The day following the occupation of Berlin, a strange and singular procession moved down the Linden Street through the Brandenburg Gate, and took the road to Charlottenburg. Brühl's dragoons and De Lacy's chasseurs rode on each side of the line, which would have excited laughter, if pity and sorrow had not overcome the comical element. It was a procession of children decked in uniform, and having nothing military about them but their apparel, nothing manly but the dress-sword at their side.
This singular little regiment was the "Corps of Cadets," which had been made prisoners of war by the Austrians and Saxons.
The commandant, Von Rochow, did not imagine that the enemy would carry his hard-heartedness to such an extent as to consider these lads of tender age as part of the garrison, and make them prisoners of war in consequence. None of these boys exceeded the age of twelve years (the larger and older ones having been drafted into the army to supply the want of officers), and he presumed that their very helplessness and weakness would be their security, and therefore had omitted to mention them specially in the surrender. But the conqueror had no compassion on these little children in uniform, and pronounced them prisoners of war. Even Liliputian warriors might be dangerous! Remember the pangs suffered by Gulliver, as, lying quietly on the ground, he was suddenly awakened by a violent discharge poured into him from behind the high grass by the Liliputians. To be sure their weapons were only armed with needles—whence we may infer that the Liliputians are the original inventors of the modern Prussian needle-percussion rifles—but, one can be killed by needle-pricks. Count De Lacy feared, perhaps, the needle weapons of the little Liliputian cadets, and treated the poor, delicate, tender children as if they were tough old veterans, accustomed to all the hardships and privations of war. With coarse abuse and blows from the butt of the musket, they were driven out into the highway, and compelled to travel on the soft, muddy roads without cloaks, notwithstanding the severe weather, and only the short jackets of their uniforms. Heart-rending was the wail of the poor little ones from whom the war had taken their fathers, and poverty their mothers—torn from their home, the refuge of their orphaned childhood, to be driven like a flock of bleating lambs out into the desert wilderness of life.
And when their feet grew weary, when their little bodies, unaccustomed to fatigue, gave way, they were driven on with blows from sabres and the butts of muskets. When they begged for a piece of bread, or a drop of water for their parched lips, they were laughed at, and, instead of water, were told to drink their own tears, which ran in streams down their childish cheeks. They had already marched the whole day without food or refreshment of any kind, and they could hardly drag their bleeding feet along. With eyes bright with fever, and parched tongues, they still wandered on, looking in the distance for some friendly shelter, some refreshing spring.
At nightfall the little cadets were camped in an open field, on the wet ground. At first, they begged for a little food, a crust of bread; but when they saw that their sufferings gave pleasure to the dragoons, and that their groans were to them like a pleasant song, they were silent, and the spirit of their fathers reigned uppermost in the breasts of these little, forsaken, trembling lads. They dried their eyes, and kept their complaints in their little trembling hearts.
"We will not cry any more," said little Ramin, who though only twelve years of age, was yet the oldest of the captives, and recognized as their captain and leader. "We will not cry any more, for our tears give pleasure to our enemies. Let us be cheerful, and that perhaps will vex them. To spite them, and show how little we think of our hunger, let us sing a jolly song."
"Come on, let us do it!" cried the boys. "What song shall we sing?"
"Prince Eugene," cried young Ramin; and immediately with his childish treble struck up "Prince Eugene, the noble knight."
And all the lads joined in with a sort of desperate enthusiasm, and the song of the noble knight rose from their young lips like a peal of rejoicing.
But gradually one little trembling voice after another fell, by degrees the song grew lower and shriller, and became lost in a trembling whisper; then it would rise into an unnatural and terrified scream, or sink into a whining sob or trembling wail.
Suddenly little Ramin stopped, and a cry of pain, like the sound of a snapped string, burst from his breast. "I cannot sing any more," sighed he. "Hunger is killing me." And he sank down on his knees, and raised his little arms beseechingly to one of the Austrian soldiers, who was marching beside him, comfortably consuming a roast chicken.
"Oh! give me a bit of bread, only a mouthful, to keep me from starving to death."
"Have pity on us, do not let us starve!"
With similar piteous lamentations, the whole corps of trembling, weeping, starving little cadets threw themselves on their knees, and filled the air with their cries and prayers.
"Well, if you positively insist upon eating, you shall have something to appease your hunger," said the officer who commanded the chasseurs, and he whispered a few words to his corporal, who received them with a loud laugh, and then rode off.
"Now, be quiet, and wait," commanded the Austrian officer. "I have sent the corporal and some soldiers into the village to get food for you. Only wait now, and be satisfied." And the children dried their eyes, and comforted each other with encouraging words.
With what impatience, what painful longing, did they look forward to the promised food! How they thanked God, in the gladness of their hearts, that He had had pity on them, and had not allowed them to die of hunger!
They all seemed revived, and strained their hopeful eyes toward the quarter whence the corporal was to return. And now, with one voice, they broke out into a cry of joy; they had espied him returning, accompanied by soldiers who seemed to be bringing a heavy load.
They approached nearer and nearer. "Form a ring," commanded the officer, and they obeyed in expectant gladness; and around the thickly crowded ring the Austrian officers and the troop of soldiers took their stand. In silent waiting stood the cadets, and their hearts leaped for joy.
"Attention! your dinner is coming," cried the officer.
The ring opened. Ah! now the corporal and the soldiers are going to bring in the dinner.
But no! The dinner came walking along by itself. With a dignified step it marched in and gave utterance to an expressive bleat. It was alivesheep, which was to be given to the poor lads who were faint from hunger. An outburst of boisterous laughter from the Austrians greeted the dignified wether, and drowned the cries of the bitterly disappointed cadets.
"A sheep!" they cried, "and what are we to do with it?"—and they began to weep afresh.
"Kill him and roast him!" jeered the officer. "You are brave soldiers. Well, you will only have to do what we often do in camp. Be your own cook and butler; none of us will help you. We want to see what sort of practical soldiers you will make, and whether you are as good hands at cooking as at crying and blubbering."
And the Austrians folded their arms, and looked on idly and with derisive satisfaction at these poor children who stood there with their heads bowed down with helplessness and grief.
At length little Ramin arose. His eyes glistened with fierce defiance, and an expression of noble courage illuminated his pale countenance.
"If the sheep belongs to us," said he, "we will eat him."
"But he's alive," cried the boys.
"We will kill him," answered the little fellow.
"We? we ourselves? We are no butchers. We have never done such a thing!"
"Have we ever killed a man?" asked Ramin, rolling his large bright eyes around the circle of his comrades. "Have we ever deprived a man of his life?"
"No!"
"Well, then, we will have it yet to do! We hope to be able to kill many an enemy, and to do that we will have to begin with some one. Let us make believe, then, that this wether is the enemy, and that we have to attack him. Now, then, down upon him!"
