Towards the quiet country town which pious colonists had once built about the monastery walls of praying monks, and towards the rock on which the heathen maiden had once whispered oracles to her race, were now hastening along different roads horses and wheels, together with living men who were seeking the decision of their fate; here joyful, rising hopes--there downward, declining powers; here the pure dream of enthusiastic youth--there the destructive dream of a gloomy spirit. In the valley and over the rock hovered the spirits of the country; they prepared themselves to receive the flying strangers with the hospitality of home.

The early dawn sent its pale glimmer into Laura's study; she stood by her writing-table, and cast a lingering look on the familiar book in which, with rapid hand, she had written the concluding words. She fastened the book and the Doctor's poems together, and concealed them under the cover of her trunk. She cast another look on the sanctuary of her maiden life, and then flew down the stairs into the arms of her anxious mother. It was a wonderful elopement--a quiet Sunday morning, a mysterious light, gloomy rainclouds, contrasting strongly with the deep red glow of morning. Laura lay long in the arms of her weeping mother, till Susan urged her departure; then she passed into the street, where the Doctor awaited her, and hastened with him into the carriage; for the carriage was ordered to wait in a deserted place around the corner, and not before the house; upon this Laura had insisted. It was a wonderful elopement--a modest, sedate traveling-companion, the object of the journey the house of a loved friend, and, lastly, a large leather bag containing cold meat and other victuals, which Mrs. Hahn herself carried to the carriage, in order that she might once more kiss her son and Laura, and bless them amid tears.

Spitehahn had for several days found it difficult to bear his lonely existence; since the departure of the learned lodgers he had been much disturbed, but when the master of the house also disappeared, there was no one to recognize him. This morning he cast cold glances on Laura as she hovered round her sorrowing mother, and looked askance at Susan when she carried the great traveling-trunk to the carriage; then he sneaked out into the street in order to give expression to his hatred of the neighboring house. But when Mrs. Hahn hastened to the carriage with the leather bag, he saw that something was wrong and he crept after his neighbor from across the way; and whilst she mounted on the step of the carriage to warn her Fritz of the sharp morning air, and to kiss Laura once more, he sprang upon the footboard and ensconced himself under the leather apron of the coachbox, determined to abide his time. The coachman seated himself, and supposing the dog belonged to the travelers, cracked his whip and started off. Another look and call to the mother, and the adventurous journey began.

Laura's soul trembled under the pressure of passionate feelings, which were called forth by this long-desired but dreaded hour. The houses of the city disappeared, and the poplars on the high road seemed to dance past. She looked anxiously at her Fritz, and placed the tips of her fingers in his hand. He smiled, and pressed the little hand warmly.

His cheerfulness was a support to her. She looked tenderly into his true face.

"The morning is cool," he began, "allow me to fasten your cloak."

"I am very comfortable," replied Laura, again putting her trembling hand within his.

Thus they sat silently together, the sun peeped modestly from behind his red curtains and smiled on Laura, so that she was obliged to close her eyes. Her whole childhood passed before her in fleeting pictures; and finally, she heard the significant words of her friends at her last visit. Her godmother had said to her. Return soon again, child; and Laura now felt with emotion that this return was at an immeasurable distance. Her other godmother had kindly asked, When shall we see each other again? and a touching echo sounded in Laura's heart, Who knows when? All Nature was stirring in the fresh morning: a flock of pigeons flew across the field, a hare ran along the road as if racing, a splendid cluster of blue flowers grew on the border of the ditch, and red roofs shone from among the fruit trees. Everything on earth looked green and hopeful, blooming and waving in the morning breeze. The country people who were going to the city met them, a peasant sitting on his waggon smoking his pipe nodded a good morning to Laura, who held out her hand as if she wished to send a greeting to the whole world. The milkwoman in her little cart, who was going to sell her milk, also greeted her, saying, "Good morning. Miss Laura." Laura drew back, and, looking alarmed at Fritz, said:

"She has recognized us."

"Without doubt," replied the Doctor, gaily.

"She is a gossip, Fritz; she cannot hold her tongue, and will tell all the servant-girls in our street that we are driving together along this road. This distresses me, Fritz."

"We are taking a drive," replied the Doctor, triumphantly; "going to pay a visit to some one; we are going to act as sponsors together in the country. Do not mind these trifles."

"It began by our being sponsors together, Fritz," answered Laura, tranquilized. "It has all been owing to the cat's paws."

"I do not know," replied Fritz, slyly, "whether this misfortune did not originate earlier. When you were quite a little girl I kissed you once."

