“Yes, and so safely that no one will be able to find him!” cried Gotzkowsky, cheerfully, raising the soldier up by the hand.  “Follow me, my son.  In my daughter’s chamber is a safe hiding-place.  The mirror on the wall covers a secret door, behind which is a space just large enough to conceal a person.  Come.”

He led the artilleryman toward the door of Elise’s room.  But before this door Elise had stationed herself, her cheeks burning and her eyes flashing.  The danger of her lover lent her courage and determination, and enabled her to meet the anger of her father unflinchingly.

“Not in there, father!” said she, in a tone almost commanding; “not into my room!”

Gotzkowsky stepped back in astonishment, and gazed at his daughter.  “How,” asked he, “do you forbid me the entrance?”

“Behind the picture of the Virgin in the large hall is a similar hiding-place,” said Elise, hurriedly; “carry him thither.”

Gotzkowsky did not answer immediately.  He only gazed firmly and inquiringly into Elise’s countenance.  Dark and dismal misgivings, which he had often with much difficulty suppressed, now arose again, and filled his soul with angry, desperate thoughts.  Like Virginius of old, he would have preferred to kill his daughter to delivering her into the hands of the enemy.

“And why should he go there, and not remain here?” asked he at last with an effort.

“Remember, father,” stammered she, blushing, “I—­”

She stopped as she met the look of her father, which rested on her with penetrating power—­as she read the rising anger of his soul in the tense swollen veins of his brow, and his pale, trembling lips.

Bertram had witnessed this short but impressive scene with increasing terror.  Elise’s anxiety, her paleness and trembling, the watch which she kept over that door, had not escaped him, even on his entrance, and filled him with painful uneasiness.  But as he now recognized in Gotzkowsky’s features the signs of an anger which was the more violent for the very reason that he so seldom gave way to it, he felt the necessity of coming to the assistance of his distressed sister.  He approached her father, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.

“Elise is right,” said he, entreatingly.  “Respect her maiden hesitation.”

Gotzkowsky turned round upon him with an impatient toss of the head, and stared him full in the face.  He then broke into a fit of wild, derisive laughter.

“Yes,” said he, “we will respect her maiden hesitation.  You have spoken wisely, Bertram.  Listen:  you know the partition behind the picture of the Madonna in the picture-gallery.  Carry our brave friend thither, and take heed that the spring is carefully closed.”

Bertram looked at him sadly and anxiously.  He had never before seen this man, usually so calm, so passionately excited.

“You will not go with us, father?” asked he.