With strained attention she gazed down into the garden; her eye seemed to penetrate the darkness with its sharp, searching look.  But she could distinguish nothing; not an object moved through these silent paths, where the yellow sand was sufficiently lighted up by the moon to betray any one sufficiently bold to tread them.  Every thing was again quiet; but Elise shuddered at these long, black shadows cast on both sides of the alleys; she was afraid to remain any longer on the porch.  She retired into the hall, the door to which she had left open on purpose to perceive any noise coming from that quarter.

Now again she became aware of steps approaching nearer and nearer.  She wished to rise, but her feet refused their office.  She sank back powerless into her chair and closed her eyes.  She could not determine whether it was fear or happy expectation which pervaded her whole being.

And now the footsteps ascended into the porch, and came quite near to the window.  Would a thief dare to approach these lighted windows?  She raised her eyes.  He stood before her!—­he, her beloved, the friend of her heart, her thoughts, her hopes!  Feodor von Brenda stood in the doorway of the hall, and uttered softly her name.  She could not rise, her feet trembled so; and in her heart she experienced an uneasy sensation of fear and terror.  And yet she stretched her arms out to him, and welcomed him with her looks and her smile.

And now she lay in his arms, now he pressed her firmly to his heart, and whispered tender, flattering words in her ear.

She pushed him gently back, and gazed at him with a smile of delight.  But suddenly her look clouded, and she sighed deeply.  Feodor’s brilliant Russian uniform pained her, and reminded her of the danger he might be incurring.  He read her fear and anxiety in her countenance.

“Do not be afraid, my sweet one,” whispered he gently, drawing her into his arms.  “No danger threatens us.  My people are now masters of the town.  Berlin has surrendered to the Russians. The enemy is now conqueror and master, and no one would dare to touch this uniform.  Even your father must now learn to yield, and to forget his hatred.”

“He will never do it,” sighed Elise sadly.  “You do not know him, Feodor.  His will never bends, and the most ardent prayers would not induce him to grant that to his heart which his judgment does not approve of.  He is not accustomed to yield.  His riches make him almost despotic.  Every one yields to him.”

“He is the king of merchants,” said Feodor, as he passed his fingers playfully through the dark tresses of the young girl, whose head rested on his shoulder.  “His money makes him as powerful as a prince.”

“That is exactly my misfortune,” sighed Elise.

The colonel laughed, and pressed a kiss upon her forehead.  “Dreamer,” said he, “do you call yourself miserable because you are the daughter of a millionnaire?”