magistrate, and gazed with pride and admiration at his golden chain of office—that chain which had gone through so much, had endured so much, without growing pale or dim.

But General Tottleben did not accept the present which the city of Berlin offered him. He said: "If the town believed that its fate was rendered more tolerable by my discipline than it otherwise would have been, let it thank the express orders of my empress. The honor of having been commander of Berlin for three days is sufficient reward for me."

Three hours later Berlin was freed from Russians and Austrians. Gotzkowsky, who had finally succeeded in freeing himself from the tumultuous expressions of gratitude of the Council, the editors, and the Jews, returned to his home, of which he himself says: "My house resembled more a cow-house than a dwelling, having been filled for a while, night and day, with Russians."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XIV.

BRIDE AND DAUGHTER.

At the mere announcement of the approach of the king toward Berlin, the Russian army had left the city and withdrawn to Frankfort. But no inconsiderable number of officers had stayed behind; some of them to organize the withdrawal of the troops, while others, detained by personal affairs, had merely obtained short leave of absence. To the latter belonged Colonel Feodor von Brenda. General Bachmann had given him two days' leave, under the impression that he would avail himself of the time to enjoy, undisturbed, the society of his bride, the Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir.

The general knew nothing of the difference between the colonel and his betrothed. He did not know that, according to her agreement with Bertram, Lodoiska had not informed Feodor of her arrival in Berlin. But, nevertheless, Feeder had heard of it. The countess's own chambermaid, knowing the liberality of the young count, had gone to him, and for a golden bribe had betrayed to him her presence, and communicated all that she knew of her plans and intentions.

This news detained the colonel in Berlin. The unexpected arrival of his affianced pressed upon him the necessity of a decision, for he was aware of the impossibility of tearing asunder the firm and heart-felt bond which attached him to Elise, to unite himself to a wife to whom he was only engaged by a given promise, a pledged word.

Feodor would probably have given up his whole fortune to pay a debt of honor; would have unhesitatingly thrown his life into the scale if it had been necessary to redeem his word. But he was not ashamed to break the vow of fidelity which he had made to a woman, and to desert her to whom he had promised eternal love. Besides, his pride was wounded by the advent of the countess, which appeared to him as a restraint on his liberty and an espionage on his actions.

She had concealed her arrival from him, and he consequently concluded that she was acquainted with his faithlessness, and nursed some plan of removing the obstacles which lay between her and her lover. His pride was irritated by the thought that he should be compelled to maintain an engagement which he could no longer fulfil from love, but only from a sense of duty. Such a restraint on his free will seemed to him an unparalleled hardship. He felt a burning hatred toward the woman who thus forcibly insisted on fastening herself upon him, and an equally ardent love toward the young girl of whom they wished to deprive him.

Doubly charming and desirable did this young, innocent, lovely girl appear to him when he compared her with the mature, self-possessed, worldly woman of whom he could only hope that he might be her last love, while he knew that he was Elise's first.

"If I must positively be chained, and my hands bound," said he to himself, "let it be at least with this fresh young girl, who can conceal the thorny crown of wedlock under freshly-blown rosebuds. My heart has nothing more to do with this old love; it has grown young again under the influence of new feelings, and I will not let this youthfulness be destroyed by the icy-cold smiles of duty. Elise has promised to be mine, and she must redeem her promise."

Still full of the passionate and defiant thoughts which the vicinity of his affianced bride had provoked, he had gone out to seek Elise. But to find her had become not only difficult, but almost impossible.

Bertram, who had not thought fit to reveal to Gotzkowsky the forcible abduction of his daughter, had yet quietly arranged his precautions that a repetition of the attempt from any quarter, or at any time, should be impossible.

Under the pretence that the withdrawal of the troops rendered the city unsafe, and filled it with marauders and plundering stragglers, Bertram, secure of Gotzkowsky's approval beforehand, had armed a number of the factory workmen, and placed them as sentinels on the wall, in the court, and on the ground-floor. These had orders not to let any one enter who was not able to tell the object and purpose of his coming. By this precaution Bertram prevented any attempt of Feodor to climb the wall; and, furthermore he obtained the advantage that Elise, to whom the presence of the sentinels was unpleasant and objectionable, not only did not visit the dangerous, solitary parts of the garden, but withdrew into her own room. In this manner Bertram had rendered any meeting between Feodor and Elise impossible, but he could not prevent his servant, Petrowitsch, from meeting his sweetheart, Elise's chambermaid, on the street.

By means of these a letter of Feodor reached Elise's hand. In this Feodor reminded her solemnly and earnestly of her promise; he now called upon her to fulfil her vow, and to follow him from the house of her father. He adjured her to unite herself to him at the altar as his wife, and to give him the right to carry her abroad with him as his own.

Elise received this letter of her beloved, and her heart during its perusal was moved by unfamiliar emotions. She could not herself determine whether it was joy or dread which caused it to beat so convulsively, and almost deprived her of consciousness. She could have screamed aloud with joy, that at last she would be united to her lover, wholly, sacredly as his own; and yet she was filled with deep grief that the path to the altar would not be hallowed by her father's blessing. Even love, which spoke so loudly and powerfully in her heart, could not silence the warning voice of conscience—that voice which again and again threatened her with sin and sorrow, disgrace and shame. Yet Elise, in the warmth and passion of her heart, sought to excuse herself, and in the pride of her wounded filial love said to herself: "My father does not regard me; he will not weep for my loss, for I am superfluous here, and he will hardly perceive that I am gone. He has his millions and his friends, and the whole multitude of those to whom he does good. He is so rich—he has much on which his heart hangs! But I am quite poor; I have nothing but the heart of my beloved. His love is my only possession. Would it not be wicked in me to cast this away, and lead here a lonesome, desolate life, without pity or sympathy? If my father loved me, would he have left me during these days so full of danger? After the terrible scene in which I, in the desperation of my heart, offended him, he would at least have given me some opportunity of asking his pardon, of begging him for forbearance and pity. But he seems purposely to have secluded himself, and avoided any meeting with me. He has shut me out from his heart, and withdrawn his love from me forever. And so I am forced to carry my heart full of boundless affection over to my lover. He will never repulse, neglect, or forget me; he will adore me, and I will be his most cherished possession."

