“Yes,” said Bertram, “his name is Feodor von Brenda; he serves as a colonel in the Russian army; he fights against our brothers and our king; he is the enemy of our country.”

“You have no pity on me,” cried Elise, wringing her hands, her eyes streaming with tears.  “You wish to kill me with your cruel words.”

“I wish to show to the daughter of the noblest and truest patriot, I wish to point out to the young, inexperienced, credulous maiden, to my sister, that she stands at the edge of an abyss.  I wish to open her eyes that she may be aware of the danger which threatens her.  I wish to draw her back from this abyss which threatens to engulf her.”

“It is too late,” said Elise, rising proudly and drying her tears.  “I know it all, Bertram; I stand at the edge of this abyss with open eyes, conscious of the danger; but I will not, cannot draw back, for my heart holds me fast.”

Elise took leave of him with a sad smile, and hurried rapidly down the dark walk which led to the retired and unfrequented parts of the garden.

Bertram looked after her until her pink dress disappeared behind the dark foliage of the hedge.

“She loves him,” murmured he, letting his head drop upon his breast, “it is certain she loves him.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV.

Feodor von Brenda.

Elise directed her hasty steps toward the now retired parts of the garden.  She longed to be alone.  Her soul, agitated by painful emotions, required silence and solitude, in order to settle down again gently to rest and peace.  Slowly, and with bowed head, she traversed the dark, silent garden-walks.  Her thoughts wandered afar off, and she sought some little comfort, some relief from the privations of the present, in the sweet and blissful recollections of bygone days.

“What can keep him?” asked she of herself; and as she thought of him, her countenance assumed a cheerful, almost happy expression.  “He swore to brave every danger, every difficulty, in order to let me hear from him; and now, alas! ten weeks have passed, and no news, no token, from him.  My God! is it possible that in all this long time he could have found no opportunity to write to me?—­or perhaps his love has not survived the test of separation and silence.”

At this thought she stopped, as if stunned, and pressed her hand to her breast.  A sharp pain shot through her, and her heart seemed to cease to pulsate.  But, in a moment, her countenance brightened up, and she murmured, with a gentle smile, “Oh, to doubt his love were a greater treason than to love my country’s enemy.  Oh, no!  Feodor, my heart does not doubt you; and notwithstanding your silence, I know that your heart answers mine, and that we are forever and inseparably united.”

With rapid step and cheerful mind she continued her wandering.  She had now arrived at the darkest and most secluded part of the garden.  Nothing stirred around her, and there was only heard the rustling of the dark fir-tree moved by the wind, or the melodious note of some bird hidden in the foliage.