Gotzkowsky, with his eyes still raised to heaven, moved his lips in silent prayer.  At last, after a long, painful pause, he said solemnly:  “Well, let it be so; I give my consent.”

Elise uttered a cry of joy, and, amidst tears of unalloyed delight, kissed him, as smiling, and often interrupted by her own deep emotion, she narrated her meeting with Feodor, Lodoiska’s death, and the letter she had written to her.  “Oh, how delightful this hour would be,” continued she, after finishing her narrative, “if I could only remain with you!  Love bids me go, and yet it keeps me here!  I have promised Feodor to go with him, but I did it in my haste, seeing only him and listening only to his prayers.  Now I see you, my father, and it seems to me as if I could not leave you to-day.”

“To-day!” cried Gotzkowsky, and a ray of joy shone from his face.  He arose, and, with folded arms, paced the room.  His soul was full of gratitude to God, to whom he had prayed in his despair.  Was this not a sign that God was with him, even if men forsook him?—­that God had pity on him, even if all others were pitiless.  This day his child wished to leave him, to enter on a brilliant destiny.  He had, therefore, no longer any need to be anxious about her fate; and, as she was going to leave at once, he would be spared the torture of having her as a witness to his disgrace and degradation.  He took her to his breast, and kissed her with heartfelt fervor.  “Farewell, my child, my only happiness; you wish to leave me.  I will be alone, but I will have time to think of and pray for you.”  He then cast her from him almost roughly, for he felt as if his grief would unman him.  “Go,” he cried, “your bridegroom is waiting for you; go, then, and order your bridal ornaments.”

Elise smiled.  “Yes, I will adorn myself; but you, father, will place the wreath of myrtle on my head, will you not?  That is the sacred and last office of love with which a mother sends a daughter from her arms.  I have no mother.  You are both father and mother to me.  Will you not crown me with the myrtle-wreath?”

“Yes,” said he, with a sigh, “I will place the myrtle on your brow, and God grant it may not turn to a crown of thorns!  Go now, my child, adorn thyself, and leave me alone to pray for you.”

He greeted her smilingly, and accompanied her to the door.  But when she had left the room he felt indescribably lonesome, and, pressing his hands against his breast to suppress the cry which choked him, he muttered in a low tone, “I have lost her—­she is mine no longer.  Every thing forsakes me.  The unfortunate is ever alone!”

Once more a knocking, repeated at his door, awakened him from his reverie.  Peter his servant entered, and announced Herr Ephraim.

A ray of joyful astonishment flashed across him, and, as he stepped hastily toward the rich Jew of the mint, he said to himself:  “Is it possible that this man comes to have pity on me in my distress?  Will he be more magnanimous than Itzig?  Will he assist me?”