“You must hear it,” said the countess, solemnly.  “You must learn the name of the man who chained me to him by a bloody, guilt-stained past, and then deserted me.  It is Colonel Count Feodor von Brenda!”

Elise uttered a cry, and sank, half fainting, back on the cushions of the sofa.  But this dejection did not last long.  Her heart, which for a moment seemed to stop, resumed again its tumultuous beating; her blood coursed wildly through her veins, and her soul, unused to the despair of sorrow, resolved to make one last effort to free itself from the fetters with which her evil fate wished to encompass her.  She drew herself up with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes.  “This is false,” she cried; “a miserable invention, concocted to separate me from Feodor.  Oh!  I see through it all.  I understand now my father’s solemn asseverations, and why Bertram brought you to me.  But you are all mistaken in me.  Go, countess, and tell your friends, ’Elise offers up every thing and gives every thing to him whom she loves, in whom she believes, even if the whole world testifies against him.’” And with a triumphant smile, throwing back her head, she stood up and was about to leave the room.

The countess shrugged her shoulders as if in pity.  “You do not believe me, then?” said she; “but you will believe this witness?” and she drew a letter from her bosom and handed it to Elise.

“It is his handwriting,” cried the young girl, terrified, as she took the letter.

“Ah! you know his handwriting, then?  He has written to you, too?” sighed the countess.  “Well, then, read it.  It is a letter he wrote me from Berlin at the commencement of his captivity.  Read it!”

“Yes, I will read it,” murmured Elise.  “These written words pierce my eyes like daggers, but I will not mind the pain.  I will read it.”

She read the letter, which annihilated her whole happiness, slowly and with terrible composure.  Drop by drop did she let the poison of these words of love, directed to another, fall into her soul.  When she had finished reading it, she repeated to herself the last cruel words, the warm protestations, with which Feodor assured his bride of his unalterable love and fidelity, with which he swore to her that he looked upon his love to her not only as a happiness, but as a sacred obligation; that he owed her not only his heart but his honor.  Then long and carefully she considered the signature of his name, and folding up the paper, she handed it back, with a slight inclination to the countess.

“Oh, my God!  I have loved him beyond bounds,” muttered she, low; and then, unable to restrain her tears, she put her hands to her face and wept aloud.

“Poor, unhappy girl!” exclaimed the countess, laying her arm tenderly around her neck.

Elise drew back violently and regarded her almost in anger.  “Do not commiserate me.  I will not be pitied by you!  I—­”

She suddenly stopped, and an electric shock passed through her whole frame.  She heard the concerted signal; and the tones of the post-horn, which slowly and heavily sounded the notes of the sad Russian melody, grated on her ear like a terrible message of misfortune.