"I do not remember that," said Laura.

"It was for a basket of colored beans that I brought you from our garden. I demanded the kiss, and you consented to give the price, but immediately after wiped your mouth with your hand. From that time I have liked you better than all others."

"Do not let us talk of these things," said Laura, troubled; "my recollections of old times are not all so harmless."

"I have always been kept at a distance," exclaimed Fritz, "even to-day. It is a shame. It must not go on so; I must have some serious talk about it. Travelling together as we are, it is not fitting that we should use the stiff you in talking to one another."

Laura looked reproachfully at him. "Not to-day," she said, softly.

"It is of no use now," replied Fritz, boldly. "I will no longer be treated as a stranger. I once heard the honest thou from you, but never since. It pains me."

Laura regretted that. "But only when we are quite alone," she entreated.

"I propose it for all time," continued Fritz, undisturbed, "otherwise there will be continually mistakes and confusion."

He offered her his hand, which she shook gently, and before she could stop him she felt a kiss on her lips.

Laura looked at him tenderly, but then immediately drew back and ensconced herself in a corner of the carriage. Fritz was quite different to-day from usual; he looked confident and bold. In the house he had always been modest, while Laura had more than once thought of this relation, and had written in her book: "When two human beings are united in soul they ought to let each other know it." Now he used little ceremony. He looked boldly out of the carriage, and when they met travelers did not retreat as she had done after meeting the milkwoman, but looked as if challenging notice, and greeting people first.

"I must begin about the Hindus," she said to herself, "in order to turn his thoughts to other subjects."

She asked him about the contents of the Veda.

"I cannot think of it to-day," exclaimed Fritz, gaily. "I am too happy to think of the old books. I have only one thought in my heart: 'Laura, the dear girl, will become mine.' I could dance in the carriage for joy."

He jumped up from his seat like a little boy.

Fritz was fearfully changed; she did not know him again; she withheld her hand from him, and looked at him, suspiciously, askance.

"The heavens are covered with clouds," she said, sadly.

"But the sun shines above them," replied Fritz; "it will come out again in a few minutes. I propose that we examine the great leather bag which my mother gave us; I hope there will be something good in it."

Thus did the prose of the Hahn family betray itself, and Laura observed with secret regret how eagerly the Doctor rummaged the bag. She had, however, in her excitement thought little of her breakfast, so when Fritz offered her some of its contents she extended her little hand for it, and both ate heartily.

Something darkened the seat next the coachman; a misshapen head showed itself at the window, and a discordant snarl was heard in the carriage. Laura pointed terrified at the apparition.

"Merciful heavens, there is the dog again!"

The Doctor also looked angrily at the hostile figure. "Drive him away," cried Laura; "make him run home."

"He will hardly find his way back," replied the Doctor, thoughtfully; "what would your father say if he were lost?"

"He has been the enemy of my life," exclaimed Laura; "and must we now take him with us into the world? The idea is insupportable, and a bad omen, Fritz."

"Perhaps we shall meet a wagon that will take him back again," said the Doctor, consolingly; "meanwhile we must not let him starve."

In spite of his aversion he handed him some breakfast, and the dog disappeared again under the apron.

But Laura continued disturbed.

"Fritz, dear Fritz," she exclaimed, suddenly, "you must leave me alone."

The Doctor looked at her with astonishment. The you was an orthographical error which must be atoned for. He was again about to give her a kiss, but she drew back.

"If you love me, Fritz, you must now leave me alone," she cried out, wringing her hands.

"How can I do that?" asked Fritz; "we are traveling for good into the great world."

"Get upon the box by the coachman," begged Laura, imploringly.

She looked so serious and depressed that Fritz obediently stopped the carriage, descended from it, and climbed upon the coach-box. Laura drew a deep breath, and became more tranquil. Her words had influenced him. Intractable as he was, he would do much to please her. She sat alone, and her thoughts became more cheering. The Doctor turned round frequently, knocked at the window, and asked how she was. He was very tender-hearted, and full of loving attentions.

"The whole responsibility for his health rests on me," she thought, "what hitherto his dear mother has done for him now becomes my duty. A delightful duty, dear Fritz. I will keep him from working at nights, for his health is delicate, and every day I will go walking with him, in the coldest weather, to accustom him to it."

She looked out of the carriage, the wind was stirring the leaves; she knocked at the window:

"Fritz, it is windy, you have no shawl on."

"I shall no longer use one," called out the Doctor, "this effeminacy must be shaken off."

