“You swore to me never to belong to any one but me.  Have you forgotten that?”

“No, I have not.”

“Well, then,” said he, rising, “we shall soon see each other again.”

“When, Feodor, when?”

“When Berlin is in our hands,” said he, smiling proudly; “when we enter your gates as conquerors.”

She shuddered painfully.  He saw it, and a hateful, mocking expression passed across his features; but this lasted only a moment, and his changeable countenance appeared again bright and loving.  He took Elise’s hand and pressed it to his lips.

“Will you, even at such a time, allow me to see you?  Will you, faithful to your vow, remember that my Elise has sworn by God and her love never to turn a deaf ear to my call?  Will you expect me?” asked he, coaxingly.

“I will,” answered she, in a low voice.

“And I will come,” cried he, passionately, “if the way to you leads over mountains of dead bodies!”

She threw herself into his open arms, and nestled like a timid dove on his breast.

“Oh!” cried she, “when danger threatens you, then I think I would like to be a man to share it with you.”

He covered her lips and eyes with kisses.  “Farewell, farewell, Elise; and if it is God’s will, we will meet again.”

One last kiss, one last embrace, and he tore himself from her arms and hurried toward the wall.  Now he climbs it, and throws his last greetings to her, then descends on the other side.

“He is gone, he is gone!” she shrieked, and, falling on her knees, raised her hands to heaven.  “O God, have mercy on me, have pity on my love!”

It seemed as if God did grant her prayer, for a thick veil sank over her eyes, and a swoon robbed her of consciousness.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

Mr. Kretschmer, of the Vossian Gazette.

The editor of the Vossian Gazette, Mr. Kretschmer, sat at his desk, busily writing.  That he was a learned man was seen by his earnest, care-worn forehead, his large, well-powdered wig, and above all by the disorder and confusion which reigned in the whole room.  Besides which, Mr. Kretschmer wore a dressing-gown, thickly sprinkled with ink-spots, the official robe of his literary dignity.  And whosoever beheld him in this robe, his long pipe in his mouth, filling the room with a thick blue smoke, seated on his high tripod before his desk, could not but believe that Mr. Kretschmer was a learned man.

But more than this, he was a great politician.  Thereto testified the numerous journals which lay scattered about on the floor, but more especially the nineteen quarto volumes, which stood above on the book-shelf, lettered in gold on the back, “Vossian Gazette,” and under that the number of the year, from 1740 to 1759.  The Vossian Gazette was then a young, blooming rose, of scarcely nineteen summers.  It could still pass for a vigorous, handsome, and perhaps even innocent young maiden; and Mr. Kretschmer was the editor of the Vossian Gazette.  Had he not, then, a right to be regarded as a great politician?