Bertram looked at her, astonished and inquiringly; but in a few rapid words the countess explained to him Elise’s intention and determination, to allow her to take the journey in her stead, and with her clothes.

Bertram cast on Elise a look which mirrored forth the admiration he felt for this young girl, who had so heroically gained the victory over herself.  His reliance on her maiden pride, her sense of right and honor, had not been deceived.

The countess had now finished her toilet, and donned Elise’s hat and cloak.

Bertram called on her to hasten, and she approached Elise to bid her farewell, and express her gratitude for the sacrifice she had made for her.  But Elise waved her back proudly and coldly, and seemed to shudder at her touch.

“Go to your husband, countess,” cried she, and her voice was hoarse and cold.

Lodoiska’s eyes filled with tears.  Once more she attempted to take Elise’s hand, but the latter firmly crossed her arms and looked at her almost threateningly.  “Go!” said she, in a loud, commanding voice.

Bertram took the arm of the countess and drew her to the door.  “Hasten!” said he; “there is no time to lose.”

The door closed behind them.  Elise was alone.  She stood and listened to their departing steps; she heard the house door open; she heard the post-horn once more sound out merrily, and then cease.  “I am alone!” she screamed, with a heart-rending cry.  “They are gone; I am alone!” And stretching her arms despairingly to heaven, and almost beside herself, she cried out, “O God! will no one have compassion on me? will no one pity me?”

“Elise,” said her father, opening the room door.

She sprang toward him with a loud exclamation, she rushed into his arms, embraced him, and, nestling in his bosom, she exclaimed faintly, “Have pity on me, my father; do not drive me from you!  You are my only refuge in this world.”

Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to his breast and looked gratefully to heaven.  “Oh!  I well knew my daughter’s heart would return to her father.”

He kissed ardently her beautiful, glossy hair, and her head that was resting on his breast.  “Do not weep, my child, do not weep,” whispered he, tenderly.

“Let me weep,” she answered, languidly; “you do no know how much sorrow and grief pass off with these tears.”

The sound of the post-horn was now heard from the street below and then the rapid rolling of a carriage.

Elise clung still more closely to her father.  “Save me,” she cried.  “Press me firmly to your heart.  I am quite forsaken in this world.”

The door was thrown open and Bertram rushed in, out of breath, exclaiming:  “She is gone! he did not recognize her, and took her for you.  The countess—­”

He stopped suddenly and looked at Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he had just become aware.

Gotzkowsky inquired in astonishment, “Who is gone?  What does all this mean?”