"Ramin is right," cried the boys; "let us attack the enemy."
"Attention!" commanded Ramin.
The boys drew themselves up in military order right opposite the bleating sheep.
"Draw swords!"
In the twinkling of an eye they had drawn their little rapiers, which looked more like penknives than swords, and which the Austrians had left to their little prisoners of war.
"One, two, three!" commanded the little Ramin. "Attention! Forward!"
Down they charged upon the enemy, who was standing motionless, with staring eyes, bleating loudly. The Austrian soldiers roared and screamed with delight, and confessed, with tears in their eyes, that it was the best joke in the world, and no end of fun to see these poor boys made desperate by hunger.
The first feat of arms of the little cadets was completed, the wether was slain. But now came the question how to dress him, how to convert the dead beast into nice warm roast meat.
They were well aware that none of the laughing, mocking soldiers would help them, and therefore they disdained to ask for help. Wood, a roasting-pit, and a kettle were given them—means enough to prepare a good soup and roast. But how to begin and set about it they themselves hardly knew. But gnawing hunger made them inventive. Had they not often at home skinned many a cunningly caught mole—had they not often killed and drawn a rabbit? The only difference was that the sheep was somewhat larger than a mole or a rabbit.
Finally, after much toil and trouble, and under the approving laughter of the spectators, they accomplished it. The meat simmered in the kettle, watched by two cadets, two others turning the spit. The work was done; the sheep was converted into soup and roast.
And because they showed themselves so industrious and cheerful, one and another of the soldiers softened their hearts and threw them a piece of bread or a canteen; and the poor boys accepted these alms thrown at them with humble gratitude, and no feeling of resentment or defiance remained in their hearts, for hunger was appeased; but appeased only for the moment—only to encounter new sufferings, renewed hunger, fresh mockeries. For onward, farther onward must they wander. Every now and then one of them sank down, begging for pity and compassion. But what cared the soldiers, who only saw in the children the impersonation of the hated enemy, to be tortured and worried to death as a sport?
More than twenty of these little cadets succumbed to the sufferings of this journey, and died miserably, forsaken and alone, on the high road; and no mother was there to close their eyes, no father to lean over them and bless them with a tear. But over these poor martyr-children watched the love of God, and lulled them to sleep with happy dreams and gentle fancies about their distant homes, their little sister there, or the beautiful garden in which they had so often chased butterflies together. And amidst such fancies and smiling memories they dreamed away their childish souls, beyond the grave, to a holy and happy reawakening.
* * * * *
General von Tottleben was alone in his chamber—at least he had no visible company; but two invisible companions were there—Care and Sorrow. They whispered to him uncomfortable and melancholy thoughts, making his countenance serious and sad, and drawing deep and dark lines across his brow. He was a German, and was fighting in the ranks of the enemy against his German fatherland. Therein lay the secret of his care-worn features, the reading of the suppressed sighs; the broken, sorrowful words which he uttered, as with folded arms and bowed head he paced up and down his room. He was a German, and loved his country, which had repaid his love with that apathy and non-appreciation that have destroyed and killed some of the greatest and noblest men of Germany; while others have taken refuge in foreign countries, to find there that recognition which was denied them at home. General von Tottleben was only a German—why, then, should Germany take notice of him? Because he possessed information, talent, genius. Germany would have appreciated these if Von Tottleben had been a foreigner; but, as unfortunately he was only a German, Germany took no notice of him, and compelled him to seek in a foreign country the road to fame and distinction. He had gone to Russia. There his talents had been prized and employed. He was now a general in the Russian army, and the alliance between Russia and Austria compelled him to fight against his own country.
But the Russian general still preserved his German heart, this heart so strong in suffering, so unfaltering in its faith, so faithful in its love, so great in hope, humble in its obedience, modest in its desires; this German heart of his was the cause of much suffering to him, for it could not adapt itself to his Russian instructions, and despite his efforts to render it callous, would insist upon overflowing with pity and sympathy. He loved Berlin, for in this city he had passed the best years of his youth. And now he was called on to act as a cruel tyrant, an unfeeling barbarian, to sow broadcast death and destruction in this city, from which he yearned so to win a little love, a little sympathy for her rejected son.
But now his German heart was forced into silence by the exigencies of Russian discipline, and the general had to obey the orders of his superior officer, General von Fermore. His chief had ordered him to exercise the utmost severity and harshness, and imposed upon him the task of scourging Berlin like a demon of vengeance. And yet Berlin had committed no other crime than that of remaining faithful to her king, and of not wishing to surrender to the enemy.
A fresh dispatch had just arrived from General von Fermore, and its contents had darkened the brow of Tottleben with anxious care. He had received orders to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. This noble and handsome building, which rose in proud splendor in the midst of a populous town, was to be destroyed without reference to the fact that the blowing up of this colossal edifice would scatter death and ruin throughout unfortunate Berlin.
"I will not do it," said he, pacing up and down the room, and crushing the accursed paper which brought the cruel order in his clinched hand. "I cannot be such a barbarian. Fermore may command me to do barbarous actions, but I will not accept such commands! I will not obey! No one but myself knows of this order. I will ignore it. The Empress Elizabeth has always been very gracious toward me, and will forgive me for not executing an order which certainly never proceeded from her own kind heart." At this moment the door opened, and the adjutant entering, announced Count de Lacy.
Tottleben's countenance assumed a gloomy expression, and, as with hasty step he advanced toward the Austrian general, he muttered to himself, "I perceive the bloodhounds have got the scent, and are eager for blood." In the mean time Count de Lacy approached him with a friendly and gracious smile. He seemed not to be at all aware that Tottleben did not accept the hand which the Austrian general held out to him with a hearty greeting.
"I come to chat for a short quarter of an hour with your excellency," said Count de Lacy, in very fluent German, but with the hard foreign accent of a Hungarian. "After a battle won, I know nothing pleasanter than to recall with a comrade the past danger, and to revel again in memory the excitement of the fight."
"May I request your excellency to remember that the Austrians cannot count the conquest of Berlin in the list of their victories," cried Count Tottleben, with a sarcastic smile. "It was the Russian army which besieged Berlin, and Berlin surrenderedto us."
"You are very kind to remind me of it," said Count de Lacy, with his unchangeable, pleasant smile. "In the mean time may I request a more particular explanation than this polite reminder?"
"You shall have it, sir," cried Tottleben, passionately. "I mean to say that Berlin is not Charlottenburg, and to request that the vandalism which the Austrian troops practised there, may not be transferred to Berlin. Be satisfied with the booty which your soldiers stowed away in their knapsacks at that place, and have the kindness to order the Austrian army to learn a little discipline and humanity from the Russians."
"From the Russians?" asked Count de Lacy, with ironical astonishment."Truly one is not accustomed to learn humanity from that quarter.Does your excellency mean to say that the Austrians are to learn goodmanners from the Russians?"