"I beg of you, Fritz, not to be so childish. Put one round you, or you will certainly catch cold."

"With a you, I will certainly not put it on."

"Take it, my darling Fritz, I beg of thee," entreated Laura.

"That sounds quite different," said Fritz.

The window was opened, and the shawl put out.

"He is firm as a rock," said Laura, seating herself again. "Complaisant as he appears, he knows well what he chooses to do, and, contrary to his own convictions, will not give in, even to me. That is all for the best, for I am still a childish creature, and my father was in the right; I need a husband who will look more calmly on the world than I do."

It began to rain. The coachman put on his cloak, and Fritz spread his plaid and enveloped himself in it. She became very anxious about Fritz, and again knocked at the window.

"It is raining, Fritz."

This the Doctor could not deny.

"Come in, you will get wet and catch cold."

The carriage stopped, and Fritz obediently got down and entered it, while Laura wiped away the raindrops on his hair and shawl with her pocket-handkerchief.

"You said you four times," began Fritz, reprovingly. "If it continues thus, you will have a large reckoning to pay."

"Be serious," began Laura, "I am in a very solemn mood. I am thinking of our future. I will think of it day and night, dearest one, that you may not feel the loss of your mother. Your dear mother has always taken your coffee up to you, but that is unsociable, you shall come over to me and take your breakfast with me; your Hindus must grant this half-hour to me. About ten o'clock I shall send you over an egg, and at dinner-time you will come over again to me. I shall take care that the cooking is good; we will live simply, as we are accustomed, and well. Then you shall tell me something about your books that I may know what my husband is occupied with, for this is a wife's right. In the afternoon we will take a walk together in the streets."

"What do you mean?" asked Fritz, "'over there,' 'here,' 'in the streets'? Surely we shall live together."

Laura looked at him with open eyes, and a blush slowly mantled over her face up to her temples.

"We cannot, as man and wife, live in different houses?"

Laura held her hand before her eyes and remained silent. As she did not answer, Fritz drew her hand quietly from her face, and large tears rolled down her cheeks.

"My mother," she said, softly, as she wept.

So touching was the expression of her grief, that Fritz said, sympathizingly:

"Do not grieve, Laura, about her, we will live where you like, and exactly as you think fit."

But even these kind words could not comfort the poor soul, whose maidenly anxieties cast a shadow over her future. The colored haze with which her childish fancy had invested her free life in the neighborhood of her loved one, had been dissolved.

She sat silent and sad.

The coachman stopped before a village inn to refresh himself and his horses. The young landlady stood at the door with her child in her arms; she approached the carriage and civilly invited them to alight. Laura looked anxiously at the Doctor; he nodded, the carriage door was opened. Laura seated herself on a bench in front of the door, and asked the young woman questions about her family, in order to show the self-possession of a traveller. The woman answered, confidently:

"This is our first child, we have been married scarcely two years. Excuse me, but I suppose you are a young married couple."

Laura rose hastily, her cheeks glowed a deeper red than the rising sun, as she answered with a low "No."

"Then you are engaged without doubt," said the woman, "that can be seen at once."

"How could you discover that?" asked Laura, without raising her eyes.

"One sees evidence of it," replied the woman, "the way in which you looked at the gentleman was significant enough."

"A good guess," exclaimed the Doctor, gaily; but he also colored slightly.

Laura turned away and struggled for composure. The secret of her journey was apparent to every one. It was known in the city and was spoken of in the villages. Her betrothal had been settled by the talk of strangers. Yet her parents had not laid her hand in that of her lover, nor had any of her friends wished her happiness, but now the stranger on the high road came and told her to her face what she was.

"If the woman had known all,--how that I was eloping secretly with Fritz Hahn, without betrothal or marriage,--how would she have looked upon me?" thought Laura.

She entered the carriage before the coachman had finished feeding the horses, and again tears flowed from her eyes. The Doctor, who did not anticipate this change of mood, was about to enter, when Laura, quite beside herself, exclaimed:

"I beg of you to sit by the coachman, I feel very sad."

"Why?" asked Fritz, softly.

"I have done wrong," said Laura. "Fritz, I should like to return. What will that woman think of me? She saw right well that we were not engaged."

"But are we not?" asked the Doctor, astonished. "I consider myself as decidedly engaged, and the friends to whom we go will clearly look upon the affair in that point of view."

"I conjure you, Fritz, to leave me alone now; what I feel I cannot confess to any human being; if I become calmer I will knock at the window."

