Let us confess it, Cornelius was not so stupefied with surprise, or so beyond himself with joy, as he would have been but for the pigeon, which, in answer to his letter, had brought back hope to him under her empty wing; and, knowing Rosa, he expected, if the note had ever reached her, to hear of her whom he loved, and also of his three darling bulbs.
He rose, listened once more, and bent forward towards the door.
Yes, they were indeed the accents which had fallen so sweetly on his heart at the Hague.
The question now was, whether Rosa, who had made the journey from the Hague to Loewestein, and who—Cornelius did not understand how—had succeeded even in penetrating into the prison, would also be fortunate enough in penetrating to the prisoner himself.
Whilst Cornelius, debating this point within himself, was building all sorts of castles in the air, and was struggling between hope and fear, the shutter of the grating in the door opened, and Rosa, beaming with joy, and beautiful in her pretty national costume—but still more beautiful from the grief which for the last five months had blanched her cheeks—pressed her little face against the wire grating of the window, saying to him,—
“Oh, sir, sir! here I am!”
Cornelius stretched out his arms, and, looking to heaven, uttered a cry of joy,—
“Oh, Rosa, Rosa!”
“Hush! let us speak low: my father follows on my heels,” said the girl.
“Your father?”