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.