As these thoughts passed through her mind, she pressed his note to her lips, each word seeming to greet her, and with Feodor's imploring looks to entreat her to fulfil the vow she had made him. There was no longer any hesitation or wavering in her, for she had come to a determined resolution, and with glowing cheeks and panting breast she hastened to the writing-table, in order to clothe it in words, and answer Feodor's note.

"You remind me of my pledged word," she wrote. "I am ready to redeem it. Come, then, and lead me from my father's house to the altar, and I will be your wife; and wherever you go I will be with you. Hence-forth I will have no other home than your heart. But while I cheerfully elect this home, at the same time I am shutting myself out from my father's heart forever. May God forgive the sins that love causes me to commit!"

But when this note had been sent, when she knew that her lover had received it, and that her decision was irrevocable, she was seized with trembling faintness, with the oppression of conscious guilt; and it seemed to her as if a new spring of love had suddenly burst forth in her heart, and as if she had never loved her father so sincerely, so devotedly, so tenderly, as now that she was on the point of leaving him.

But it was too late to draw back; for in the mean, time she had received a second letter from Feodor, imparting the details of a plan for their joint flight, and she had approved of this plan.

Every thing was prepared, and all that she had to do was to remain in her room, and await the concerted signal with which Feodor was to summon her.

As soon as she heard this signal she was to leave the house with her maid, who had determined to accompany her, come out into the street, where Feodor would be in waiting with his carriage, and drive in the first place to the church. There a priest, heavily bribed, would meet them, and, with the blessing of the Church, justify Feodor in carrying his young wife out into the world, and Elise in "leaving father and home, and clinging only unto her husband."

Some hours were yet wanting to the appointed time. Elise, condemned to the idleness of waiting, experienced all the anxiety and pains which the expectation of the decisive moment usually carries with it.

With painful desire she thought of her father, and, although she repeated to herself that he would not miss her, that her absence would not be noticed, yet her excited imagination kept painting to her melancholy fancy, pictures of his astonishment, his anxiety, his painful search after her.

She seemed, for the first time, to remember that she was about to leave him, without having been reconciled to him; that she was to part from him forever, without having begged his forgiveness, without even having felt his fatherly kiss on her brow. At least she would write to him, at least send him one loving word of farewell. This determination she now carried out, and poured out all her love, her suffering, her suppressed tenderness, the reproaches of her conscience, in burning and eloquent words, on the paper which she offered to her father as the olive-branch of peace.

When she had written this letter, she folded it, and hid it carefully in her bosom, in order to carry it unnoticed to her father's room. He would not be there—for two days he had not been at home; she could, therefore, venture to go there without fear of meeting him. She felt as if she would not be able to bear his gaze—the full, bright look of his eye.

Carefully and softly, with the secret fear of meeting Bertram, whose sad, reproachful looks she dreaded even more, perhaps, than the eye of her father, she crept along the corridor, and finally reached the antechamber, breathing more freely, and glad to have met no one. Every thing here was quiet and silent; her father, therefore, had not yet returned, and she was quite safe from any surprise by him.

She now entered his private room, and crossing this, was in the act of opening the desk of his writing-table in order to deposit the letter therein, when she heard the door of the antechamber open. It was too late for flight, and she had only time to conceal the letter in her bosom, when the door of the room itself was opened.

It was her father who now entered the apartment. Speechless and motionless they both stood, confounded at this unexpected meeting, each waiting for a word of greeting of reconciliation from the other. But however earnestly their hearts yearned toward each other, their lips remained silent, and their looks avoided one another.

"She shuns me. This is my reception after so many toilsome days of absence," thought Gotzkowsky, and his heart was full of sadness and sorrow.

"He will not look at me, his eye avoids me, he has not yet forgiven me," thought Elise, as she regarded her father's pale, care-worn countenance. "No, he does not wish to see me. For the last time, therefore, I will show him obedience, and leave the room." Sadly and softly, with her looks cast on the ground, she took her way to the door on the opposite side.

Gotzkowsky followed her with his eyes. If she had only ventured to raise her looks once more to him, she would have perceived all his love, all the forgiving affection of a father, in his face. But she did not, and Gotzkowsky said to himself, in the bitterness of his heart, "Why should I speak to her?—she would only misunderstand me. I will lie down and sleep, to forget my cares and my sorrows. I will not speak to her, for I am exhausted, and tired to death. I must have rest and composure, to be able to come to an understanding with her."

And yet he regarded her with longing looks as she directed her sad steps toward the door. Now she stands on the threshold; now her trembling hand clasps the bright handle of the lock, but still she hesitates to open it; she still hopes for a word, if even an angry one, from her father.

And now she hears it. Like an angel's voice does it sound in her ear. He calls her name, he reaches his hand out to her, and says with infinite, touching gentleness, "Give me your hand, Elise. Come here to me, my child—it is so long since I have seen you!"

She turned to him, and yet she dared not look upon him. Seizing his offered hand, she pressed it to her lips. "And do you remember that you have been so long absent? You have not then forgotten me?"

"Forgot you!" cried her father tenderly; and then immediately, as if ashamed of this outburst of fatherly love, he added calmly and almost sternly—"I have much to talk with you, Elise. You have accused me."

Elise interrupted him with anxious haste: "I was beside myself," said she, confused and bashfully. "Forgive me, my father; passion made me unjust."

"No, it only developed what lay hidden in your heart," said Gotzkowsky; and the recollection of that unhappy hour roughened his voice, and filled his heart with sadness. "For the first time, you were candid with me. I may have been guilty of it all, but still it hurts!" For a moment he was silent, and sank his head on his breast, completely overpowered by painful reminiscences.

Elise answered nothing, but the sight of his pale and visibly exhausted countenance moved her to tears.

When Gotzkowsky raised his head again, his face had resumed its usual determination and energy. "We will talk over these things another time," said he seriously. "Only this one thing, remember. I will not restrain you in any way, and I have never done so. You are mistress of every thing that belongs to me except my honor. This I myself must keep unsullied. As a German gentleman I cannot bring the dishonor upon me of seeing my daughter unite herself to the enemy of my country—to a Russian. Choose some German man: whoever he may he, I will welcome him whom you love as my son, and renounce the wishes and plans I have so long entertained. But never will I give my consent to the union of my only child with a Russian."

