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

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

“Are you acquainted with General Bachmann’s adjutant?” asked she, shortly and hurriedly.

“I am,” replied Bertram.

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

“His name?” asked Bertram, with painful misgiving.

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

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

“He is alive, and is here,” answered Bertram sadly.

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

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

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

“You know Colonel Brenda?” she asked.

“I do know him,” answered Bertram.

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

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