“Yes, Bertram, it is such a love; but yet you must not doubt me, you must not think that this love which conceals itself from the eyes of my father need therefore fear the light of the world.  My father would, perhaps, if he knew my secret, declare me unworthy of him; but never, be assured, never would I commit any act unworthy of myself, and for which I would have to blush.  It is possible that not only my father but the whole world would pronounce me guilty if it knew my love; but, believe me, that in the consciousness of my rectitude I would have the courage to brave the verdict of the whole world, provided that my own heart acquitted me, and that I am guilty of no other crime than this accidental one, which fate, and not my own will and trespass, imposes on me.  Love allows itself neither to be given nor taken, and when it cannot command fortune, it can at least lighten misfortune.  More I cannot tell you, my brother, and what is the use of words?  Only depend on what I assure you, I will never be faithless to my honor nor my love.  You may think,” continued she, proudly and passionately, “that my love is a crime, but never that I could love unworthily, or that I could bow my head under the disgrace of a dishonorable love.”

She looked beautiful in her proud, flashing maidenhood; and Bertram felt, as he looked on her handsome, glowing countenance, that he had never loved her so sincerely, and at the same time so painfully, as at this moment.

“Elise,” said he, grasping her hand, “will you not have entire confidence in your brother?  Will you not tell me the name of your lover?”

She shook her head earnestly.  “Only God and my heart dare know it.”

“Elise,” continued he more urgently, “shall I tell you what has been whispered in my ear as I returned from a long absence?  Shall I tell you what your enemies—­for your youth and beauty and your father’s wealth have made you enemies—­shall I tell you what your enemies whisper to each other with malicious joy?”

“No, no!” said she anxiously, “how would it help me to know it?”

Bertram continued inexorably, “They say that the captive Russian, General Sievers, was welcomed by your father into his house as a friend, and that he overwhelmed the noble prisoner with kind attention.”

Elise breathed more freely.  “It was with the consent and by the wish of the king that my father was kind to the captive Russian general.”

“And was it also by the wish of the king that Gotzkowsky’s daughter accepted the homage of the Russian general’s adjutant?”

A slight shudder ran through Elise’s whole frame, and her cheeks became crimson.

“Ah,” cried Bertram sadly, “I see you understand me.  You will not tell me the name of your lover—­let me tell it to you.  It is Feodor von Brenda.”

“No, no!” cried Elise, looking around in alarm, and fearful lest some treacherous ear had heard the dangerous secret.