Fritz again climbed on the coach-box, and Laura passed a sorrowful hour in the solitude of her carriage.

She felt something strange on her cloak, looked with alarm at the empty seat, and started when she saw the demon sitting next her, the enemy of her life, the red dog. He stretched out his forefeet, and raised his moustache high in the air, as if he would say: "I am carrying you off. The Doctor is sitting on the box, and I, the mischief-maker, the misanthropist, who have caused so much sorrow to this poetic soul, who have been cursed in her journal in both prose and verse, I, the common and unworthy being who used to lie at her feet, sit by her side the gloomy figure of her fate, the spectre of her youth, and the bad omen of her future life. I lie in the place where, in her childish poetry, she has long dreamt of another, and I mock at her tears and anxiety." He licked his beard and looked from under his long hair contemptuously at her. Laura knocked at the window, resolved to leave the carriage herself and sit upon the box.

Meanwhile the mothers sat anxiously in the hostile houses. Since her daughter had left, Mrs. Hummel trembled for fear of the anger of her husband. She knew from Laura that he had not objected to the journey to Bielstein, and only wished to appear unconscious of it in order to maintain his defiant character towards his neighbors. But of what was to follow, he would give no information; when it came to a decision as to what was to become of Laura and the Doctor, she felt there was everything to fear from him. Mrs. Hummel had encouraged the journey in order to compel the consent of the family tyrant; but now she felt distrustful of her own cleverness. In her sad perplexity she put her mantle on, over her morning dress, and hastened out of the house to seek consolation from her neighbor.

The heart of Mrs. Hahn was burdened with similar cares; she also was prepared, in her morning dress and mantle, to go over to Mrs. Hummel. The women met outside the two houses, and began an exchange of motherly anxieties. They made use of the neutral ground that lay between the hostile domains for quiet intercourse, and forgot that they were standing in the street. The bells sounded and the church-goers returned, yet they were still standing together talking over the past and future. The comedian approached them elegantly dressed; as he drew near he made a dramatic salutation with his hand. Mrs. Hummel looked with anxiety at her favorite guest, she feared his conjectures and still more his sharp tongue. His face was radiant with pleasure and his gestures were sympathetic.

"What a surprise," he exclaimed, in the tone of a warm-hearted uncle; "what an agreeable surprise? The old quarrel made up; wreaths of flowers from one house to the other; the discord of the fathers is atoned for by the love of the children. I offer my hearty congratulations."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hummel, perplexed.

"An elopement," exclaimed the comedian, raising his hands.

Both mothers looked terrified.

"I must beg of you, in your remarks, to have more regard for the real state of things," replied Mrs. Hummel with offended dignity.

"An elopement," again exclaimed the gentleman triumphantly. "Quite in conformity with the humor of this house; it is a master-stroke."

"I feel confident from our old friendship," said Mrs. Hummel, "that you do not mean to insult us; but I must earnestly request you to have regard, at least, for propriety."

The comedian was astonished at the reproaches of his patroness.

"I only repeat what I have just been informed of by post." He drew out of his pocket a neat letter. "I hope that the ladies will convince themselves." He read aloud: "'I beg to announce to you the betrothal of Dr. Fritz Hahn with my daughter Laura, and their elopement this morning from her parents' house. Yours humbly, Hummel.' This quite answers to the character of our humorous friend."

The ladies stood aghast. Then the rustling of a silk dress was heard, the godmother came up hastily, her hymn-book in her hand, and called out while yet in the distance:

"What does one not live to see? You naughty people! Is it right that the friends of the family should first learn from the preacher in the church what is happening here?"

"What do you mean?" asked both ladies, quite confounded.

"That the bans of your children have been proclaimed in church to-day for the first, second, and third time. There was general astonishment, and though you have acted in so unfriendly a way as to keep it a secret, all your acquaintances were delighted. Now the whole city is full of it."

Without speaking a word the two mothers flew into each others' arms in the open street, midway between the houses. The comedian stood on one side with his hand in his breast pocket, the godmother on the other with folded hands.

