no, we
will go of our own free will, self-banished!"

"But where shall we go?" cried Marianne, wringing her hands.

"Where God wills!" solemnly responded the young maiden.

"And upon what shall we live?" wailed Marianne. "We are now totally
destitute and helpless. How shall we live?"

"We will work!" said Natalie, firmly. A peculiar calm had come over her.
Misfortune had awakened a new quality in her nature, sorrow had struck
a new string in her being; she was no longer the delicate, gentle,
suffering, unresisting child; she felt in herself a firm resolution, a
bold courage, an almost joyful daring, and an invincible calmness.

"Work! _You_ will work, princess?" whispered Marianne.

"I will learn it!" said she, and with a constantly quickened step they
approached the outlet of the garden.

The gate which led out into the street was wide open; soldiers in
Russian uniform had been stationed before it, keeping back with their
carbines the curious Romans who crowded around in great numbers, glad of
an opportunity to get a peep into the so-long-closed charmed garden.

"See, there she comes, the garden fairy!" cried they all, as Natalie
neared the gate.

"How beautiful she is, how beautiful!" they loudly exclaimed.

"That is a real fairy, a divinity!"

Natalie heard none of these expressions of admiration--she had but one
object, one thought. She wished to leave the garden; she wished to go
forth; she had no regrets, no complaints, for this lost paradise; she
only wished to get out of it, even if it was to go to her death.

But the soldiers stationed at the gate opposed her progress.

Natalie regarded them with terror and amazement.

"They cannot, at least, oppose my voluntary resignation of my property,"
said she. "Away with these muskets and sabres! I would pass out!"

And the young maiden boldly advanced a step. But those weapons stretched
before her like a wall, and Natalie was now overcome by anguish and
despair; the inconsolable feeling of her total abandonment, of her
miserable isolation. Tears burst from her eyes, her pride was broken,
she was again the trembling young girl, no longer the heroic woman; she
wept, and in tremulous tone, with folded hands, she implored of these
rough soldiers a little mercy, a little compassion.

They understood not her language, they had no sympathy; but the
crowd were touched by the tears of the beautiful girl and by the sad
lamentations of her companion. They screame