She nodded her head as proudly and gravely as if she had been a queen, who had just received the homage of her vassal.

“Listen then, Gabriel,” she said.  “You take the trunk, I take the child, and let us be going, for the wagon is waiting for us outside the Willow-bank Gate, as you know.  Do not speak to me by the way, for I have still much to plan and ponder.  Time does not stand still, and every moment increases the Prince’s peril.  If help does not reach him to-night, then is he lost beyond hope of recovery.  Come!”

Already a question was trembling on Gabriel Nietzel’s lips.  He wished to ask, “Can he by any possibility be saved?” But she had said, “Do not speak to me,” and, obedient to his oath, he remained dumb, took up the trunk, and followed Rebecca, who had tenderly lifted the child from its crib and had just gone out of the door.  Swiftly they passed side by side through the streets, which were still deserted, for all loungers and street idlers were still tarrying in Broad Street or on the castle square.  Many a time Gabriel cast a look of questioning entreaty upon Rebecca, but she saw it not; she seemed to see nothing whatever, for her eyes were gazing afar off; like a somnambulist, she strode along, and even when the baby in her arms began to cry she took no notice of it, nor sought to comfort it with tender, soothing words.  At last they had passed the gate behind the willow bank, and found themselves without the city.  There stood the wagon waiting for them, covered with a tilt of gray canvas.  The Jewish boy who sat on the back seat under the canvas awning had fallen asleep, resting his head against the great wooden arch to which the cover was secured.  The two lean little horses were greedily eating of the oats in the dirty bags around their necks.  Not a creature was to be seen.  The wretched conveyance had excited no attention whatever, and caused not a single passer-by to pause.

Rebecca stepped up to the wagon and gently laid the child in the straw with which the vehicle was filled.  Then, with a silent wave of the hand, she ordered Gabriel to set down the trunk he was carrying.  He did so, and Rebecca took a key out of her pocket, knelt down before the trunk, and sought hither and thither among its contents.  First she took from the bottom of the trunk a packet with five seals, and, as she hastily stuck it in her bosom, her eye was uplifted to heaven with a glance of glowing gratitude.  Then she took out a white dress and a long white veil, carefully concealing these things under the great black mantle which enveloped her figure.  Finally, she locked the trunk and handed the key to Gabriel.

“Place the trunk gently in the wagon, so as not to wake the child,” she said.  Gabriel silently obeyed, and then, standing on the footboard of the wagon, reached down his hand to her, as if he would ask her to follow.

She shook her head quickly.  “Come, Gabriel,” said she, “come, let us step across and talk under yon tree.  The child sleeps and David Cohen sleeps, too.  Nobody hears us.  Come.”