While he spoke the expression of the countenance of both changed surprisingly. Both evinced determination, defiance, and anger, and the charm which love had laid for a moment on their antagonistic souls was destroyed. Gotzkowsky was no longer the tender father, easily appeased by a word, but the patriot injured in his holiest right, his most delicate sense of honor. Elise was no longer the humble, penitent daughter, but a bride threatened with the loss of her lover.

"You would, then, never give your consent?" asked she, passionately. "But if this war were ended, if Russia were no longer the enemy of Germany; if—"

"Russia remains ever the enemy of Germany, even if she does not appear against her in the open field. It is the antagonism of despotic power against culture and civilization. Never can the free German be the friend of the barbarous Sclavonian. Let us hear nothing more of this—you know my mind; I cannot change it, even if you should, for that reason, doubt my love. True love does not consist only in granting, but still more in denying."

Elise stood with bowed head, and murmured some low, unintelligible words. Gotzkowsky felt that it would be better for both to break off this conversation before it had reached a point of bitterness and irritation. At the same time he felt that, after so much excitement, his body needed rest. He, therefore, approached his daughter and extended his hand toward her for a friendly farewell. Elise seized it, and pressed it with passionate feeling to her lips. He then turned round and traversed the room on the way to his bedchamber.

Elise looked after him with painful longing, which increased with each step he took. As he was in the act of leaving the room she rushed after him, and uttered in a tone of gentle pleading, the single word, "Father!"

Gotzkowsky felt the innermost chord of his heart touched. He turned round and opened his arms to her. With a loud cry of joy she threw herself on his breast, and rested there for a moment in happy, self-forgetting delight. They looked at one another, and smilingly bade each other good-by. Again Gotzkowsky turned his steps toward his bedroom. And now he was gone; she saw him no more. Father and daughter were separated.

But Elise felt an unutterable grief in her heart, a boundless terror seized her. It seemed as if she could not leave her father; as if it would be a disgrace for her, so secretly, like a criminal, to sneak out of her father's house, were it even to follow her lover to the altar. She felt as if she must call her father back, cling to his knees, and implore him to save her, to save her from her own desires. Already had she opened her lips, and stretched forth her arms, when she suddenly let them fall, with a shudder.

She had heard the loud rolling of a carriage, and she knew what it meant. This carriage which stopped at her door—could it be the one in which Feodor had come to take her? "It is too late—I cannot go back," muttered she low, and with drooping head she slowly left her father's room in order to repair to her own chamber.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XV.

THE RIVALS.

Elise, immediately on reaching her room, hurried to the window and looked into the street, already darkened by the shades of evening. She was not mistaken—a carriage stood at the door; but to her surprise, she did not perceive the signal agreed on, she did not hear the post-horn blow the Russian air, "Lovely Minka, I must leave thee." Nor was it the appointed hour; neither did her chambermaid, who waited in the lower story, come to seek her. She still stood at the window, and involuntarily she felt herself worried by this equipage. A sharp knocking at the door was heard. Before she had time to come to any determination, it was hastily opened, and Bertram entered with a lady, deeply veiled, on his arm.

"Bertram!" cried Elise, drawing back shyly. "What do you wish here?"

"What do I wish here?" answered Bertram, earnestly. "I come to ask a favor of my sister. I have promised this lady that she shall see and speak with you. Will my sister fulfil her brother's promise?"

"What does the lady wish with me?" asked Elise, casting a timid look toward the mysterious veiled figure.

"She will herself tell you. She requested me, with tears, to bring her to Elise Gotzkowsky, for, she assured me, the happiness of her life depended on it."

Elise felt an icy shudder run through her. She laid her hand on her heart, as if to protect it against the terrible danger which she felt threatened her, and with trembling lip she repeated, "What does the lady wish with me?"

Bertram did not answer her, but letting go the arm of the unknown, he bowed low. "Countess," said he, "this is Mademoiselle Elise Gotzkowsky. I have fulfilled my promise: allow me now to leave you, and may God impart convincing power to your words!"

He greeted the ladies respectfully, and left the room quickly. The two ladies were now alone together. A pause ensued. Both trembled, and neither ventured to break the silence.

"You desired to speak to me," said Elise, finally, in a low, languid voice. "May I now beg of you—"

The lady threw back her veil, and allowed Elise to see a handsome countenance, moistened with tears. "It is I who have to beg," said she, with a touching foreign accent, while seizing Elise's hand, she pressed it warmly to her breast. "Forgive me; since I have seen you, I have forgotten what I had to say. At sight of you, all my words, and even my anger have left me. You are very beautiful. Be as noble as you are beautiful. My fate lies in your hands. You can restore me to happiness."

"God alone can do that," said Elise, solemnly.

"At this moment you are the divinity who has the disposal of my fate. You alone can restore me to happiness, for you have deprived me of it—yes, you, so young, so handsome, and apparently so innocent. You are the murderess of my happiness." Her eyes sparkled, and a bright blush suffused her hitherto pale cheeks. "Yes," cried she, with a triumphant laugh, "now I am myself again. My hesitation has vanished, and anger is again supreme. I am once more the lioness, and ready to defend the happiness of my life."

Elise drew herself up, and she, too, felt a change in her heart. With the instinct of love, she felt that this handsome woman who stood opposite to her was her rival, her enemy with whom she had to struggle for her most precious property. Passion filled her whole being, and she vowed to herself not to yield a single step to this proud beauty. With an expression of unspeakable disdain, she fixed her eyes upon the countess. Their flashing looks crossed each other like the bright blades of two combatants in a duel.

"I do not understand you," said Elise, with angry coldness. "You must speak more plainly, if you wish to be understood."

"You do not wish to understand me," cried the countess. "You wish to avoid me, but I will not let you. I have suffered so much that I will not suffer any longer. We stand here opposite each other as two women engaged in a combat for life and death."

Elise suppressed the cry of pain which rose in her breast, and compelled herself to assume a proud and impassible composure. "I still do not understand you, nor do I desire to contend with an unknown person. But if you will not leave my room, you will allow me to do so."

She turned to go, but the countess seized her hand, and held her back. "No! you cannot go!" cried she, passionately. "You cannot go, for I know that you are going to him, to him whom I love, and I come to demand this man of you."

These half-threatening, half-commanding words, at last drove Elise from the assumed tranquillity she had maintained with so much difficulty. "I know not of whom you speak," cried she, in a loud voice.

