“She is kind to me, and is anxious for my welfare—­that is enough,” said Bertram, sadly.  “I have learned for many a long year to renounce all claim to her love.”

“But if she loves another?  I fear her heart is but too true, and has not forgotten the trifler who destroyed her happiness.  Ah! when I think of this man, my heart trembles with anger and grief.  In the hour of death I could forgive all my enemies, but the hatred toward this man, who has so wantonly trifled with the faith and love of my child, that hatred I will take with me into the grave—­and yet, I fear, Elise has not forgotten him.”

“This dead love does not give me any uneasiness,” said Bertram.  “Four years have passed since that unlucky day.”

“And for four years have I been faithful in my hatred to him.  May not Elise have been as constant in her love?”

Bertram sighed and drooped his head.  “It is too true, love does not die so easily.”  Then after a pause he added in a determined voice:  “I repeat my request—­give me your daughter!”

“You know that she does not love you, and yet you still desire her hand?”

“I do.  I have confidence enough in her and in myself to believe Elise will not refuse it to me, but will freely make this sacrifice, when she learns that you will only allow me, as your son, the privilege of sharing my little fortune with you.  For her love to you, she will give me her hand, and invest me with the rights of a son toward you.”

“Never!” cried Gotzkowsky, vehemently.  “She must never be informed of that of which we have been speaking.  She does not forebode the misfortune which threatens her.  I have not the courage to tell her, and why should I?  When the terrible event happens, she will learn it soon enough, and if it can be averted, why then I can spare her this unhappiness.  For my child I wish a clear, unclouded sky; let me bear the clouds and storms.  That has always been the object of my life, and I will remain faithful to it to the last.”

“You refuse me, then?” asked Bertram, pained.

“No, my son.  I accept you, and that which you have given me in this hour, the treasure of your love; that I can never lose.  That remains mine, even if they deprive me of all else.”

He opened his arms, and Bertram threw himself weeping on his breast.  Long did they thus remain, heart to heart, in silence; but soul spoke to soul without words and without expressions of love.

When Gotzkowsky raised himself from Bertram’s embrace, his countenance was calm, and almost cheerful.  “I thank you, my son; you have given me new courage and strength.  Now I will preserve all my composure.  I will humble my pride, and apply to those who in former times professed gratitude toward me.  The Council of Berlin have owed me twenty thousand ducats since the time that the Russians were here, and I had to travel twice in the service of the town to Petersburg and Warsaw.  These accounts have never been asked for.  I will make it my business to remind the Council of them, as in the days of their need they swore eternal gratitude to me.  Come, Bertram, let us see whether these worshipful magistrates are any better than other men, and whether they have any recollection of those sacred promises which they made me in the days when they needed help, and when misfortune threatened them.”