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!”