It was also a troublous Sunday on the estate of Ilse's father. During the previous night a waterspout had burst on the hills, and a wild flood poured down where formerly the brook ran between the meadows. The oldest people did not remember such a rush of water. Before this the brook had been much swollen by the rains of the previous week, now it roared and thundered through the narrow valley between the manor-house and the sloping hills, and overflowed the fields where it was not defied by the steepness of the country and rocks. Furiously did the water rush and foam over the rocks and about the heads of the willows, carrying away the hay from the meadows in its course, uprooting reeds and tearing off branches of trees, and also the ruins of habitations, which, though far above, had been reached by the flood. The people of the estate stood by the edge of the orchard, looking silently upon the stream and the ruins it bore along with it. The children ran eagerly along the side of the water, endeavoring to draw toward them with poles whatever they could reach. They raised loud cries when they saw a living animal floating along. It was a kid standing on one of the boards of the roof of its stall. When the little creature saw the people standing near, it cried piteously, as if begging to be rescued. Hans put out a well-hook, caught hold of the plank, the kid sprang ashore and was taken in grand procession by the children to the farmyard and there fed.

Ilse was standing at the new bridge leading to the grotto. It had only been built a few weeks, and was now threatened with destruction. Already the supports were bending on one side. The force of the water worked against the lower end, and loosened the pegs. The foam of the water whirled round the projecting foot of the rock, which formed the vault of the grotto, and the power of the rising water made deep furrows in the flood.

"There comes some one running from the mountain," exclaimed the people.

A girl came hastily round the rock, with a large kerchief full of fresh-mowed mountain grass on her back. She stopped terrified on the platform of the rock, and hesitated about crossing the unsafe bridge.

"It is poor Benz's Anna!" exclaimed Ilse; "she must not remain there in the wilderness. Throw your burden away--be brisk, Anna, and come over quickly."

The girl passed rapidly across the bridge.

"She shall be the last one," commanded Ilse. "None of you shall attempt to go upon it, for it will not bear the pressure long."

Her father came up.

"The flood will subside to-night if fresh rain does not fall; but the injury it has done will long be remembered. Below, at Rossau, it appears still worse; it has overflowed the fields. Mr. Hummel has hastened down, as he is anxious about the bridges on the road on which his daughter is coming. In the village the water has entered some of the houses; the people are preparing to move to our farm-yard. Go down and help them," he said, turning to some laborers, and continued, in a low tone, to his daughter: "The Prince has gone to the village to examine the damage there. He wishes to speak to you; would you like to see him now?"

"I am ready," said Ilse.

She went towards the village with her father; there she ascended to the churchyard.

"I shall remain in the neighborhood," said he. "When the Prince leaves you, call me."

She stood by the side of the wall, looking at the grave of her dear mother and at the spot where the old Pastor reposed with his wife. The branches of the trees which she had planted here hung over her head. She remembered how fond her old friend had been of dilating on the fact that everything was just the same in the great world as in his village, the nature and passions of men were everywhere alike, and that one might make the same experience in their little valley as amidst the tumult of the Court.

"Here my father is master," she thought, "and the people are accustomed to obey us, his children, and to regard us as we do our rulers. And their children, too, might experience what others have had to experience, were their master an evil-minded man. Yet they may ask for justice at any moment and find protection.

"How will he, the proud man, bear that his wife should not find justice or protection from the injury which has been done to both her and him? We ought to do good to those who injure us. If the wicked Sovereign should now come to me sick and helpless, ought I to receive him in my house? and ought I to place myself by his couch, when such a mark of kindness might expose me to fresh insult? I have worn a white mantle; the stain which he has cast upon it, I see every hour, and no tears wash it away. He has taken from me my pure robe; shall I also at his bidding give him my gown? O high and honorable precept, taught me by my departed friend, I tremble to obey. It is a struggle between duties, and the thought of my Felix says to me, 'No.'

"I have done with the young Prince too, however innocent he may be. I know that he once sought encouragement from the simple woman with all the warmth of his heart, and my vanity has often told me that I have been a good friend to him in his high yet lonely life. Fearfully have I atoned for this vain pride. He also from henceforth must be a stranger to me. What can he still wish from me? I imagine that he thinks exactly as I do, and only wishes to take leave of me for ever. Well, I am prepared for it."

The Hereditary Prince came along the footpath from the village. Ilse remained standing by the wall of the churchyard, and bowed calmly to his greeting.

"I have made known at the capital my wish to travel," began the Prince; "I hope my request will be granted. And I have therefore come to say farewell to you."

"What you now say," answered Ilse, "shows that I have rightly judged your Highness."

"I had little opportunity of speaking to you in the city," said the Prince, shyly; "it would grieve me if you should deem me capable of ingratitude or of coldheartedness."

"I know the reasons that kept your Highness away," replied Ilse, looking down; "and I am thankful for your good intentions."