"Yes, from the Russians," replied Tottleben—"from my soldiers, who neither plunder nor rob, but bear in mind that they are soldiers, and not thieves!"
"Sir," cried De Lacy, "what do these words mean?"
"They mean that I have promised my protection to the people of Berlin, and that I am prepared to afford it to them, even against our own allies. They mean that I have made myself sufficiently strong to bid you defiance, sir, and to defend Berlin against the cruelty and inhumanity of the Austrian army. The Russian army will compel it to be humane, and to pause in the cruel rage with which they have desolated unhappy Germany."
Count de Lacy shrugged his shoulders. "What is Germany to you, and why do you feel for her?" asked he jeeringly. "I beg you, count, let us not speak of Germany. What to us is this lachrymose, fantastic female Germania, which has been betrothed to so many lords and wooers, that she can remain faithful and true to none? Germania will then only be happy when one of her lovers has the boldness to kill off and tread under foot all his rivals and so build himself up an undisputed throne. That is Austria's mission, and our duty is to fulfil it. We are the heralds who go before Germania's Austrian bridegroom, and everywhere illuminate the heavens with the torches of our triumphs. If the torches now and then come too near some piece of humanity and set it on fire, what is that to us? Germany is our enemy, and if we have a puling compassion on our enemy, we become traitors to our own cause. That's all. But what is the use of this strife and these recriminations?" asked he, suddenly breaking into a smile. "I have only come to ask your excellency when you intend to light these new wedding-torches which are to redden the sky of Berlin?"
"What wedding-torches?" inquired Tottleben, turning pale.
"Well, those which are to burst out from the mint and factory buildings," said De Lacy, with a smile of indifference. "I anticipate with extraordinary pleasure this exhibition of fireworks which the town of Berlin is going to give in honor of our presence."
"You mean to say in disgrace of our presence," exclaimed Tottleben, ardently.
Count de Lacy looked at him with a compassionate shrug of the shoulders. "My dear count," said he, with cutting coldness, "when a man becomes a Russian general, he must have a Russian heart, and not allow himself to be influenced by any German softness or sympathy. Otherwise it might happen that they might make a mistake, and not being able to deprive you of your German heart, might take your German head instead."
General Tottleben drew back with astonishment, and stared at him.
Count de Lacy continued, smiling, and in a quiet tone: "I warn you to guard against your own mildness and your German heart. General Fermore is my friend, and often consults me about the meaning of German words. How would you like it if I should explain the wordtreasonin a manner dangerous to yourself, and if this explanation should result in translating your excellency into Siberia?"
"General Fermore is neither my commander nor my master," criedTottleben, proudly.
"But the lord and master of your lady and mistress, the high and mighty Empress Elizabeth—remember that. Will your excellency now condescend to inform me at what time the Berlin armory shall rise fluttering in the air like a bird?"
"And do you know that, too?" asked Tottleben, with painful astonishment.
"I have already told you that the Russians and Austrians are faithful allies, and have no secrets from each other, as far as their designs upon Germany are concerned. Oh, it will be a splendidfeu de joiefor the house of Austria, when the Prussian armory is blown into the air! When are we to enjoy this spectacle, general?"
General von Tottleben sank his head in silence on his breast. Count de Lacy regarded him with a cold and piercing glance. Tottleben felt this look, and understood its important significance. He knew that his whole future, his freedom, perhaps even his life, hung upon this moment.
"In three hours from now the spectacle will take place," said he, with a forced laugh. "In three hours the wedding-torches shall be lighted, and in order to make it the pleasanter, we will have the wails of the people of Berlin as a musical accompaniment."
"In three hours, then," said Count de Lacy, bowing low; "I hasten to announce it to my officers. I am burning with impatience to witness this rare spectacle."
Count de Lacy departed, and General Tottleben was again alone.
For a long time did he pace his room in abstract meditation, anger and pity, fear and terror struggling in his soul. He was perfectly aware of the danger which threatened him. He knew that Count Fermore hated him as a dangerous rival for the smiles of the empress, and only waited for a favorable opportunity to overthrow him. He was therefore obliged to yield to this cruel necessity; the Berlin armory must be sacrificed.
Suddenly his countenance lighted up, and his features assumed an expression of joy. He hastened rapidly to the door and summoned his body servant and slave, Ivan Petrowitsch. "Ivan," said he, with the stern and cold composure of a Russian—"Ivan, I have a commission for you, and if you are successful in its execution, I will not have your son Feodor hung, although I know that yesterday, contrary to my order, he was present at the plundering of a house."
"Speak, master, what am I to do? I will save my son, even if it cost my own life."
"It will cost your life, Ivan."
"I am your property, master, and my life belongs to you," said the serf, sadly. "You can have me whipped to death any time it pleases you. Say, then, what I must do to save my son."
"Fifty Cossacks are to ride immediately to the powder-mills to bring powder. You will accompany them."
Ivan looked at him with astonishment. "Is that all I have to do?" asked he.
Tottleben was not yet sufficiently Russian. His German heart would assert its rights. As he met the inquiring look of Ivan, he turned his eye away. He forgot that it was only a serf he was speaking to, and not a human being.
But he soon recalled it. "You will accompany these Cossacks to the powder-mills, I say, and as you do so you will smoke your pipe, and see that the tobacco burns well, and that you are burning tinder on top of it."
An expression of comprehension shone in Ivan's eyes. "I will smoke, master," said he, sadly.
"When you are in the powder-mills, and the Cossacks are loading the powder, you will help them, and in doing so you will let the pipe fall out of your mouth," said Tottleben, in an undertone, and his voice trembled ever so little. There was a pause—Ivan leaned, pale and trembling, against the wall. General Tottleben had turned away, as if afraid to encounter the pallid, terrified countenance of his slave.
"If you do not execute my command," said he, finally, "I will have your only son hung, as he deserves to be. If you betray to any one soever a word of my order, I will have your wife whipped to death. Now think of it."
Ivan shook as if in an ague. His teeth chattered together. "I will smoke, master," said he, at last, with an effort, "and I will drop my pipe in the powder-mills. Have pity on my son, master, and spare my wife!"
"I will do so, Ivan," said Tottleben. "I will give them both their freedom, and a pension."
Ivan dropped his head, and a convulsive groan burst from his breast.
"Time passes; make haste!" cried the general, with assumed harshness.
"I go, master," sighed Ivan. "You will not, then, string up my poorFeodor, nor have my wife whipped?"
"If you execute my order strictly and punctually, I will care for them."
Two tears coursed slowly down Ivan's brown cheek. "I will carry out your orders, master; I will smoke, and I will drop my pipe. Farewell, master!"
He approached his master with slavish humility, and kissed the seam of his garment. "Farewell, master. I thank you, for you have always been a kind master to me," said he, and his tears moistened the general's coat.
