He laid his hand on her head as if to bless her, and love and forgiveness were expressed in his looks.  A perfect peace seemed to pervade his whole frame.  In this moment he forgave her all the pain, all the suffering she had caused him.  He pardoned her those unjust reproaches and accusations, and with lofty emotion, raising his eyes toward heaven, he exclaimed, “O God! thou seest my heart.  Thou knowest that love alone has possession of its very depths, love to my child! and my child has no faith in me.  I have worked—­I am rich—­I have amassed wealth—­only for her.  I thought of my child as I sat at my desk during the long, weary nights, busied with difficult calculations.  I remembered my daughter when I was wearied out and overcome by this laborious work.  She should be happy; she should be rich and great as any princess; for this I worked.  I had no time to toy or laugh with her, for I was working for her like a slave.  And this,” continued he with a sad smile, “this is what she reproaches me with.  There is nothing in which I believe, nothing but my child, and my child does not believe in me!  The world bows down before me, and I am the poorest and most miserable beggar.”

Overpowered by these bitter thoughts, which crowded tumultuously upon his brain, he leaned his head upon his hand and wept bitterly.  Then, after a long pause, he drew himself up erect, and, with a determined gesture, shook the tears from his eyes.

“Enough!” said he, loudly and firmly, “enough; my duty shall cure me of all this suffering.  That I must not neglect.”

He rang the bell, and ordered the servant-maids, who appeared, to raise up the insensible girl and bear her to her room.

But when the maidens called the waiting-man to their assistance to raise their mistress, Gotzkowsky pushed them all aside, and carried her softly and gently, as carefully and tenderly as a mother, to a couch, on which he placed her.  He then pressed a fervent kiss upon her brow.  Elise began to move, a faint blush overspread her cheeks, she opened her eyes.  Gotzkowsky immediately stepped back, and signed to her maids to carry her into her room.

He looked after her until she had disappeared, his eyes dimmed with tears.  “My child,” said he, in a low voice, “she is lost to me.  Oh, I am a poor, pitiable father!” With a deep groan he pressed his hands to his face, and nothing was heard but the painful sobs wrung from the heart of this father wrestling with his grief.

Suddenly there arose from without loud lamentations and cries for help.  They came nearer and nearer, and at last reached Gotzkowsky’s house, and filled its halls and passages.  It was not the outcry of a single person.  From many voices came the sounds of lamenting and weeping, screams and shrieks: 

“Help! help! have pity on us, save us!  The Austrians are hewing us down—­they are burning our houses—­save us!”