"To-day I wish to tell you, and at the same time your husband," continued the Prince, "that I shall endeavor to make what I have learnt with you useful for my future life. I know that this is the only way in which I can thank you. If you should ever hear that my people are contented with me, you may feel, gracious lady, that I have to thank, above all, you and yours for the strengthening of my sense of duty, for an impartial judgment of the worth of men, and for a higher standard of the duties of one who has to guard the welfare of many. I shall endeavor to show myself not quite unworthy of the sympathy you have accorded me. If you learn from others that it has benefited me, think kindly of me."

Ilse looked at his excited countenance; there was the gentle, honest expression which she had so often watched with anxious sympathy; she saw how deeply he felt that something had interposed between him and her, and how thoughtfully he endeavored to spare her. But she did not fathom the deep and powerful grief of the young man, the poetry of whose youthful life a father had destroyed. She did not guess that the punishment which could not reach the father had fallen upon the innocent soul of the son. The injury that the father had inflicted had clouded the happiest feeling of his young life--his warm friendship for the woman to whom he clung with enthusiastic admiration. But the kind-hearted Ilse understood the full worth of him who now stood before her, and her cautious reserve disappeared; with her old frankness, she said to him: "One must not be unjust to the innocent, nor be untrue to those whose confidence one has had, as I have yours. What I now wish for your Highness is a friend. I have seen that this is what your life needs, and I have observed, too, how difficult it is to avoid forming a low estimate of men when one's sole companions are servants."

These kind words of Ilse broke down the composure which the Prince had been struggling to maintain. "A friend for me?" he asked, bitterly. "Fate early disciplined me; I am not permitted to seek for or enjoy friendship; poison has been poured over the love that I felt. Forgive me," he suddenly said; "I am so accustomed to complain to, and seek comfort from you, that I cannot help speaking of myself, although I know that I have lost the right to do so."

"Poor Prince," exclaimed Ilse, "how can you look after the welfare of others, if your own life is void of light? The happiness which I desire for your Highness's future life is domestic love, a wife that understands you, and would become the friend of your soul."

The Prince turned aside to conceal the pain that this speech occasioned him. Ilse looked at him sorrowfully; she was once more his good counsellor as before.

A beggar-woman crept round the wall of the churchyard.

"May I beg of you to day?" began a hoarse voice, at Ilse's back. "When it is not the father, it is the son."

Ilse turned round; again she saw the hollow eyes of the gipsy, and cried out, dismayed, "Away from here."

"The lady can no longer drive me away," said the gipsy, cowering down, "for I am very weary, and my strength is at an end."

One could see that she spoke the truth.

"The troopers have hunted me from one boundary to another. If others have no compassion on me, the lady from the rock should not be so hard-hearted, for there is old fellowship between the beggar and her. I also once had intercourse with noble people, I have abandoned them, and yet my dreams ever hover over their golden palaces. Whoever has drunk of the magic cup will not lose the remembrance of it. It has again and again driven me into this country, I have led my people here--and they now lie in prison, the victims of the old memories that pursued me."

"Who is this woman?" asked the Prince.

The beggar raised her hands on high.

"In these arms I have held the Hereditary Prince when he was a child and knew nothing; I have sat with him on velvet in his mother's room. Now I lie in the churchyard on the high road, and the hands that I stretch out to him remain empty."

"It is the gipsy woman," said the Prince in a low tone, and turned away.

The beggar-woman looked at him scornfully, and said to Ilse:

"They trifle with us, and ruin us, but they hate the remembrance of old times and of their guilt. Be warned young woman, I know the secrets of this noble family, and I can tell you what they have tried to do to you, and what they have done to another who flourished before you on yonder height, and whom they placed, as they did you, in the gilded prison, over whose portal the black angel hovers."

Ilse stood bending over the beggar woman, the Prince approached her.

"Do not listen to the woman," he exclaimed.

"Speak on," said Ilse, with a faint voice.

"She was young and finely formed like you, and like you she was brought to that prison, and when the mother of this man removed me from her service because I pleased the Sovereign, I was appointed to serve the stranger. One morning I was made to ask for leave of absence from the imprisoned lady, because she was to be alone."

"I entreat of you not to listen to her," implored, the Prince.

"I listen," said Ilse, again bending down over the old woman, "speak low."

"When I came back the next morning I found a maniac in the house instead of the fair-haired lady, and I escaped from the place in terror. Do you wish to know through which door madness made its way to that woman?" she continued in a low murmur. Ilse put her ear to her mouth, but sprang suddenly back and uttered a piercing shriek, hiding her face with her hands. The Prince leaned against the wall and wrung his hands.

