A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky’s lips, then seizing the youth’s slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.

The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young man’s face.

Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou bringest love.

“It is she!  It is my Leonore!  My love, my—­”

He could say no more.  Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head upon her shoulder and wept—­wept bitterly.  But they were tears of delight, of ecstasy—­tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express their joy.  Tears such as are rarely shed on earth.

Yet no.  He would not weep, for tears will dim her image.  He wished to see her, imprint her face deep, deep upon his heart that it might still live there while he died.

He took the beautiful, beloved head between his hands and gazed at it with a happy smile.

“Have you risen upon me again, my heavenly stars?  Do you shine on me once more, ere I enter eternal night?”

Bending lower he kissed her eyes and again gazed at her, smiling.

“Why do your lips quiver?  Why do they utter no word of love?  Oh, let me break the seal of silence which closes them.”

Bending again to the beloved face which rested in his hands, he kissed the lips.

“Speak, my Leonore, speak!  Bid me a last farewell; tell me that you will always love me, that you will never forget me, though I must leave you.”

“No, no,” she cried exultingly, “no, you will not leave me, you will stay with me.”

Releasing herself and gazing at him with her large flashing eyes she repeated: 

“You will stay with me.”

“Oh, my sweet love, I cannot!  They have sentenced me to death.  They will soon come to summon me.”

“No, no, my dear one, they will not come to lead you to death.  They will not kill you.  I bring you life!  I bring you pardon!”

“Pardon!” he cried, almost shrieked.  “Pardon!  But from whom?”

“Pardon from your sovereign and master, from the Emperor Francis!”

“God be praised.  I can accept it from him,” cried Kolbielsky jubilantly.  “So I am free?  Speak, dearest, I am free?”

She shook her head slowly and sadly.  “I have been able only to save you from death,” she said mournfully.  “I have been able only to obtain your life, but alas! not your liberty.”

“Then I remain a prisoner?”

“Yes, a prisoner.”

“For how long?”

“For life,” she murmured in a voice barely audible.

But Kolbielsky—­laughed.

“For life!  That means—­so long as Napoleon lives and is powerful.  But he will die; he will fall, and then my emperor will release me; then I shall belong to life, to the world; then I shall again be yours!  I will accept my emperor’s pardon, for it is you who bring it to me—­you have obtained it.  You say so, and I know it.  You hastened to Totis, you threw yourself at the emperor’s feet, pleaded for mercy, and he could not resist your fiery zeal, your bewitching personality.  But how did you know that I was arrested?  Who told you that I was Baron von Moudenfels?”