Still full of the passionate and defiant thoughts which the vicinity of his affianced bride had provoked, he had gone out to seek Elise.  But to find her had become not only difficult, but almost impossible.

Bertram, who had not thought fit to reveal to Gotzkowsky the forcible abduction of his daughter, had yet quietly arranged his precautions that a repetition of the attempt from any quarter, or at any time, should be impossible.

Under the pretence that the withdrawal of the troops rendered the city unsafe, and filled it with marauders and plundering stragglers, Bertram, secure of Gotzkowsky’s approval beforehand, had armed a number of the factory workmen, and placed them as sentinels on the wall, in the court, and on the ground-floor.  These had orders not to let any one enter who was not able to tell the object and purpose of his coming.  By this precaution Bertram prevented any attempt of Feodor to climb the wall; and, furthermore he obtained the advantage that Elise, to whom the presence of the sentinels was unpleasant and objectionable, not only did not visit the dangerous, solitary parts of the garden, but withdrew into her own room.  In this manner Bertram had rendered any meeting between Feodor and Elise impossible, but he could not prevent his servant, Petrowitsch, from meeting his sweetheart, Elise’s chambermaid, on the street.

By means of these a letter of Feodor reached Elise’s hand.  In this Feodor reminded her solemnly and earnestly of her promise; he now called upon her to fulfil her vow, and to follow him from the house of her father.  He adjured her to unite herself to him at the altar as his wife, and to give him the right to carry her abroad with him as his own.

Elise received this letter of her beloved, and her heart during its perusal was moved by unfamiliar emotions.  She could not herself determine whether it was joy or dread which caused it to beat so convulsively, and almost deprived her of consciousness.  She could have screamed aloud with joy, that at last she would be united to her lover, wholly, sacredly as his own; and yet she was filled with deep grief that the path to the altar would not be hallowed by her father’s blessing.  Even love, which spoke so loudly and powerfully in her heart, could not silence the warning voice of conscience—­that voice which again and again threatened her with sin and sorrow, disgrace and shame.  Yet Elise, in the warmth and passion of her heart, sought to excuse herself, and in the pride of her wounded filial love said to herself:  “My father does not regard me; he will not weep for my loss, for I am superfluous here, and he will hardly perceive that I am gone.  He has his millions and his friends, and the whole multitude of those to whom he does good.  He is so rich—­he has much on which his heart hangs!  But I am quite poor; I have nothing but the heart of my beloved.  His love is my only possession.  Would it not be wicked in me to cast