Elise raised herself from his arms and gazed at him with flashing eyes.  “It means,” she answered, “that the happiness of my life is broken, that all is deception and falsehood where I looked for love, and faith, and happiness!” With a touching cry of suffering, she fell fainting in her father’s arms.

“Do not rouse her, father,” said Bertram, bending over her; “grant her this short respite, for she has a great sorrow to overcome.  When she comes to herself again, she will love none but you, her father.”

Gotzkowsky pressed his lips on her brow, and blessed her in his thoughts.  “She will find in me a father,” said he, with deep emotion, “who, if necessary, can weep with her.  My eyes are unused to tears, but a father may be allowed to weep with his daughter when she is suffering.”

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVII.

THE BANQUET OF GRATITUDE.

Berlin had recovered from the terrors it had undergone.  It was eight days since the enemy had left, and every thing was quiet and calm.  But on this day the quiet was to be interrupted by a public merry-making.  Berlin, which had suffered so much, was to rejoice again.

The festival which was to be celebrated, was intended for none else than John Gotzkowsky, the Merchant of Berlin, the man whom all looked upon as their guardian angel and savior.  He had cheerfully borne hardship and toil, danger and injustice, for the good of his fellow-men; he had always been found helping and ready to serve, unselfish and considerate.  The whole town was under obligation to him; he had served all classes of society, and they all wished to evince their gratitude to him.

Gotzkowsky had been requested to remain at home on the morning of the festal day, but to hold himself in readiness to receive several deputations.  They were to be succeeded by a grand dinner, given by the citizens of Berlin in his honor.  They were to eat and drink, be merry, and enjoy themselves to his glorification; they were to drink his health in foaming glasses of champagne, and Gotzkowsky was to look upon it all as a grand festival with which the good citizens of Berlin were glorifying him, while they themselves were enjoying the luscious viands and fragrant wines.

In vain did Gotzkowsky refuse to accept the proffered festival.  At first he tried to excuse himself on the plea of his daughter’s illness, alleging that he could not leave her bedside.  But information had been obtained from her physician, who reported her out of danger, and that Gotzkowsky might leave her for several hours without risk.  Gotzkowsky being able to find no other excuse, was obliged to accept.  Elise was indeed sick.  The grief and despair of her betrayed and deceived heart had prostrated her; and her wild, fever-dreams, her desponding complaints, the reproachful conversations she carried on with her lover—­unseen but nevertheless