h at first
ashamed to receive them, he soon came to devising plans with her for
more extensive peculations, having found means of disposing of them
through Schlunkel's intervention. Crescence obeyed in all things. To
her mind Florian was lawfully the lord of the world and of all it
contained, and entitled to regard all men as his subjects. For a while,
she thought, he chose to live without the insignia of his power, but he
would soon arise and show the world what was really in him. She hoped
that the time was at hand when he would come forth in all his glory.
This hope was as clear and confident in her heart as her expectation of
the coming day; and yet she knew not what she hoped. But a storm soon
broke in rudely upon her daydreams. The tailor detected the
embezzlements of his daughter, and drove her out of his house,
threatening to hand her over to justice if she returned. Her mother was
at the point of death and unable to protect her.

[Illustration: Crescence knew not where to turn.]

Crescence knew not where to turn. She went to Florian's door; but he
was not at home. When told the name of the nightly associate with whom
he had gone abroad, she wept aloud. Drawing her gown over her head to
ward off the beating rain, she wandered up and down for hours in a
state bordering on distraction. Could she but have crept away from
herself! At length she took courage to seek out Melchior's Lenore, and
was kindly received by her father.

Every effort at a reconciliation with her father failed. She now
knitted stockings and worked by the day: sometimes Florian assisted
her, for he had again found means to raise the wind. But she could not
touch a single coin without a shudder: in looking at the portraitures
of the august sovereigns which they bore, Schlunkel's features seemed
to peer out of every one of them.

Lenore always found out when the tailor went to Horb with his wallet,
and at such times Crescence would go home and supply herself with such
things as she most needed.

Florian also was often on the watch to see whether he might go to see
Schlunkel without impairing his reputation. A characteristic
occurrence, however, soon put an end to this joyless companionship.
Schlunkel had stolen two wethers from the paper-miller of Eglesthal.
One day when Florian was with him he called upon the latter to
slaughter and dress them. Florian's pride and glory up to that time had
been his art and mystery: the request was therefore