But the countess was tired of dealing in these half-concealed meanings, these mysterious allusions. "You know of whom I speak," cried she, vehemently. "You know that I have come to demand the restoration of my holiest possession, the heart of my beloved. Oh! give him back to me, give me back my betrothed, for he belongs to me, and cannot be another's. Let my tears persuade you. You are young, rich, handsome; you have every thing that makes life happy. I have nothing but him. Leave him to me."

Elise felt furious. Like a tigress, she could have strangled this woman, who came to destroy her happiness. A wild, angry laugh rang from her lips: "You say that you love him," exclaimed she. "Well, then, go to him and ask him for his heart. Why do you demand it of me? Win it from him, if you can."

"In order to be able to win it, you must first release him from the fetters with which you have bound him."

An angry flush overspread Elise's pale face. "You become insulting," she said.

The countess paid no attention to these words, but continued still more vehemently: "Make him free. Loose the bands which fetter him, and then, I am sure, he will return to me and be mine again."

Elise stared terrified at the face of the countess, excited and streaming with tears. She had heard but one little word, but this word had pierced her heart like a dagger.

"Return to you?" asked she, breathlessly. "Be yours again? He was then once yours?"

"I yielded to him what is most sacred in life, and yet you ask if he was mine!" said the countess, smiling sadly.

Elise uttered a loud, piercing shriek, and covered her face with her hands. Her emotion was so expressive and painful that it touched the heart even of her rival. Almost lovingly she passed her arm around Elise's waist and drew her down gently to her on the sofa. "Come," said she, "let us sit by each other like two sisters. Come, and listen to me. I will disclose a picture which will make your soul shudder!"

Elise yielded to her mechanically. She let herself involuntarily glide down on the sofa, and suffered the countess to take her hand. "Feodor once belonged to her," she murmured. "His heart was once given to another."

"Will you listen to me?" asked the countess; and, seeing Elise still lost in silent reverie, she continued: "I will relate to you the history of Feodor von Brenda, and his unhappy, forsaken bride." Elise shuddered, and cast a wandering, despairing look around.

"Will you listen to me?" repeated the countess.

"Speak—I am listening," whispered Elise, languidly. And then, the Countess Lodoiska von Sandomir, often interrupted by Elise's plaintive sighs, her outbursts of heartfelt sympathy, related to the young girl the sad and painful story of her love and her betrayal.

She was a young girl, scarcely sixteen, the daughter of a prince, impoverished by his own fault and prodigality, when she became the victim of her father's avarice. Without compassion for her tears, her timid youth, he had sold her for a million. With the cruel selfishness of a spendthrift miser, he had sold his young, fresh, beautiful daughter for dead, shining metal, to a man of sixty years, fit to be her grandfather, and who persecuted the innocent girl with the ardent passion of a stripling. She had been dragged to the altar, and the priest had been deaf to the "No!" she had uttered, when falling unconscious at his feet. Thus she had become the wife of the rich Count Sandomir—a miserable woman who stood, amidst the splendor of life, without hope, without joy, as in a desert.

But one day this desert had changed, and spring bloomed in her soul, for love had come to warm her chilled heart with the sunbeam of happiness. She did not reproach herself, nor did she feel any scruples of conscience, that it was not her husband whom she loved. What respect could she have for marriage, when for her it had been only a matter of sale and purchase? She had been traded off like a slave, and with happy exultation she said to herself, "Love has come to make me free, and, as a free and happy woman, I will tear this contract by which I have been sold." And she had torn it. She had had no compassion on the gray hairs and devoted heart of her noble husband. She had been sacrificed, and now pitilessly did she sacrifice her husband to her lover. She saw but one duty before her—to reward the love of the man she adored with boundless devotion. No concealment, no disguise would she allow. Any attempt at equivocation she regarded as an act of treason to the great and holy feeling which possessed her whole soul.

Usually all the world is acquainted with the treachery and infidelity of a woman, while it is yet a secret to her husband. But the countess took care that her husband should be the first to learn of his injured honor, her broken faith. She had hoped that he would turn from her in anger, and break the marriage-bond which united her to him. But her husband did not liberate her. He challenged the betrayer of his honor, whose treachery was the blacker, because the count himself had introduced him into his house, as the son of the friend of his youth. They fought. It was a deadly combat, and the old man of sixty, already bowed down by rage and grief, could not stand against the strength of his young and practised adversary. He was overcome. The dying husband had been brought to Countess Lodoiska, his head supported by his murderer, her lover. Even in this terrible moment she felt no anger against him, and as the eyes of her husband grew dull in death, she could only remember that she was now free to become his wife. She had thrown herself at the feet of the empress to implore her consent to this marriage, on which depended the hope and happiness, the honor and atonement of her life. The empress had not refused her consent, had herself appointed the wedding day which should unite her favorite with the young countess.

But a short time before the arrival of this day, so ardently longed for, looked forward to with so many prayers, such secret anxiety and gnawing self-reproaches, the war broke out, and Lodoiska did not dare to keep back her lover, as with glowing zeal he hastened to his colors. He had sworn to her never to forget her; to return faithful to her, and she had believed him.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVI.

THE PUNISHMENT.

Elise had followed the countess in her narration with intense attention and warm sympathy. Her face had become pale as marble, her countenance sad, and her eyes filled with tears. A fearful anticipation dawned in her heart, but she turned away from it. She would not listen to this secret voice which whispered to her that this sad tale of the countess had reference to her own fate.

"Your lover did not deceive your trust?" asked she. "With such a bloody seal upon your love he dare not break his faith."

"He did break it," answered the countess, painfully. "I was nothing more to him than a guilty woman, and he went forth to seek an angel. He forgot his vows, his obligations, and cast me away, for I was a burden to him."

Both were silent in the bitterness of their sorrow. The countess fastened her large, bright eyes upon the young girl, who stared before her, pale, motionless, absorbed in her own grief.

This anxious silence was finally broken by the countess. "I have not yet told you the name of my lover. Shall I name him to you?"

Elise awoke as if from a heavy dream. "No," cried she, eagerly, "no, do not name him. What have I to do with him? I do not know him. What do I care to hear the name of a man who has committed so great a crime?"

"You must hear it," said the countess, solemnly. "You must learn the name of the man who chained me to him by a bloody, guilt-stained past, and then deserted me. It is Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda!"

