In silence she pointed to the curtains just behind them, concealing a recess, in the middle of which stood a costly vase.  “Let us conceal ourselves,” said she, and, unnoticed by Gotzkowsky, they glided behind the curtains.

* * * * *

CHAPTER XV.

THE RESCUE.

Gotzkowsky had closed with life and earthly affairs.  He had signed the document declaring him a bankrupt, and he had delivered over all his property to his creditors.  The die had been cast.  He had been powerful and great through money, but his power and greatness had now gone from him, for he was poor.  The same men who yesterday had bowed down to the ground before him, had to-day passed him by in pride and scorn; and those who had vowed him eternal gratitude, had turned him from their door like a beggar.  Why should he continue to bear the burdens of a life which had no longer any allurements, and whose most precious jewel, his honor, he had lost?

De Neufville had done right, and only a coward would still cling to life after all that was worth living for had disappeared.  They should not point scornfully at him as he went along the streets.  He would not be condemned to hear whispered after him, “Look! there goes Gotzkowsky the bankrupt.”  No, this fearful word should never wound his ears or pierce his heart.

Once more only would he pass through those streets, which had so often seen him in his glory—­once more, not poor, nor as the laughing-stock of children, but so that those who now derided him should bow down before him, and honor him as the mourning emblem of departed honor:  only his body should pass by these men who had broken his heart.  He had determined to quit this miserable existence, to leave a world which had proved itself to him only a gulf of wickedness and malice, and his freed spirit would wing its way to regions of light and knowledge.

With such thoughts he entered the room which was to be the scene of his last hours.  But he would not go down to the grave without bearing witness to the wickedness and malice of the world.  His death should be a monument of its disgrace and ingratitude.

For this purpose he had sought this room, for in it was the costly etagere on which stood the silver pitcher presented to him by the Council of Leipsic as a token of their gratitude, and from it he would drink his fatal draught.  He took it and emptied into it a small white powder, that looked so innocent and light, and yet was strong enough to drag him down with leaden weight into the grave.  He then took the water-goblet and poured water on it.  The draught was ready; all that was necessary was for him to put it to his lips to imbibe eternal rest, eternal oblivion.

Elise saw it all—­understood it all.  She folded her hands and prayed; her teeth chattered together, and all that she could feel and know was, that she must save him, or follow him to the grave.  “When he raises the pitcher to his lips, I will rush out,” she whispered to Bertram, softly, and opened the curtains a little in order to watch him.