General Tottleben was as yet unable completely to convert his German heart into a Russian one. He felt himself touched by this humble and heroic submission of his slave. He felt as if he must give him some comfort on his fatal road.
"Ivan," said he, softly, "your death will save, perhaps, not only the property, but also the lives of many hundred other men."
Ivan kissed passionately his proffered hand. "I thank you, master.Farewell, and think sometimes of your poor Ivan."
A quarter of an hour afterward was seen a troop of fifty Cossacks, on their swift-footed little horses, racing down Frederick Street. Each man had a powder-sack with him, and seeing them ride by, people whispered to each other, "They are riding to the powder-mills. They have shot away all their own powder, and now, in true Cossack style, they are going to take our Prussian powder." At that time Frederick Street did not reach beyond the river Spree. On the other bank began the faubourgs and the gardens. Even Monbijou was then only a royal country seat, situated in the Oranienburg suburb. The powder-mills, which lay beyond the gardens, with a large sandy plain intervening, were sufficiently remote from the town to prevent all danger from their possible explosion.
Ivan, the serf of Count von Tottleben, rode by the side of the officer of the Cossacks. He pranced his pony about, and was cheerful and jolly like his comrades, the merry sons of the steppe. As they reached the gate they halted their horses, and gazed with evident pleasure on the desert, wild, sandy plain, which stretched out before them.
"How beautiful that is!" exclaimed Petrowitsch, the hetman of theCossacks. "Just look—what a handsome steppe!"
"Just such a fine sand steppe as at home in our own country!" sighed one of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a song of his home.
"This is the finest scenery I have seen in Germany," cried another."What a pleasure it would be to race over this steppe!"
"Come on, then, let us get up a race over this splendid steppe," said a fourth, "and let us sing one of the songs we are used to at home."
"Yes, agreed! let us!" cried all, ranging quickly their horses in line.
"Wait a moment," cried Ivan; "I can't sing, you all know, and I've only one sweetheart, and that's my pipe. Let me then light my pipe so that I can smoke." He struck fire with his steel, and lighting the tinder, placed it in the bowl of his pipe. No one saw the sad, shuddering look which he cast at the glowing tinder and his spark-scattering pipe. "Now forward, boys, and sing us a lively song from home," said Ivan.
"Hurrah! hurrah!"
They charge over the beautiful plain, and sing in a pealing chorus, the favorite song of the Cossack, at once so soft and sad:
"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?"
Big tears ran down poor Ivan's cheek. No one saw them, no one observed him. He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the smoke out of his pipe. No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills. No one heard the sad words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang:
"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee,Leave my happy, heather plains?Ah! this parting does not grieve thee,Though still true my heart remains.Far from thee I roam,Sadly see the sunbeams shining,Lonely all the night I'm piningFar from thee alone."
They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring from their saddles.
Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he passes about his pipe; he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.
And now all's right. The pipe is alight. Like brilliant eyes of fire the burning tobacco shines out of the bowl. Ivan puts it back in his mouth and blows great clouds of smoke, as he and the Cossacks approach the gates of the powder-mills.
The Russian sentinels let them pass, and, joking and laughing merrily, the Cossacks carry their bags into the building to fill them with powder for the blowing up of the arsenal. How joyous and careless they are, these sons of the steppe! How calmly does Ivan continue to smoke his pipe, although they are now in the large hall, where casks of powder are ranged in endless rows!
And now a cask is opened, and merrily and jestingly the Cossacks begin to load the powder into their sacks.
What art thou staring at so wildly, Ivan Petrowitsch? Why do the big drops of sweat run down thy forehead? Why do thy limbs tremble, and why dost thou look so sadly and mournfully at thy comrades?
They sing so merrily, they chatter so gayly, all the while pouring the powder into their sacks nimbly and actively!
Ivan keeps on blowing furious clouds of smoke out of his pipe.
Suddenly he utters a cry, a heart-rending, pitiful cry. The burning pipe drops from his mouth!
Then rises a wild yell—an awful, horrible report!
The earth quakes and trembles, as if about to open, to vomit forth the burning stream of a thundering crater. The sky seems blackened by the fearful smoke which fills the air far and wide. Everywhere may be seen human bodies, single shattered limbs, ruins of the exploded building, flying through the air, and covering the groaning, trembling earth. But no syllable or sound of complaint, no death-rattle is now heard. All is over.
The powder-mills have flown into the air, and, though far distant from Berlin, yet this terrible explosion was felt in every part of the city.[1] In the Frederick Street the houses shook as if from an earthquake, and countless panes of glass were shattered.
With darkened brow and a burst of anger did General von Tottleben receive the news that the powder-mills had blown up, and fifty Cossacks had lost their lives thereby. He mourned for the unfortunate Cossacks and his poor serf, Ivan Petrowitsch. Still more did he lament that it was now impossible to blow up the arsenal in Berlin. But it was not his fault that the commands of his empress could not be executed. The Russians had shot away all their powder, and the stock in the powder-mills having been destroyed, there was none left to carry into execution this grand undertaking.
[Footnote 1: Archenholz: "History of the Seven Years' War," p. 194.]
* * * * *
A sad and anxious period had the unfortunate city of Berlin yet to pass through. With fear and trembling did the inhabitants await the approach of each morning, and in spiritless despondency they seemed to have lost all capacity for helping themselves.
There was but one man who, unterrified and unwavering, with the cheerful courage of a noble soul, exposed himself to danger, to suffering and grief, who proposed to himself but one object—to help others as far as lay in his power, and to avert fresh misfortune, additional care and anxiety from the too heavily laden inhabitants of Berlin.
This one man was John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of Berlin. In this day of their trouble the inhabitants looked up to him as to a helping angel; the poor prayed to him, the rich fled to him with their treasures; with him the persecuted found refuge, the hungry shelter and food.
For Gotzkowsky there was no rest or leisure, nor did he feel care or sorrow. The tears he had shed about Elise he had buried in his heart, overcoming a father's grief by the power of his will. At this time he only remembered that he was called to the sacred duty of succoring his fellow-men, his suffering brothers—to be a father to the needy, a deliverer to the oppressed.
The doors of his house were open to all who sought refuge with him. The wives and children and aged parents of his workmen rushed there with screams and loud lamentations, and he received them all, and gave them beds in his splendid halls, and his gilt and silken ottomans served for refreshing places to hungry and freezing poverty.
But not the poor alone, the wealthy also found refuge in his house. They knew that Gotzkowsky's word had much influence, not only with General Bachmann, but also with General von Tottleben, and that this latter had ordered that Gotzkowsky should always have free admission to him. In their anxiety and need they put aside the proud bearing of their rank and dignity, and hastened to him to plead for help and rest, to hide their treasures and place their lives and fortunes under his guardianship.
