“That is also my opinion,” said the burgomaster, and the councillors agreed with him.  They returned to the table, at which the chief burgomaster still sat, gazing stupidly at the wine-cup.

“Gotzkowsky is of our opinion,” said the second burgomaster, turning toward him; it would be best to yield to the Russian.”

“The Russian is a capital fellow!” stammered the chief burgomaster.  “The Russian has a great deal of money, and spends it freely.  I esteem the Russian astonishingly; and my decided opinion is, that we surrender to the Russian.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER XIII.

A MAIDEN’S HEART.

Elise had passed the last two days and nights in her room; nevertheless she had felt no fear; the thunder of the cannon and the wail of the wounded had inspired her with mournful resignation rather than with fear.  As, at one time, she stood at the window, a shell burst near the house, and shattered the window-panes of the ground floor.

“Oh, if this hall had only struck me,” cried she, while her cheeks burned, “then all this suffering would have been at an end, this doubt would have been cleared up:  and if my father ever again gave himself the trouble to visit his house, and ask after his daughter, my death would be the proper rebuke to his question.”  Her father’s long absence and apparent indifference tormented her and converted her grief into anger.

During these days of danger and mortal peril he had never once entered his house to visit his daughter.  With the unmitigated egotism of her sex, she could not comprehend the greatness, the noble self-denial, the manly firmness which dictated his conduct; she could see in it nothing but indifference and cold-heartedness.

“The most insignificant and unpolished workman is dearer to him than his own child,” said she, proudly, drying her tears.  “He is now, perhaps, watching in the cabins of his laborers, and does not care if his own house is burned to the ground; but even if he were told that it was so, if he heard that his daughter had perished in the flames, he would calmly say, ’My country demands this sacrifice of me, and I submit.’  No tear would dim his eye; his country would not leave him time to mourn for his daughter.  Oh, this country! what is it?  My country is where I am happy, and where I am beloved!” She sighed deeply, and her thoughts wandered to her lover, her Feodor, the enemy of her country, in whose heart she thought she would find her real country, her true home.