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."

A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's
slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.

The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young
man's face.

Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou
bringest love.

"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my--"