But while hundreds sought refuge and safety there, Gotzkowsky himself was like a stranger in his own house. Day and night was he seen on the streets; where-ever danger and alarm prevailed, he appeared like a rescuing angel; he brought help when all else despaired, and the power of his eloquence and his pleading words silenced even the rough insolence of the enemy's soldiers. A hundred times did he expose his own life to save some unfortunate. In the New Frederick Street he rushed through the flames into a burning house to save a child which had been forgotten.
Elsewhere he fought singly against twenty Austrian soldiers, who were about to carry off two young girls in spite of their heart-rending shrieks and entreaties. The rescued maidens sank at his feet, and bathed his hand with their tears.
Gotzkowsky raised them to his heart, and said, with an indescribable expression: "Should I not have compassion on you? Am not I a father? Thank my daughter, for it was she who saved you."
But now, at last, exhausted Nature demanded her rights. After two days and nights without rest, Gotzkowsky tottered toward his own house. As he crossed the threshold he asked himself with an anxious heart—"Will Elise come to meet me? Has she cared for me?" And trembling with care and love, he went in.
Elise did not come to meet him. No one bade him welcome but his servant Peter. Gently at last, indeed almost timidly, he ventured to inquire after his daughter.
"She is in the large hall, busy nursing the wounded who have been carried there."
Gotzkowsky's countenance expressed great delight and relief at this report. Elise had not, then, buried herself in the solitude of her room in idle complaint, but had sought, like himself, comfort for her suffering in helping and sympathizing with others. In this moment he appreciated the infinity of his love. He yearned to take her to his heart, and pour out to her all his unappreciated, doubted love, and convince her that she, his daughter, the only child of his wife, was the true end and object of his life. But unhappy, oppressed Berlin left him no time to attend to the soft and gentle dictates of his father's heart. He had scarcely got into his house, when two messengers arrived from the town Council, bringing him six thousand dollars in cash, with the urgent request that he would take charge of this sum, which would be safe only with him. The town messengers had scarcely left him, when there arrived the rich manufacturers, Wegeli and Wuerst, with a wagon-load of gold and silver bars which Gotzkowsky had promised to keep in his fire-proof cellars.
His house had become the treasury of the whole of Berlin; and if it had been destroyed, with all these gold and silver ingots, these diamonds and silver ware, money and papers, all the Exchanges of Europe would have felt the disastrous consequences.
At last, all these treasures were stowed away, and Gotzkowsky addressed himself to rest, when the door of his room was suddenly opened, and General von Bachmann entered hastily.
"Gotzkowsky," said he, "I have come with important intelligence, and to redeem the promise I made to my friend Sievers." Approaching more closely to Gotzkowsky, he said to him in an undertone: "General von Tottleben has just received orders to destroy and burn all royal factories and mills."
Gotzkowsky turned pale, and inquired with horror, "Why this barbarous proceeding?"
General Bachmann shrugged his shoulders. "It is the order of the commander-in-chief, Count von Fermore," said he; "and Tottleben will have to be all the more particular from the fact that, instead of the arsenal, fifty of our soldiers were blown into the air. Here, in the mean while, take this paper, and see whether, among the factories to be destroyed, one of yours has been included by mistake."
Gotzkowsky looked over the list with dismay. "Did not your excellency say that only royal factories were to be destroyed?"
"Yes, so runs the order."
"But the factories that stand on this list are not royal institutions. The brass-works in Eberwalde, the gold and silver factories, and the warehouse in Berlin, do not belong to the king, and are they going to be so barbarous as to destroy them? That cannot be. I will hasten to General Tottleben, and entreat him to revoke this cruel order."
General Bachmann shook his head sadly. "I am afraid it will be in vain," said he. "Besides, you incur great risk in your undertaking. The general is in a very angry, excited mood, and your intercession will only increase his bitterness and anger."
"I fear not his anger," cried Gotzkowsky boldly. "If no one else dares to tell him the truth, I will do it; and with argument and entreaty compel him to be humane, and to respect the property of others. Come, sir, let us go to General Tottleben!"
"No, sir. I am not going with you," said Bachmann, laughing. "I am not a man to tremble on the eve of battle, and yet I fear to meet Tottleben's angry looks. In his wrath he is like a Jupiter Tonans, ready to launch his thunderbolts, and dash to pieces all who approach him."
"I am not afraid of his thunder!" cried Gotzkowsky, fervently. "The property and welfare of Berlin are in danger. I must go to the general!"
"Then go along," said Bachmann, "and may God give power to your words!I have warned you, and that is all I can do."
Gotzkowsky did not answer him. Trembling with eagerness and impatience, he dressed himself, and throwing his cloak around him, he once more left his house, with the alacrity of a young man.
General Bachmann looked after him, smiling thoughtfully. "He is a noble fellow," said he, "and Berlin has good reason to be grateful to him, and to love him. But who knows? perhaps, for that very reason, she will one day hate him. Noble-mindedness is so soon forgotten! It is the solid weight that sinks to the bottom, while light deeds float on top. Mankind is not fond of being grateful. I would like to know whether Berlin will ever show a due appreciation of this noble man?"
* * * * *
The Russians had at last allowed themselves to be carried away by the example set them by the Austrians and Saxons. Like them, they roamed through Berlin, robbing and plundering, unmindful of discipline, and forgetting the severe punishments which Tottleben inflicted on those whose misdeeds reached his ear.
Like the Austrians, the Cossacks entered houses with wanton arrogance, and, under the pretext of being Russian safeguards, they stole, and robbed, and ill-treated in the rudest manner those who opposed their demands. They had even managed to reduce their robbery and extortion to a kind of system, and to value the human person after a new fashion. It was a sort of mercantile transaction, and the Cossacks were the brokers in this new-fashioned business. Stealthily and unheard, they slipped into houses, fell upon the unsuspecting women and children, and dragged them out, not to capture them as the Romans did the Sabine women, but to hold them as so much merchandise, to be redeemed by their friends and relatives at high and often enormous ransoms.
But the Cossacks drew but small profit from this hunt after noble human game. They were only servants, acting under orders from their officers. These latter divided the booty, throwing to the Cossacks a small reward for their skill in robbing.
Thus, for some days, Berlin was not only subjugated by the enemy, but a prey to robbers and slave-dealers, and moans and lamentations were heard in every house. All the more merrily did the enemy's soldiers carouse and enjoy themselves, laugh and joke. For them Berlin was nothing more than an orange to be squeezed dry, whose life-blood was to be drawn out to add new zest to their own draught of life.
The young Russian officers were sitting together in the large room of their barracks. They were drinking and making merry, and striking their glasses noisily together; draining them to the health of the popular, handsome, and brilliant comrade who had just entered their circle, and who was no other than he whom Gotzkowsky's daughter, in the sorrow of her heart, was mourning as dead!—no one else than the Russian colonel, Count Feodor von Brenda.
