“Oh, Leonore, dearly loved one!  Never to see you again, never again to hear from your lips those sweet, sacred revelations of love; never again to look into your eyes, those eyes which shine more brightly than all the stars in heaven.”

It was already growing lighter.  Dawn was approaching.  Yonder, in the dark night sky a dull golden streak appeared, the harbinger of day.  The sun was rising, bringing to the world and all its creatures, life; but to him, the condemned man, death.

Still he would die for his native land, for liberty!  That was consolation, support.  He had sought to rid the world of the tyrant who had crushed all nations into the dust, destroyed all liberty.  Fate had not favored him; it shielded the tyrant.  So Kolbielsky was dying.  Not as a criminal, but as the martyr of a great and noble cause would he front death.  And though fate had not favored him now, some day it would avenge him, avenge him on the tyrant Napoleon.  It would hurl him from his height, crush him into the dust, trample him under foot, as he now trampled under his feet the rights and the liberties of the nations.

There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought.  It made death easy.  The dawn grew brighter.  Crimson clouds floated from all directions across the sky!  Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.

No, not even half an hour’s delay.  His executioners were punctual.  The bolts on the outer door were already rattling.

“Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong.  Meet them with a joyous face; let no look betray that you are suffering!  They are coming, they are coming!  Farewell, sweet, radiant life!  Farewell, Leonore!  Love of my heart, farewell!”

The inner door was opened—­Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners with proud composure and a smiling face.  But what did this mean?  Neither executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.

Who was it?  Who could it be?  Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the strength to ask a question.  The young man also leaned for a moment, utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door.  Then rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and whispered a few words.  The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor, closed the door behind him and locked it.

The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure.  What did this mean?  He wore Kolbielsky’s livery; from his dress he appeared to be his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for years.

Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.

“Who are you?” he asked in a low tone.  “Good heavens, who are you?”

The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky.  “Who am I?  I?” he cried exultingly.  “Look at me and say who I am.”