ne a good
business, but I am the most fortunate, with my three thousand thalers
and a fine place. I wish he had waited an hour later, and then I should
have had another thousand!"

Ebenstreit sat with triumphant smile also, by his betrothed. "Money is
the king of the world--with it one can accomplish all things," said he
to himself; "if I had been a poor fellow, the general would not have
chosen me, nor the king have given me a title, nor could I have won back
my beautiful bride. Money gives position, and I hope will give me the
power to revenge myself for the pain in my face." He turned menacingly
toward Moritz, who saw it not.

With bowed head, speechless, as if numb with the horror of his
misfortune, he rode with fettered hands between the two officers,
incapable of fleeing, as they had even bound a cord around his arms,
each end held fast by one of the riders.

The stars and the moon shone down upon him as brightly beautiful as
an hour previous. Oh, Marie, you were right, falling stars betoken
misfortune! Your star has fallen!

CHAPTER XXVII. THE SACRIFICE.

Since that painful night, four weeks had passed, four long ones to poor
old Trude. To her beloved child they had fled in happy unconsciousness.
In the delirium of fever, her thoughts wandered to her lover, always
dwelling upon her hopes and happiness. In the intervals of reason she
asked for him with fearful excitement and anxiety, then again her mind
was clouded, and the cry of anguish was changed into a smile.

Then came the days of convalescence and the return to consciousness, and
with it the mourning over crushed hopes. Slowly had Trude, the faithful
nurse, who watched by her bedside day and night, answered her excited
questions, and to her little by little the circumstances of the
elopement--how Leberecht had played the eavesdropper and sold Marie's
secret for gold; how he had previously arranged to pursue them,
informing the police, ordering the horses, and sending forward a courier
to provide fresh relays at every station.

Trude depicted the anger of her father and the threats of her mother to
send her to prison. But before she could execute her purpose, Ebenstreit
had brought home the unconscious child, and she herself had lifted her
from the carriage and borne her, with the aid of her mistress, to her
own little attic room.

Marie listened to these relations with a gloomy calmness and a defiant
sorrow. Illness had wrought a peculiar