He had been right, therefore, in trusting to Fortune. Fortune had favored him, as she always does those who boldly venture all to win all, and who sport with danger as with a toy. Indeed, it was an original and piquant adventure which the Russian colonel had experienced, the more piquant because it had threatened him with death, and at one moment his life had been in extreme danger. It had delighted him for once to experience all the horrors of death, the palpitation, the despair of a condemned culprit; to acquire in his own person a knowledge of the great and overpowering feelings, which he had read so much about in books, and which he had not felt in reality even in the midst of battle. But yet this bold playing with death had, toward the last, lost a little of its charm, and a moment arrived when his courage failed him, and his daring spirit was overpowered by his awed physical nature. There was not, as there is in battle, the excitement which conquers the fear of death, and drunk with victory, mocks one to his face; there was not the wild delight which possesses the soldier in the midst of a shower of balls, and makes him, as it were, rush toward eternity with a shout. No, indeed! It was something quite different which Colonel von Brenda, otherwise so brave and valiant, now felt.
When the Austrian soldiers had pronounced his sentence of death, when they formed a ring around him at the Gens-d'Armes Market, and loaded their pieces for his execution, then the haughty Russian colonel felt a sudden change take place; his blood curdled in his veins, and he felt as if thousands of small worms were creeping through them, gliding slowly, horribly to his heart. At length, in the very despair which oppressed him, he found strength to cast his incubus from his breast, and with a voice loud and powerful as thunder to cry out for help and succor. His voice was heard; it reached the ear of General Bachmann, who came in person to set free the wild young officer, the favorite of his empress, from the hands of the Austrians.
This adventure, which had terminated so famously, Count Brenda now related to his friends and comrades. To be sure, the general had punished the mad freak with an arrest of four-and-twenty hours. But after undergoing this punishment, he was more than ever the hero of the day, the idol of his comrades, who now celebrated his release from arrest with loud rejoicing and the cracking of champagne bottles. After they had laughed and joked to their satisfaction, they resorted to the dice.
"And what stake shall we play for?" asked Feodor, as he cast a look of ill-concealed contempt on his young companions, who so little understood the art of drinking the cup of pleasure with decency, and rolled about on their seats with lolling tongues and leering eyes.
Feodor alone had preserved the power of his mind; his brain alone was unclouded by the fumes of champagne, and that which had made the others mad had only served to make him sad and gloomy. The drunkenness of his comrades had sobered him, and, feeling satiated with all the so-called joys and delights of life, he asked himself, with a smile of contempt, whether the stammering, staggering fellows, who sat next to him, were fit and suitable companions and associates of a man who had made pleasure a study, and who considered enjoyment as a philosophical problem, difficult of solution.
"And for what stake shall we play?" he asked again, as with a powerful grip he woke his neighbor, Lieutenant von Matusch, out of the half sleep which had crept over him.
"For our share of the booty!" stammered the lieutenant.
Feodor looked at him with surprise. "What booty? Have we, then, become robbers and plunderers, that you speak of booty?"
His comrades burst into a wild laugh.
"Just listen to the sentimental dreamer, the cosmopolite," cried Major von Fritsch. "He looks upon it as dishonorable to take booty. I for my part maintain that there is no greater pleasure, and certainly none which is more profitable. Fill your glasses, friends, and let us drink to our hunting. 'Hurrah! hurrah for human game!'"
They struck their glasses together, and emptied them amidst an uproar of laughter.
"Colonel, you shall have your share of the booty!" said Lieutenant von Matusch, laying his heavy, shaky hand on Feodor's shoulder. "We never intended to cheat you out of your portion, but you were not here, and therefore up to this time you could have no share in it."
As Feodor pressed him with questions, he related how they had formed a compact, and pledged themselves to have their booty and captives in common.
"We have caught more than a dozen head, and they have ransomed themselves handsomely," cried Major von Fritsch. "We have just sent out ten of our men again on the chase."
"Oh! I hope they will bring in just such another handsome young girl as they did yesterday," cried Matusch, rubbing his hands with delight. "Ah, that was a pleasant evening! She offered us treasures, diamonds, and money; she promised us thousands if we would only release her at once! She wept like a Madonna, and wrung her snow-white hands, and all that only made her prettier still."
Colonel Feodor looked at him in anger. In contact with such coarse and debauched companions his more refined self rose powerful within him, and his originally noble nature turned with loathing from this barren waste of vulgarity and infamy.
"I hope," said he, warmly, "that you have behaved as becomes noble gentlemen."
Matusch shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "I do not know what you call so, colonel. She was very pretty, and she pleased me. I promised to set her free to-day, for the ransom agreed on, and I have kept my word."
As he spoke thus, he burst into a loud laugh, in which his friends joined with glee.
But Feodor von Brenda did not laugh. An inexplicable, prophetic dread overpowered him. What if this young girl, described to him with so much gusto, and who had been so shamefully ill-treated, should prove to be his Elise, his beloved!
At this thought, anger and distress took possession of him, and he never loved Elise more ardently and truly than he did at this moment when he trembled for her. "And was there no one," cried he, with flashing eyes, "no one knightly and manly enough to take her part? How! even you, Major von Fritsch, allowed this thing to happen?"
"I was obliged to do so," replied the major. "We have made a law among ourselves, which we have all sworn to obey. It is established that the dice shall determine to which of the officers the booty shall belong; and he who throws the highest number becomes the owner of the person. He has to negotiate about the ransom. This, however, of course is divided among his comrades."
"But if the person is poor?" asked Feodor, indignantly, "if she cannot pay?"
"Then she belongs to him who has won her; he must decide on her fate.He is—"
The major stopped suddenly. The other officers raised themselves in their seats, and listened with breathless attention.
"I think I hear the signal," whispered the major. He had not deceived himself. A shrill, piercing whistle sounded a second time. The officers sprang from their seats, and broke into a loud cry of triumph:
"Our Cossacks are coming. They have caught something! Come, come, let us throw the dice."
With fierce eagerness, they all rushed to the table, and stretched out their hands for the bones. Immediately a deep, expectant silence ensued. Nothing was heard but the rattling of the dice, and the monotonous calling of the numbers thrown. Feodor alone remained at his place, lost in deep thought, and his tortured heart kept asking itself the question, "Could it be her whom the barbarians had captured and ill-used?" This question burnt in his brain like a red-hot dagger, upsetting his reason, and driving him almost mad with anger and grief. Still the rattling of the noisy dice went on—the calling of the numbers. No one took notice of the young man, who, in desperate distress, his clinched fist pressed against his breast, paced up and down the farther end of the room, uttering broken words of anger and grief. No one, as has been said, noticed him, nor did any one remark that at this moment the door in the background of the hall was opened, and six Cossacks entered, bearing a litter on their shoulders.
