," said the girl, "mad--guilty love--your life would have been
forfeited--your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in
quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be
happy--Bertha's love must die with her--Bertha be ever miserable!"

"I-a--I will--but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false--false!"
exclaimed the almost distracted poet.

"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and
throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"

"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let
me at your feet swear, in answer--_No!_"

"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned
viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of
your misery; O! bless me--bless your Bertha; give me those accursed
manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at
once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of
your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"

This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room,
sighed, tore his _mouchoir_, oscillated between honor and
temptation--the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In
course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting _spy_, opened
the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed
literary rubbish, the dreaded _memorial_ was found--clutched with the
eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of
eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor
author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and
while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid
with each scathing word of the _memorial_, he hurriedly issued his
orders--gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a
_countess_, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and
misery to his children.

"Fly!" the monarch shouted, "search every one suspected of a hand in
this; let them be dealt with instantly--trouble me not with detail, but
give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg
and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty--_fly!_"

That _snake_ was scotched and killed--the few brief pages of an obscure
author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for
days and nights--made busy work for his thousands of
emissaries--scattered his gold in weighty streams--was