A loud call sounded from the carriage-road, and a man hastily approached; he held out a letter while still at a distance.

"Gabriel!" exclaimed Ilse, hastening towards him. She tore the letter from him, read it, and supported herself convulsively against one of the stones of the churchyard. The Prince sprang forward, but she held out the letter as if to stop him and exclaimed:

"The Sovereign is coming."

The Prince looked terrified at Gabriel.

"He is hardly a mile from here," announced the exhausted servant. "I overtook the princely carriage, and succeeded in getting ahead of it. The horses are struggling along the unfinished road, but the bridge between this and Rossau is now scarcely fit for horsemen or carriages; I was obliged to leave my horse behind; I do not believe they will be able to cross it, except on foot."

Without saying a word the Prince hastened down the road to Rossau. Ilse flew with her letter in her hand up the rock to her father, who came with Mr. von Weidegg to meet her.

"Go and pay your respects to your master," she called out wildly, to the Chamberlain. "My Felix comes!" she called to her father, and sank upon his breast.

People were collected near the temporary bridge between Rossau and Bielstein. Gabriel also hastened back to the water; he had met Mr. Hummel there, who was passing up and down along the bank looking across the stream.

"The world is wretchedly small," exclaimed Mr. Hummel, to his confidant, "people always meet again. One who has been galloping, like you, should take care of himself; you are exhausted, and look greatly changed. Sit down on this log and rest yourself like a sensible man."

He pushed Gabriel down, buttoned his coat, and patted him on the cheek with his large hand.

"You must be in great need of refreshment, but the best we have here is a water-perch, and I do not like to treat you like a despicable New Zealander, who in the booths at a fair consumes five cents-worth of raw whitings. Take the last restorative of a Parisian traveler."

He forced him to take a piece of chocolate.

A few steps from them, at the bridge, stood the Prince with folded arms, looking at the water, which on the side of Rossau had spread itself over the meadows and low fields about the town. Rapidly did the expanse of water increase; on the nearest part of the new road, which had not yet been paved, puddles of water gleamed between the heaps of sand and the wheelbarrows of the workmen; the road projected like a dark strip out of the muddy flood. A few individuals were coming from Rossau; they waded through the thick mud of the road and supported themselves timidly by the smooth poles which supplied the place of the bridge-rails. For the water rushed violently against the beams instead of flowing deep under the arches, and the spectators on the Bielstein side called aloud to them to make haste. The Chamberlain hastened down to his silent master and looked anxiously in his face. He was followed by the Proprietor.

"If I could do as I wished, I would break these tottering planks with my own hands," he said, indignantly, to Mr. Hummel.

"The carriages are coming," called the people. The Sovereign's carriage with four horses drove at a rapid trot through the gate of Rossau. Beside the Sovereign sat the Lord High Steward. The former had during the wearisome journey been in a state of gloomy stupor; an occasional wild word, and a look of intense hatred, was all his intercourse with his companion.

The courtier had in vain endeavored to draw the Sovereign into quiet conversation. Even the consideration of the two servants sitting at the back of the open carriage could not restrain the Sovereign's mood. Exhausted by the secret strain of this journey the old gentleman sat, the attendant by his invalid, and his sharp eye watched every movement of his companion. When they drove out of the town into the open country, the Sovereign began, musingly:

"Did you recognize the horseman that overtook us in such haste?"

"He was a stranger to me," said the High Steward.

"He conveyed information of our arrival; they are prepared to receive us."

"Then he has done your Highness a service, for they would hardly have had any anticipation at the hunting-lodge of your Highness's important resolution."

"We are not yet at the end of our drama. Lord High Steward," said the Sovereign, tauntingly; "the art of foreseeing the future is lost. Even your Excellency does not understand that."

"I have always been satisfied with observing cautiously what surrounds me in the present, and I have thereby sometimes guarded myself from being disagreeably surprised by the future. If by any accident I should myself be prevented from carrying out my rÔle in the drama of which your Highness speaks, I have taken care that others shall act my part."

The Sovereign threw himself back in his seat. The carriage went on through the mire, the horses floundered, and the coachman looked back doubtfully.

"Forward!" called out the Sovereign, in a sharp voice.

"The Hereditary Prince awaits your Highness at the bridge on foot," said the High Steward.

They went on at a good pace, the coachman with difficulty restraining his horses, who were frightened at the glittering expanse of water and the roar of the flood.

"Forward!" again commanded the Sovereign.

"Permit the coachman to stop, your Highness; the carriage cannot go further without danger."