Elise uttered a cry, and sank, half fainting, back on the cushions of the sofa. But this dejection did not last long. Her heart, which for a moment seemed to stop, resumed again its tumultuous beating; her blood coursed wildly through her veins, and her soul, unused to the despair of sorrow, resolved to make one last effort to free itself from the fetters with which her evil fate wished to encompass her. She drew herself up with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes. "This is false," she cried; "a miserable invention, concocted to separate me from Feodor. Oh! I see through it all. I understand now my father's solemn asseverations, and why Bertram brought you to me. But you are all mistaken in me. Go, countess, and tell your friends, 'Elise offers up every thing and gives every thing to him whom she loves, in whom she believes, even if the whole world testifies against him.'" And with a triumphant smile, throwing back her head, she stood up and was about to leave the room.

The countess shrugged her shoulders as if in pity. "You do not believe me, then?" said she; "but you will believe this witness?" and she drew a letter from her bosom and handed it to Elise.

"It is his handwriting," cried the young girl, terrified, as she took the letter.

"Ah! you know his handwriting, then? He has written to you, too?" sighed the countess. "Well, then, read it. It is a letter he wrote me from Berlin at the commencement of his captivity. Read it!"

"Yes, I will read it," murmured Elise. "These written words pierce my eyes like daggers, but I will not mind the pain. I will read it."

She read the letter, which annihilated her whole happiness, slowly and with terrible composure. Drop by drop did she let the poison of these words of love, directed to another, fall into her soul. When she had finished reading it, she repeated to herself the last cruel words, the warm protestations, with which Feodor assured his bride of his unalterable love and fidelity, with which he swore to her that he looked upon his love to her not only as a happiness, but as a sacred obligation; that he owed her not only his heart but his honor. Then long and carefully she considered the signature of his name, and folding up the paper, she handed it back, with a slight inclination to the countess.

"Oh, my God! I have loved him beyond bounds," muttered she, low; and then, unable to restrain her tears, she put her hands to her face and wept aloud.

"Poor, unhappy girl!" exclaimed the countess, laying her arm tenderly around her neck.

Elise drew back violently and regarded her almost in anger. "Do not commiserate me. I will not be pitied by you! I—"

She suddenly stopped, and an electric shock passed through her whole frame. She heard the concerted signal; and the tones of the post-horn, which slowly and heavily sounded the notes of the sad Russian melody, grated on her ear like a terrible message of misfortune.

The two women stood for a moment silent and motionless. They both listened to the dirge of their love and their happiness, and this simple, hearty song sounded to them horrible and awful in the boundless desolation of their hearts. At last the song ceased, and a voice, too well known and loved, cried, "Elise! Elise!"

The maiden started up, shuddering and terrified. "His voice frightens me."

But still she seemed not to be able to withstand the call; for she approached the window, and looked down hesitatingly.

The countess observed her jealously, and a fearful thought suddenly entered her mind. How, if this young girl loved him as much as she did? If she were ready to forgive him every thing, to blot out the whole past with the hand of love and commence a new existence with him? If she felt no compassion for Feodor's forsaken bride, and were willing to trample triumphantly on her broken heart at the call of her lover, and follow him to the altar? Her whole soul writhed in pain, "Follow his call," cried she, with a derisive smile. "Leave your father, whom you have betrayed, for the sake of a traitor! You have vowed to love him. Go and keep your vow."

Outside Feodor's voice called Elise's name louder and more pressingly. A moment she listened, then rushed to the window, threw it open, and called out, "I come, I come!"

Lodoiska flew to her; drew back the young girl violently from the window, and throwing both arms firmly around her, said, almost breathlessly, "Traitress! You shall not cross this threshold! I will call your father. I will call the whole household together! I will—"

"You will call no one," interrupted Elise, and her proud, cold composure awed even the countess. "You will call no one, for I stay, and you—you go in my stead."

"What say you?" asked Lodoiska.

Elise raised her arm and pointed solemnly to the window. "I say," cried she, "that your bridegroom is waiting down there for you. Go, then."

With an exclamation of joy the countess pressed her in her arms. "You renounce him, then?"

"I have no part in him," said Elise coldly. "He belongs to you; he is bound to you by your disgrace and his crime. Go to him," cried she more violently, as she saw that the countess looked at her doubtingly. "Hasten, for he is waiting for you."

"But he will recognize me; he will drive me from him."

Elise pointed to her clothes, which were placed ready for her departure. "There lie my hat and cloak," said she haughtily. "Take them; drop the veil. He knows this dress, and he will think it is me."

At this moment the door was torn open, and Bertram burst in. "Make haste," he cried, "or all is lost. Count Feodor is becoming impatient, and may himself venture to come for Elise. Gotzkowsky, too, has been awakened by the unaccustomed sound of the post-horn."

"Help the countess to prepare for the journey," cried Elise, standing still, motionless, and as if paralyzed.

Bertram looked at her, astonished and inquiringly; but in a few rapid words the countess explained to him Elise's intention and determination, to allow her to take the journey in her stead, and with her clothes.

Bertram cast on Elise a look which mirrored forth the admiration he felt for this young girl, who had so heroically gained the victory over herself. His reliance on her maiden pride, her sense of right and honor, had not been deceived.

The countess had now finished her toilet, and donned Elise's hat and cloak.

Bertram called on her to hasten, and she approached Elise to bid her farewell, and express her gratitude for the sacrifice she had made for her. But Elise waved her back proudly and coldly, and seemed to shudder at her touch.

"Go to your husband, countess," cried she, and her voice was hoarse and cold.

Lodoiska's eyes filled with tears. Once more she attempted to take Elise's hand, but the latter firmly crossed her arms and looked at her almost threateningly. "Go!" said she, in a loud, commanding voice.

Bertram took the arm of the countess and drew her to the door. "Hasten!" said he; "there is no time to lose."

The door closed behind them. Elise was alone. She stood and listened to their departing steps; she heard the house door open; she heard the post-horn once more sound out merrily, and then cease. "I am alone!" she screamed, with a heart-rending cry. "They are gone; I am alone!" And stretching her arms despairingly to heaven, and almost beside herself, she cried out, "O God! will no one have compassion on me? will no one pity me?"

"Elise," said her father, opening the room door.

She sprang toward him with a loud exclamation, she rushed into his arms, embraced him, and, nestling in his bosom, she exclaimed faintly, "Have pity on me, my father; do not drive me from you! You are my only refuge in this world."

Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to his breast and looked gratefully to heaven. "Oh! I well knew my daughter's heart would return to her father."

He kissed ardently her beautiful, glossy hair, and her head that was resting on his breast. "Do not weep, my child, do not weep," whispered he, tenderly.

"Let me weep," she answered, languidly; "you do no know how much sorrow and grief pass off with these tears."

The sound of the post-horn was now heard from the street below and then the rapid rolling of a carriage.

Elise clung still more closely to her father. "Save me," she cried. "Press me firmly to your heart. I am quite forsaken in this world."

The door was thrown open and Bertram rushed in, out of breath, exclaiming: "She is gone! he did not recognize her, and took her for you. The countess—"

He stopped suddenly and looked at Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he had just become aware.

Gotzkowsky inquired in astonishment, "Who is gone? What does all this mean?"

Elise raised herself from his arms and gazed at him with flashing eyes. "It means," she answered, "that the happiness of my life is broken, that all is deception and falsehood where I looked for love, and faith, and happiness!" With a touching cry of suffering, she fell fainting in her father's arms.

"Do not rouse her, father," said Bertram, bending over her; "grant her this short respite, for she has a great sorrow to overcome. When she comes to herself again, she will love none but you, her father."

Gotzkowsky pressed his lips on her brow, and blessed her in his thoughts. "She will find in me a father," said he, with deep emotion, "who, if necessary, can weep with her. My eyes are unused to tears, but a father may be allowed to weep with his daughter when she is suffering."

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVII.

THE BANQUET OF GRATITUDE.

Berlin had recovered from the terrors it had undergone. It was eight days since the enemy had left, and every thing was quiet and calm. But on this day the quiet was to be interrupted by a public merry-making. Berlin, which had suffered so much, was to rejoice again.

The festival which was to be celebrated, was intended for none else than John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of Berlin, the man whom all looked upon as their guardian angel and savior. He had cheerfully borne hardship and toil, danger and injustice, for the good of his fellow-men; he had always been found helping and ready to serve, unselfish and considerate. The whole town was under obligation to him; he had served all classes of society, and they all wished to evince their gratitude to him.

Gotzkowsky had been requested to remain at home on the morning of the festal day, but to hold himself in readiness to receive several deputations. They were to be succeeded by a grand dinner, given by the citizens of Berlin in his honor. They were to eat and drink, be merry, and enjoy themselves to his glorification; they were to drink his health in foaming glasses of champagne, and Gotzkowsky was to look upon it all as a grand festival with which the good citizens of Berlin were glorifying him, while they themselves were enjoying the luscious viands and fragrant wines.

In vain did Gotzkowsky refuse to accept the proffered festival. At first he tried to excuse himself on the plea of his daughter's illness, alleging that he could not leave her bedside. But information had been obtained from her physician, who reported her out of danger, and that Gotzkowsky might leave her for several hours without risk. Gotzkowsky being able to find no other excuse, was obliged to accept. Elise was indeed sick. The grief and despair of her betrayed and deceived heart had prostrated her; and her wild, fever-dreams, her desponding complaints, the reproachful conversations she carried on with her lover—unseen but nevertheless present in her delirium—had betrayed her secret to her father. Full of emotion, he thanked God for her happy escape, and felt no resentment against this poor, misguided child, who had taken refuge from the loneliness of her heart, in his love, as in a haven of shelter. He only reproached his own want of discernment, as he said to himself: "Elise had cause to be angry with me and to doubt my affection. I bore solitude and the constant separation from my daughter because I thought I was working for her, but I forgot that at the same time she was solitary and alone, that she missed a father's tenderness as I did my child's love. I wished to make her rich, and I have only made her poor and wretched."

He kissed her burning, feverish forehead, he bedewed it with tears, and forgave her, from the bottom of his heart, her misplaced love, her errors and transgressions. She was with him; she had returned to his heart. In her despair she had fled to the bosom of her father, and sought support and assistance from him.

The dark clouds had all rolled over, and the heavens were again bright and clear. Berlin was freed from the enemy. Elise was convalescent, and the town of Berlin, was preparing for her noblest citizen a banquet of gratitude.

The appointed hour had arrived for Gotzkowsky to receive the deputations, and he betook himself to the hall next the garden. A thundering hurrah received him. It proceeded from his workmen, who had come in procession through the garden, and were waving their hats and caps. They were followed by a multitude of women in black. This day they had laid aside the tears and griefs for their husbands and sons fallen in battle, in order to thank Gotzkowsky with a smile for the magnanimous kindness with which he had taken their part and secured their future.

Following these women came the poor orphans, with mourning-crape on their arms. They rushed forward joyously toward Gotzkowsky, stretching out their little hands to him, and, at a word from the head operative, Balthazar, they stretched open their small mouths, and gave out such a shrill and crashing hurrah that the windows rattled, and many a stout workman stopped his ears and felt a ringing in his head.

"One more hurrah!" cried the enthusiastic Balthazar; and "hurrah!" screamed and squeaked the children.

"And now for a third—"

But Gotzkowsky seized hold of Balthazar's arm which he was about to move again, and with a look of comical terror, exclaimed: "But, man, don't you know that I have further use for my ears to-day? You deafen me with your screaming. That's enough."

Balthazar struggled himself free from the strong grasp of his master, and placed himself in a theatrical position opposite to him. He was able this day to indulge in his passion for eloquence, for the workmen had chosen him for their orator, and he had a right to speak. As he spoke, it could be seen by his sparkling eyes, and by his fiery enthusiasm, that his words had not been learned by rote, but proceeded from his heart.

"Sir, allow me to speak and express my joy, for it is a joy to have a noble master. Look at these children, dear master. Three days ago they had fathers who could work and care for them. But the cannon-balls deprived them of their fathers, and God sent them a father, and you are he. You adopted these children when they were forsaken by all else. You said: 'God forbid that the children of these brave men, who had fallen in defence of the liberty of Berlin, should be orphans! I will be their father.' Yes, sir, that is what you said, and all the weeping mothers and all your workmen heard it and wrote it down in their hearts. Ask these widows for whom they pray to God. Ask the poor who were without bread and whom you fed. Ask the whole town who it is whom they bless and praise. They will all name the name of Gotzkowsky; with one voice they will all cry out: "Long live our friend and father! Long live Gotzkowsky!"

Unanimously did all join in this cry, shouting out, "Long live Gotzkowsky!"

