nished that
the Baron had not seized the _memorial_, as well as the body of the
hapless author. The Baron and the treacherous German conferred at
length; an idea seemed to strike the spy.

"I have it," he exclaimed, a few days before his arrest. "I saw a friend
visit Beethoven; I know they both entertained the same sentiments in
regard to the Emperor--_that man has the manuscripts_."

Where was that man? It was finding the needle in the hay stack--_the_
pebble in the brook. Again the Emperor urged, and the _Cytherian Cohort_
plied their cunning and perseverance. That _friend_ of the poor author
was found--he was tilling his garden, surrounded by his flower pots and
children, on the outskirts of Prague, Bohemia. It was in vain he
questioned his captors. He dropped his gardening implements--blessed his
children--kissed them, and was hurried off, he knew not whither or
wherefore! Shaubert was this man's name; he was forty, a widower--a
scholar, a poet--liberally endowed by wealth, and loved the women!

It was Baron ----'s province to find out the weak points of each victim.

"If he has a _particular_ regard for _poetry_, he does love the fine
arts," quoth the Baron, "and women are the queens of _fine arts_. I'll
have him!"

In the secret prison of Shaubert he found an old man, confined for--he
could not learn what. Every day, the yet youthful and most fascinating,
voluptuous and beautiful daughter of the old man, visited his cell,
which was adjoining that of Shaubert's. As she did so, it was not long
before she found occasion to linger at the door of the widower, the
poet--and sigh so piteously as to draw from the victim, at first a holy
poem, and at length an amative love lay. Like fire into tow did this
effusion of the poet's quill inflame the breast and arouse the passions
of the lovely Bertha; and in an obscure hour, after pouring forth the
soul's burden of most vehement love, the angel in woman's form(!), with
implements as perfect as the very jailor's, opened all the bolts and
bars, and led the captive forth to liberty! She would have the poet who
had entranced her, fly and leave her to her fate! But _poetry_ scorned
such dastardy--it was but to brave the uncertainty of fate to stay, and
torture to go--Bertha must fly with him. She had a father--could she
leave him in bondage? No! She had rescued her lover--she braved
more--released her parent in the next hour, by the same mysterious
means, and giving herself up