"Do you fear danger, old man?" exclaimed the Sovereign, his face distorted with hatred. "Here we are both in the water--the same fate for us both, Lord High Steward. He is a bad servant who abandons his master."

"But I wish to restrain your Highness also," replied the High Steward.

"Forward!" cried the Sovereign again.

The coachman stopped.

"It is impossible, most gracious master," he said; "we can no longer go over the bridge."

The Sovereign jumped up in the carriage, and raised his stick against the coachman. The man, frightened, whipped his horses; they reared and sprang off to one side.

"Stop!" cried the High Steward.

The frightened lackeys readily jumped down, and held the horses. The High Steward opened the carriage door, and scrambled out.

"I beseech your Highness to alight."

The Sovereign sprang out, and, casting a look of vindictive hatred at him, hastened forward on foot. He stepped on the bridge, and the flood roared around him.

"Stay back, father," entreated the Hereditary Prince.

The father laughed, and advanced over the tottering planks; he had passed over the middle of the bridge and the deepest part of the stream; only a few steps more and his foot would touch the shore of Bielstein. At that moment there rose up near the bridge a bent figure, that cried out wildly to him:

"Welcome to our country, Gracious Lord; mercy for the poor beggar-woman. I bring you greeting from the fair-haired lady of the rock."

"Away with the crazy creature," exclaimed the Chamberlain.

The Sovereign gazed-fixedly at the wild figure; he tottered, and supported himself by the rails. The Hereditary Prince flew towards him; the father drew back with a shudder, lost his footing, and rolled down the side of the slippery planks into the flood.

There was a loud scream from the bystanders; the son sprang after him. The next moment half-a-dozen men were in the water--among the first, Gabriel, cautiously followed by Mr. Hummel. The gigantic form of the Proprietor towered above the stream; he had grasped the Sovereign, while Gabriel and Hummel seized the Prince. "The Sovereign lives," called out the Proprietor to the son, laying the unconscious man on the shore. The Hereditary Prince threw himself down by his father on the ground. The latter lay on the gravel road, the beggar-woman holding his head; he looked with glazed eyes before him, and did not recognize his kneeling son, nor the furrowed countenance of the stranger who bent over him. "He lives," repeated the Proprietor, in a low tone; "but his limbs cannot perform their office." On the other side of the water stood the High Steward. He called out to the Chamberlain in French, then hastened back with the carriage to Rossau, in order to reach a safer crossing. It was with difficulty that the carriage was brought back. Meanwhile, on the Bielstein side, a plank was torn off the half-destroyed bridge and the Sovereign laid upon it and carried to the Manor. The children of the Proprietor ran ahead and opened the door of the old house. In the hall stood Ilse, white as marble. She had been told by her brother that the Sovereign was saved from the water; he was approaching the house, to two generations of which he had been a curse and a terror. She stood in the entrance-hall no longer the Ilse of former days, but a wild Saxon woman who would hurl the curses of her gods on the head of the enemy of her race; her eyes glowed, and her hands closed convulsively. They carried the exhausted man up the steps. Then Ilse came to the threshold, and cried:

"Not in here."

So shrill was the command, that the bearers halted.

"Not into our house," she cried the second time, raising her hand threateningly.

The Sovereign heard the voice; he smiled, and nodded his head graciously.

"It is a Christian duty. Ilse," exclaimed the Proprietor.

"I am the Professor's wife," cried Ilse, passionately. "Our roof will fall upon that man's head."

"Remove your daughter," said the Hereditary Prince, in a low tone. "I demand admittance for the Sovereign of this country."

The Proprietor approached the steps and seized Ilse's arm. She tore herself away from him.

"You drive your daughter from your house, father," she exclaimed, beside herself. "If you are the servant of this man, I am not. There is no room for him and my husband at the same time. He comes to ruin us, and his presence brings a curse!"

She tore open the gate into the garden and fled under the trees, burst through the hedge, and hastened down into the valley; there she sprang upon the wooden bridge, from which she had shortly before driven the village people; the flood roared wildly beneath her, and the woodwork bent and groaned. A rent, a crack, and with a powerful spring she alighted on the rock on the other side; behind her the ruins of the bridge whirled down to the valley. She stood on the rocky prominence in front of the grotto, and raised her hands with a wild look to heaven. Her eldest brother came running behind her from the garden, and screamed when he saw the ruins of the bridge.

"I am separated from you," exclaimed Ilse. "Tell father, he need not care for me; the air is pure here; I am under the protection of the Lord, whom I serve; and my heart is light."