Deeply moved, Gotzkowsky stretched out his hands to the workmen, and accepted, with cordial gratification, the flowers offered by the children. "Thank you, thank you," cried he, in a voice of deep emotion. "You have richly recompensed me, for I perceive that you love me, and nothing can be more beautiful than love."

"Diamonds!" cried out Ephraim, as he made his way through the crowd with Itzig and a deputation of the Jews, toward the hero of the day—"diamonds are more valuable than love, Gotzkowsky. Look at this brilliant, which sparkles and shines more brightly than ever did a look of love from any human eye."

He presented to Gotzkowsky a costly solitaire diamond, and continued: "Be so kind and grant us the favor of accepting this present. It is a diamond of the first water."

"It is a petrified tear of joy," interrupted Itzig, "shed by us on our delivery by you from taxation. You are our greatest benefactor, our best friend. You have proved yourself the savior of the Jews, for you freed us from the tax, and saved us what is more precious than honor, and rank, and happiness—our money; for, without money, the Jew is nobody. Accept, therefore, the ring, and wear it for our sakes."

"Accept it, we pray you," cried Ephraim, and the Jews took up the cry.

Gotzkowsky took the ring, and placed it on his finger, thanking the givers for the costly present, and assuring them he would wear it with pleasure in honor of them.

Itzig's brow was clouded with a slight frown, and stepping back to Ephraim and his friends, he muttered, "He accepts it. I was in hopes he would refuse it, for it cost much money, and we could have made very good use of it."

The solemn advance of the honorable gentlemen of the Berlin Town Council interrupted Itzig's private soliloquy, and drew his attention toward the chief burgomaster, Herr von Kircheisen, who, in all the splendor and dignity of his golden chain and of his office, accompanied by the senators and town officers, strode pompously through the crowd, and presented his hand to Gotzkowsky, who was respectfully advancing to meet him.

"The Council of Berlin has come to thank you. For it is an unparalleled example for a man to undertake and go through what you have done for us, without any interest, without any ulterior object."

"You make me out better than I am," replied Gotzkowsky, smiling at Herr von Kircheisen's pompous words. "I had an ulterior object. I wished to gain the love of my fellow-citizens. If I have succeeded, I am more than rewarded, and I pray you say no more on the subject."

The chief burgomaster shook his head majestically. "You have exercised toward us the virtue of philanthropy. Allow us to exercise toward you in return the virtue of gratitude." He took from the hands of the assistant burgomaster a dark-red etui, from which he a wreath of oak-leaves, worked in silver, which he presented to Gotzkowsky. "John Gotzkowsky," said he, solemnly, "the Council and citizens of Berlin request you, through me, to accept this memorial of their love and gratitude. It is the civic crown of your magnanimity. Receive it from our hands, and accept also our vow that we will never forget what you have done for the town of Berlin."

Tears of delight, of heart-felt joy stood in Gotzkowsky's eyes as he took the oaken crown from his hands, and glowing words of gratitude poured from his lips.

Not far off, in a niche of a window of the hall, stood Messrs. Krause and Kretschmer, with sullen looks, witnessing the homage paid to Gotzkowsky, their souls filled with envy and rage. They, too, had come to thank him, but with unwilling hearts, because they could not be well absent from the festivities which the whole town offered him. But they were vexed to see this man, whom they hated from the bottom of their hearts, because of their obligations to him, so universally honored and beloved. It annoyed them to see the pleasant and affable smile with which the otherwise proud burgomaster conversed with him; to see with what cordial friendship the senators and councilmen surrounded him.

"I came hither," said Mr. Krause, softly, "to thank Gotzkowsky for saving us, but I must confess it worries me to see him so glorified."

Mr. Kretschmer shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "Let them praise him," said he; "the Vossian Gazette will not notice it, and I will not write the smallest article on this occasion. As for the service he rendered us—well, certainly, it would have been unpleasant to have been flogged, but then we would have been martyrs to our liberal opinions; the whole world would have admired and pitied us, and the king would not have refused us a pension."

"Certainly," whispered Mr. Krause, "he would have granted us a pension, and the whipping would have made us famous. It has never been forgotten of the English poet, Payne, that King Charles the First had his ears cut off, because he wrote against him. He is not celebrated for his writings, but for his chopped ears. We, too, might have become famous if this Gotzkowsky had not, in the most uncalled-for manner, interfered, and—but look!" cried he, interrupting himself, "the interview with the Council is finished, and it is now our turn to thank him."

The two editors hastened toward him in order, in well-arranged speech, and with assurances of eternal gratitude, to offer their thanks.

* * * * *



CHAPTER XVIII.

A ROYAL LETTER.

Mr. Krause had not yet finished the declamation of the poem which his inspiration had produced in honor of Gotzkowsky, when a loud noise was heard at the door of the hall, and Gotzkowsky's body-servant rushed in. A messenger of the Council was without, he announced; a letter had just arrived from the king, and, as he was to deliver it to the burgomaster in person, the messenger had brought him here. He handed Herr von Kircheisen a letter, and the latter broke the seal with majestic composure.

A pause of anxious expectation ensued. Each one inquired of himself with trembling heart what could be the meaning of this royal letter.

The countenance of the chief magistrate grew more and more cheerful, and suddenly he called aloud: "This is indeed a message of gladness for our poor town. The king, our gracious lord, releases us from our obligation to pay the promised war-tax of a million and a half. He wishes to retaliate for the Wurzburg and Bamberg bonds captured from the Aulic Council. For which reason his majesty's order is that we do not pay."

A single cry of joy sounded from the lips of all present. Gotzkowsky alone was silent, with downcast eyes, and his earnest, pensive expression contrasted strongly with the bright, joyous countenances which were illuminated by the order of the king to keep their money.

Among the happiest and most radiant, however, were the rich mint farmers Ephraim and Itzig, and the chief burgomaster.

"The royal decree relieves our town of a horrible burden," said Herr von Kircheisen, with a happy smile.

"The whole mercantile community must be grateful to the king," cried Ephraim. "Berlin saves a million and a half, and the Russian is sold."

Suddenly Gotzkowsky drew himself up erect, and his eagle eye ran over the whole assembly with a bold, beaming glance. "The Russian is not sold," cried he, "for Berlin will pay him the balance of a million and a half. Berlin has pledged her word, and she will redeem it."

