CHAPTER IV.

FEODOR VON BRENDA.


Elise directed her hasty steps toward the now retired parts of
the garden. She longed to be alone. Her soul, agitated by painful
emotions, required silence and solitude, in order to settle down again
gently to rest and peace. Slowly, and with bowed head, she traversed
the dark, silent garden-walks. Her thoughts wandered afar off, and
she sought some little comfort, some relief from the privations of the
present, in the sweet and blissful recollections of bygone days.

"What can keep him?" asked she of herself; and as she thought of him,
her countenance assumed a cheerful, almost happy expression. "He swore
to brave every danger, every difficulty, in order to let me hear from
him; and now, alas! ten weeks have passed, and no news, no token, from
him. My God! is it possible that in all this long time he could have
found no opportunity to write to me?--or perhaps his love has not
survived the test of separation and silence."

At this thought she stopped, as if stunned, and pressed her hand to
her breast. A sharp pain shot through her, and her heart seemed to
cease to pulsate. But, in a moment, her countenance brightened up,
and she murmured, with a gentle smile, "Oh, to doubt his love were a
greater treason than to love my country's enemy. Oh, no! Feodor, my
heart does not doubt you; and notwithstanding your silence, I know
that your heart answers mine, and that we are forever and inseparably