self
in my remembrance. In my dungeon I will think of you. I will do so,
and curse you; but you also will think of me; and when you do, you will
wring your hands and curse yourself, for revenge will not kill the love
in your heart. Be that your punishment. Farewell!"

He passed before her, and quietly approached the policemen. "Come,
gentlemen, I am quite ready to follow you; and that you may be entirely
at ease I will leave my pistol here. It is my legacy to that lady--my
last souvenir. Perhaps she may use it in the future."

He placed the pistol upon her writing-table and hastily approached the
door. "Come, gentlemen; I am your prisoner!"

He signed to them to follow him, and walked proudly through the hall.

Marietta stood there trembling and deadly pale--her eyes dilated, her
lips opened, as if to utter a shriek. Thus she watched him, breathless,
and as if enchained with horror.

Now she saw him open the door of the hall, and throwing back at her
one cold, flashing glance, he went out, followed by the police and the
soldiers.

"He is gone! he is gone!" she shrieked, as if in a frenzy. "They are
leading him to imprisonment--perhaps to death. Oh, to death! It is I who
have murdered him. He is right. I am indeed cursed. I have murdered him,
and I love him." And with a wild shriek she sank fainting to the ground.

CHAPTER IX. TRENCK.

Trenck still lived; neither chains nor years of loneliness had broken
his strength or bowed his spirit. His tall, gigantic form had shrunk to
a skeleton; his hair had whitened and hung around his hollow face like
an ashen veil. Heavy chains clasped his feet and his throat, a broad
iron band encircled his waist, which was attached to the wall by a short
chain--a thick bar held his hands apart; but still he lived. For years
he had paced, with short, restless steps, this little space that covered
his grave; but he smiled derisively at the coarse stone which bore his
name.

Trenck still lived. He lived because he had a fixed desire, a grand aim
in view--he thirsted for freedom, and believed it attainable. Trenck
could not die, for without was liberty, the sun, life, and honor. He
would not die; for to be willing to die, he must first have lived.
His life had been so short--a few fleeting years of youth, of careless
enjoyment--a joyous dream of love and ambition! This had been his fate.
Then came long, weary years of imprisonment--a something which he knew
not, but it was not