“Gabriel,” she said, with firm, impressive voice—­“Gabriel, something is the matter with you!  Something has happened to you—­something shocking, dreadful!”

“Nothing!” he cried, hastily leaping up—­“nothing!  But we must begone!  We are to stay here no longer.  We must away immediately—­this very hour!”

“I know it,” replied Rebecca quietly, her eyes fixed immovably upon her beloved—­“I know it, Gabriel, and I have prepared everything, as Count Schwarzenberg himself directed.  I have been in Berlin ever since this morning, but feared to come here until you had gone to the banquet.  I have made all needful arrangements.  I have hired a vehicle, which is waiting for us outside the Willow-bank Gate.  The count says we are to go on foot; that no one in the city must see you set out, and give intelligence with regard to your movements.  Since you have been gone I have packed up all our effects in boxes, and our kind, faithful friend Samuel Cohen will send them after us to Venice.  What is indispensable for present use I have packed up in yonder trunk, which we must take with us.  All is ready, Gabriel, and we can go.  Only one thing I know not, have you money enough for our journey?”

[Illustration:  The Jewess in her Bridal Dress]

“Money enough!” repeated Gabriel, with a hoarse, mocking laugh.  “I have more money in my pocket than I ever had in my whole life put together.  I have so much money that we can buy a house in Venice, on the Ghetto; and we shall, too, and I will live there with you, and will become a Jew, and take another name, for my own name horrifies me.  I will not, can not hear it again!”

“Why not?” asked she earnestly.  “It is a fine name—­the name of a painter, an artist.  Why would you never again hear your own name, Gabriel Nietzel?”

“Because it is notorious, infamous!” groaned he—­“because it is the name of a—­”

“Well, why do you hesitate, Gabriel?” asked Rebecca in anguish of soul, while she laid both her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed upon him with wistful glances.  He would have avoided her eyes, but could not; his looks must sink deep into those glittering, black eyes.  Deep they looked, deep as the sea, and he thought to himself that a secret could be buried there, and rest secure in the bottom of her heart.

“Gabriel Nietzel,” asked Rebecca, in a voice at once threatening and tender—­“Gabriel Nietzel, what have you done?  What lies heavy upon your soul?”

“Nothing, my Rebecca, nothing!  Ask no questions!  We must begone!  Make haste, dearest, take the child, and come; for if we do not hurry, we are lost!”

She slowly shook her noble, graceful head and stirred not from her place.

She kept Gabriel in his with her hands, which she pressed more firmly upon his shoulders.