have sworn me love and constancy till
death. Do you remember it?"

"I remember it, and never will I be faithless to my vow," whispered
she, smiling through her tears.

"You swore to me never to belong to any one but me. Have you forgotten
that?"

"No, I have not."

"Well, then," said he, rising, "we shall soon see each other again."

"When, Feodor, when?"

"When Berlin is in our hands," said he, smiling proudly; "when we
enter your gates as conquerors."

She shuddered painfully. He saw it, and a hateful, mocking expression
passed across his features; but this lasted only a moment, and his
changeable countenance appeared again bright and loving. He took
Elise's hand and pressed it to his lips.

"Will you, even at such a time, allow me to see you? Will you,
faithful to your vow, remember that my Elise has sworn by God and her
love never to turn a deaf ear to my call? Will you expect me?" asked
he, coaxingly.

"I will," answered she, in a low voice.

"And I will come," cried he, passionately, "if the way to you leads
over mountains of dead bodies!"

She threw herself into his open arms, and nestled like a timid dove on
his breast.

"Oh!" cried she, "when danger threatens you, then I think I would like
to be a man to share it with you."

He covered her lips and eyes with kisses. "Farewell, farewell, Elise;
and if it is God's will, we will meet again."

One last kiss, one last embrace, and he tore himself from her arms
and hurried toward the wall. Now he climbs it, and throws his last
greetings to her, then descends on the other side.

"He is gone, he is gone!" she shrieked, and, falling on her knees,
raised her hands to heaven. "O God, have mercy on me, have pity on my
love!"

It seemed as if God did grant her prayer, for a thick veil sank over
her eyes, and a swoon robbed her of consciousness.

* * * * *

CHAPTER V.

MR. KRETSCHMER, OF THE VOSSIAN GAZETTE.

The editor of the _Vossian Gazette_, Mr. Kretschmer, sat at his desk,
busily writing. That he was a learned man was seen by his earnest,
care-worn forehead, his large, well-powdered wig, and above all by the
disorder and confusion which reigned in the whole room. Besides which,
Mr. Kretschmer wore a dressing-gown, thickly sprinkled with ink-spots,
the official robe of his literary dignity. And whosoever beheld him in
this robe, his long pipe in his mouth, filling the room with a thick
blue smoke, seated