Feodor von Brenda saw them, and, with deep compassion, he regarded the veiled, inanimate figure lying on the litter, which was set down by the Cossacks.
"Colonel von Brenda," cried Major von Fritsch at this moment, "it is your turn."
"Oh, he is too sentimental!" laughed out Matusch. "Is not that the fact, colonel?"
Feodor remained musing and pensive. "It is a woman," said he to himself—"perhaps a young and handsome woman like Elise. How if I should try to save her? I have luck at the dice. Well, I will try." And with a firm step he approached the table. "Give me the bones," cried he. "I will throw with you for my share of the booty."
The dice rattled and tumbled merrily on the table.
"Eighteen spots!"
"The highest throw!"
"Colonel von Brenda has won!"
"The woman is mine!" cried Feodor, his countenance beaming with joy.
His comrades looked at him with astonishment. "A woman! How do you know beforehand that it is a woman?"
Feodor pointed silently to the back part of the room. There stood theCossacks, next to the litter, waiting in solemn silence to be noticed.
"A woman! Yes, by Heavens! it is a woman," cried the officers. And, with boisterous laughter, they rushed toward the Cossacks.
"And where did you pick her up?" asked Major von Fritsch.
"Don't know," answered one of the Cossacks. "We crept along a wall, and when we had climbed to the top, we saw a garden. We got down slowly and carefully, and waited behind the trees, to see if any one would come down the long avenue. We did not have long to wait before this lady came by herself. We rushed on her, and all her struggles, of course, went for nothing. Luckily for her and us, she fainted, for if she had cried out, some one, perhaps, might have come, and then we would have been obliged to gag her."
The officers laughed. "Well," said the major, "Colonel Feodor can stop her mouth now with kisses." In the mean while, Lieutenant Matusch threw the Cossacks a few copper coins, and drove them out of the room, with scornful words of abuse.
"And now let us see what we have won," cried the officers, rushing to the litter. They were in the act of raising the cloth which concealed the figure, but Feodor stepped forward with determined countenance and flashing eyes.
"Let no one dare to raise this veil," said he haughtily. His comrades rushed, with easily aroused anger, on him, and attempted again to approach the veiled woman. "Be on your guard!" cried Feodor, and, drawing his sword from its scabbard, he placed himself before the litter, ready for the combat. The officers drew back. The determined, defiant countenance of the young warrior, his raised and ready sword, made them hesitate and yield.
"Feodor is right," said the major, after a pause; "he has fairly won the woman, and it is his business now to settle about the ransom."
The others cast their eyes down, perhaps ashamed of their own rudeness. "He is right, she belongs to him," murmured they, as they drew back and approached the door.
"Go, my friends, go," said Feodor. "I promise you that I will settle with her about her ransom, and give up beforehand all claim to my share!"
The countenances of the Russian officers brightened up. They nodded and smiled toward him as they left the room. Count Feodor von Brenda was now alone with the veiled and insensible woman.
* * * * *
As soon as the officers had left the room, Feodor hastened to close the door after them carefully, to prevent any importunate intrusion. He then searched thoroughly all the corners of the room, and behind the window-curtains, to make sure that no one was concealed there. He wished to be entirely undisturbed with the poor woman whose face he had not yet beheld, but toward whom he felt himself attracted by a singular, inexplicable sensation. As soon as he was convinced that he was quite alone, he went to her with flushed cheeks and a beating heart, and unveiled her.
But scarcely had he cast his eyes on her, when he uttered a cry, and staggered back with horror. This woman who lay there before him, lifeless and motionless, pale and beautiful as a broken flower, was none other than Elise Gotzkowsky, his beloved! He stood and stared at her; he pressed his hands to his forehead as if to rouse himself from this spell which had hold of him, as if to open his eyes to truth and reality. But it was no dream, no illusion. It was herself, his own Elise. He approached her, seized her hand, passed his hands over her glossy hair, and looked at her long and anxiously. His blood rushed like a stream of fire to his heart, it seethed and burned in his head, in his veins; and, quite overcome, he sank down before her.
"It is she," murmured he softly, "it is Elise. Now she is mine, and no one can take her from me. She belongs to me, my wife, my beloved. Fate itself bears her to my arms, and I were a fool to let her escape again."
With passionate impetuosity he pressed her to his heart, and covered her lips and face with his kisses. But the violence of his affection aroused Elise. Slowly and stunned she raised herself in his arms, and looked around, as if awakened from a dream. "Where am I?" asked she, languidly.
Feodor, still kneeling before her, drew her more closely to his heart. "You are with me," said he, passionately, and as he felt her trembling in his arms, he continued still more warmly: "Fear nothing; my Elise, look not so timidly and anxiously about you. Look upon me, me, who am lying at your feet, and who ask nothing more from Fortune than that this moment should last an eternity."
Elise scarcely understood him. She was still stunned—still confused by the dreams of her swoon. She passed her hand over her forehead, and let it drop again list-less and powerless. "My senses are confused," whispered she in a low voice, "I do not hear; what has happened to me?"
"Do not ask, do not inquire," cried Feodor, ardently. "Think only that love has sent an angel to you, on whose wings you have reposed on your passage hither to me. Why will you ask after the nature of the miracle, when the miracle itself brings delight to our eyes and hearts? Therefore, fear nothing, gentle, pure being. Like an angel do you come to me through the deluge of sin. You bear the olive-branch of peace, and love and happiness are before us."
But as he was about to press her still more closely to his heart, a shudder pervaded her whole frame. "Oh, now, I recollect," she cried, vehemently; "now I know all! I was alone in the garden. There came those terrible men. They seized me with their rude hands. They wounded my heart with their horrible looks, which made me shudder. Whither have they brought me? where am I?"
"You are with me," said Feodor, carrying her hand to his lips.
For the first time, then, she looked at him—for the first time, she recognized him. A deep blush of joy suffused her cheeks, and an angelic smile beamed on her lips. She felt, she knew nothing further than that her lover was at her side, that he was not dead—that he was not lost to her. With an outcry of delight she threw herself into his arms, and greeted the lost, the found one, with warm and happy words of love. She raised her eyes and hands to heaven. "Oh, my God, he lives!" cried she, exultingly. "I thank Thee, God, I thank Thee. Thou hadst pity on my sufferings."
"Love protected me," said Feodor, gazing at her passionately. "Love saved me by a miracle. Still more miraculously, it brings you to my arms. Fear not, Elise. No other eye than mine has seen you. No one knows your name. That sweet secret, is only known to Love and ourselves."