The countenances of those around grew dark again, and here and there were heard words of anger and wild resentment.

"How!" cried Itzig, "do you require of the merchants to pay what they can keep for themselves? The king has said, 'You shall not pay!'"

"And I say, we will pay," cried Gotzkowsky. "What is written is written, and what is promised must be performed, for this our honor requires. The king possesses not the power of annulling a promise or revoking an oath! He who does not fulfil his word of honor is not a man of honor, were he even a king."

"But," said Herr von Kircheisen, pathetically, "there are nevertheless circumstances which render impossible the fulfilment of an obligation."

Gotzkowsky answered ardently: "If such do occur, the man of honor dies when he cannot fulfil his word. But you—you do not wish to die. Oh no! You wish to break your word in order to live pleasantly. You wish to profit by your breach of promise. You wish to declare yourselves insolvent and cheat your creditors of their money, and thereby amass wealth."

A general storm of indignation interrupted Gotzkowsky, and the very men who had come for the purpose of making a formal demonstration of their gratitude now approached him with angry gestures and threatening words.

"A million and a half is no child's play," screamed Ephraim. "Money is more precious than honor."

"I say money is honor," cried Itzig. "As long as we keep our millions, we keep our honor."

"You are very generous," sneered Kretschmer. "Like a gentleman, you pay your debts out of other people's pockets, and the citizens will have to pay millions to enable you to keep your word."

Gotzkowsky cast one look of contemptuous pity on him, and replied: "You forget, sir, that I did not act in my own name, but in that of the magistracy and merchants of Berlin. Not I alone would be faithless to my word, but the whole town of Berlin."

"But I repeat," said the chief burgomaster, "that the king has released us from the obligation of keeping our word."

"No king can do that," interrupted Gotzkowsky. "A man of honor must keep his word, and no one, not even a king, can absolve him from it."

"Let us not quarrel about matters of opinion," said Kircheisen, shrugging his shoulders. "My opinion is, that we do not pay this sum."

"No, we will not pay it!" cried all in tumultuous excitement, as they surrounded the burgomaster, discussing in cheerful conversation the advantages of non-payment.

Gotzkowsky stood listening to them alone, unobserved, and forgotten. His heart was heavy with sadness, and painfully did he reflect: "This is the unholy influence of money, hardening the heart and silencing the voice of honor. For a few millions of dollars do they sell their good name. One final attempt let me make. I will see what their cowardice will do."

Again did he enter their midst, and with convincing words and ardent eloquence portray the danger which would ensue from the non-payment of the bonds.

The Russian was not very far from Berlin: if he had retired in forced marches he could return thither with equal rapidity in order, in the wantonness of his wrath, to take vengeance on the faithless town.

"In an unlucky moment," said he, "the Russians might gain a victory over our king. He would then return and rend us like a tiger. I would then no longer have the power of protecting you, for General Tottleben's anger would be turned principally against me, who guaranteed the payment of the contribution. God himself does not protect him who breaks his word. He is an outlaw."

A deep silence followed Gotzkowsky's speech. All the faces were again overcast, and in the contracted brow and anxious countenances could be read the fact that his words had painfully convinced them that it was necessary to pay.

Even Herr von Kircheisen in his fear of the return of the Russians, forgot the enormous amount of the sums to be paid, and said, with a melancholy sigh: "Gotzkowsky is, I am afraid, right. It is very hard to pay the money, but it is very dangerous not to do it."

"It might cost us our heads," confirmed the first councilman.

Ephraim stood with his head cast down, and muttered to himself, "Money is very dear, but life is still dearer."

Itzig cried out in despair: "Let us keep our money. Without money the Jew is nobody."

But the chief burgomaster, who had consulted the councilmen, now approached Gotzkowsky, and, with a smile, offered him his hand. "We thank you," said he, "for you have spoken wisely, and your advice shall be followed. We will pay, for we cannot help ourselves. But we must beg you to do us another important service. Go to the king and beg him not to be angry with us if we do not obey his order."

"Yes, do so, do so, Gotzkowsky!" cried all the others. "Go to the king, he is friendly toward you—beg for us."

Gotzkowsky's countenance beamed with generous satisfaction. "Very well," said he; "I will go to the king and beg him to allow the town of Berlin to preserve its honor immaculate, and pay the promised sum."

"Use all your eloquence, that the king may remain favorably inclined toward us, and not become angry with us for acting this once against his orders," admonished the chief burgomaster.

"The king is a high-minded and noble man," said Gotzkowsky, enthusiastically. "He looks upon a man's word as sacred, and will understand us and honor us for not wishing to break ours."

An hour later the chief citizens and merchants of Berlin repaired to the spacious town-hall, where an elegant banquet had been prepared, and merriment prevailed, and glasses sounded; and Berlin, rescued, celebrated the first day of joy and happiness.

But John Gotzkowsky, to whom this feast was given, whom Berlin called her deliverer and benefactor, was not present at this banquet. Deeply buried in furs he had just entered his carriage, and braving danger and toil, in the cold and darkness he drove away toward Meissen, where the king had established his headquarters.

* * * * *



BOOK III.



CHAPTER I.

FREDERICK THE GREAT AT MEISSEN.

The great battle of Torgau had been fought, and the Prussian army, after so many combats and such a bloody victory, was contemplating with lively satisfaction the going into winter quarters, which, it hoped, this time would be in Saxony. The Prussian headquarters were, for the time being, in Meissen, and in the palace there, for a short resting-spell, dwelt the king, who for many years had only experienced the troubles and dangers of his position; the king who had often struggled with hunger and care, daily privation and mortal danger, and who one day, wearied out by sleeping night after night on the cold ground, commissioned his adjutant to provide a bundle of straw for the comfort of his royal person. The king had for a long time spared Saxony. He was sorry for this beautiful, afflicted land. But Saxony was finally to be treated as an enemy's country, as she would not appreciate Frederick's noble forbearance and clemency, and had allied herself to his enemies with fanatical zeal. And now her devastated fields, her paralyzed factories, her impoverished towns and deserted villages, testified to her distress and the calamities of war. But at this time quiet and tranquillity reigned in the hostile camps. On both sides they were too tired to be able to carry on a fresh conflict, and the strength of both parties being exhausted, they were obliged to allow each other time for rest. Besides, the winter had set in early with unusual severity, and, to all appearances, put an end to the campaign of 1760.