Elise trembled. This imprudent speech woke her out of the stupor which had so long had possession of her; it recalled her to the world, and dispelled the charm which his presence, his looks, and his words had thrown around her. She was now aroused, and hurried from a state of dreamy delight to one of cruel and dread reality. The ray of joy faded from her cheek, the smile died on her lips, and, extricating herself forcibly from his arms, she stood before him in her pride and anger. "Feodor," said she, terrified, "you sent those fearful men! You caused me to be kidnapped!" With an angry, penetrating glance, she looked at Feodor, who sank his eyes in confusion to the ground.
As she saw this, she smiled contemptuously, and her injured maiden honor overcame her love and tenderness. "Ah! now I understand!" said she, with cutting scorn. "I have been told of the hunt after human beings which is carried on in the town. Colonel Feodor von Brenda plays a worthy part in this game!"
Feodor wished to approach her and take her hand, but she repulsed him sternly. "Do not touch me," cried she, haughtily; "do not seek to take my hand. You are no longer he whom I love. You are a kidnapper. But let me tell you, though you have compelled my body to suffer this dishonorable deed, yet my soul remains free, and that despises you!"
It was a splendid sight to see her in her noble wrath, which seemed to elevate her whole frame, and drive a deep glow to her cheeks.
Feodor looked at her with ardent gaze. Never had he seen her so fascinating, so charmingly beautiful. Even her wrath delighted him, for it was a token of her purity and innocence.
He wanted again to draw near to her, to take her to his heart, but she drew back in pride and anger. "Go," said she, "I have nothing to do with a man who violates the most sacred laws of human honor, and like a vile thief sneaks in to destroy innocence." Her voice failed her, her eyes filled with tears, but she shook them from her. "I weep," said she, "but not for grief, nor yet for love; anger it is alone which extorts tears from me, and they are bitter—far more bitter than death." And as she thus spoke, she pressed her hands to her face, and wept bitterly.
Feodor passed his arm gently around her trembling form. In the excess of her grief she did not feel it. "No, Elise," said he, "you weep because you love me. You weep because you think me unworthy of your love. But before you condemn me, listen to me. I swear to you by the memory of my mother, the only woman in whom, besides yourself, I ever believed, that I had no part in this treachery which has been committed toward you. You must believe me, Elise! Look at me, beloved one—I can bear your looks. I dare raise my eyes to you. I am not guilty of this crime."
Her hands glided slowly from her face, and she looked at him. Their looks met, and rested for a long time on each other. She read in his eyes that he was innocent, for love is confiding, and she loved him. With a charming smile she extended both hands toward him, and he read in her looks the words of love and tenderness which her timid lips did not dare give expression to.
Feodor drew her warmly to his heart. "You believe me," cried he, passionately; and as he raised her with irresistible strength in his arms, he murmured low, "Now let us enjoy the sacred hour of happiness without inquiring what divinity we have to thank for it."
But the instinct of modesty prevailed over love. "No," cried she, as she struggled out of his arms, trembling with excitement—"no, Feodor, it is no hour of happiness in which my honor and good name are to be buried—no hour of happiness when scandal can tell from mouth to mouth how a German maiden let herself be carried into the Russian camp, and shamelessly rushed into the arms of dishonor; for so will they tell it, Feodor. No one will believe that you had no hand in this outrage. The world never believes in innocence. Whoever is accused is already condemned, even if the judge's sentence should a thousand times pronounce him innocent, No, they will point at me with the finger of scorn, and with an exultant laugh will say to each other, 'Behold the barefaced woman who deserted to the Russians, and revelled with her lover, while her native town was groaning amidst blood and tears. Look at the rich man's child, who is so poor in honor!'"
Deeply moved by her own words, she drew herself up still more in the power of her dignity and innocence, and gazed at Feodor with flashing eyes. "Count Feodor von Brenda," cried she, firmly, "will you allow your bride to be suspected and defamed? that a stain should be allowed to rest upon the name of her who is to become your wife?"
In her proud excitement she did not perceive the rapid motion of his lips, nor the blush of shame which suffused his cheeks; she remarked not that he cast down his eyes and spoke to her with broken and trembling voice.
"Elise," said he, "you are beside yourself. Your excited fancy paints every thing to you in sombre colors. Who will dare to defame you? Who knows that you are here?"
"But the whole world will know it. Scandal has a thousand tongues to spread evil reports. Feodor, let me go. You say that no one knows that I am here; then no one will know that I go. Be merciful with me, let me go!"
"No," cried he, almost rudely. "I will not let you. You ask what is impossible. I were a fool if I were thus madly to cast the happiness away which I would fain purchase with my heart's blood. Twice have I risked my life to see you, to be able to kneel for one happy, undisturbed hour at your feet, and gaze on you, and intoxicate myself with that gaze. And now you ask that I shall voluntarily give up my happiness and you!"
"My happiness! my happiness! yes, even my life I ask you to preserve by letting me go hence, and return to my father's house," cried Elise, eagerly.
As she perceived that he shook his head in refusal, and met his wild, passionate looks, reading in them that she might expect no mercy from him, her anger flashed forth. Imploringly she raised her arms to heaven, and her voice sounded full and powerful: "Feodor, I swear to you by God in heaven, and the memory of my mother, that I will only become the wife of that man whom I follow of my free will out of the house of my father. I am capable of leaving my father's house; but it must be my own free choice, my free determination."
"No," said Feodor, wildly; "I will not let you go. You are mine, and you shall remain."
Elise drew nearer to him with bashful tenderness. "You must let me go now, in order one of these days to demand your pure wife from out her father's house," said she. There was something so touching, so confiding in her manner that Feodor, against his will, felt himself overcome by it; but even while submitting to this fascination he was almost ashamed of himself, and deep sadness filled his soul.
Silently they stood opposite to each other, Elise looking at him with tenderness, yet with fear—he his head bowed, wrestling with his own heart. Suddenly this silence was interrupted by a loud and violent knocking at the door. The voices of his wild companions and mad comrades were calling out loudly Feodor's name, and demanding, with vehement impetuosity, the opening of the closed door. Feodor turned pale. The thought that his Elise, this young, innocent, and modest girl, should be exposed to the insolent gaze of his riotous companions, irritated him.
Casting his angry glances around the room to seek for a hiding-place in which to conceal Elise, he perceived that this was in vain, that no escape was possible. Sadly he sank his head upon his breast, and sighed. Elise understood him; she comprehended her disconsolate and Desperate position.
"There is then no place where I can hide myself?" said she in despair."Shame awaits me. The whole world will know that I am here!"
Outside the officers raged still louder, and demanded with more violent cries the opening of the door. Feodor still looked around him for a secret place. Nowhere was there a possibility of hiding her, or letting her escape unnoticed. His infuriated companions threatened to break the door in.
Feodor now with determination seized the large shawl which had previously enveloped Elise's form, and threw it over her face. "Well then," said he, "let them come; but woe to him who touches this cloth!"
He pressed the veiled maiden down in a chair, and, hastening to the door, drew back the bolt.
* * * * *