“Nina!” exclaimed the young man.
“Nina—Caroline—what you will,” answered Heissenheimer; “but the self-same enchantress, whose song has won your heart.”
“No! Is it possible? Oh, can I believe it!” cried Louis, looking bewildered around him.
“The same!” said Ricco. And Nina herself confirmed the truth.
No longer doubting, the artist seized her fair hand, and drew her gently to his breast. Long, long, he held her there in silence; amazement—love—unspeakable rapture—deprived him of the power of speech.
At last Ricco, who had been walking up and down the room in great emotion, broke the silence. “Young friend,” he cried, “thou hast nobly borne the trial. Art is a divinity—and for the true artist, no sacrifice is too great! I vowed—and would have kept my vow—to give my daughter to no one who could not value her mind and heart beyond her outward charms! He who could admire the superficial, frivolous maiden, beautiful as she was, and wish for nothing more—would have been unworthy of her better self. Too often have I heard fair words in praise of art; too rarely does the action correspond; and he alone has right to upbraid his opponents with their want of discernment, who not only has better judgment, but suffers that judgment to guide his conduct. Now, take my girl if you will! I welcome you as my son!” Louis answered by embracing the kind old man.
When their feelings were in some measure calmed, Heissenheimer commenced his explanations.
“You have much to thank me for, young man! Till yesterday I was as much deceived as yourself, and was only let behind the scenes after my discovery. I would have you know, all was truth I told you about my hearing the music, and so forth; except that I surprised, not the maid Caroline, but our sweet friend Nina, while her father was accompanying her in the song you heard a few moments since. There was no escape; both were brought to confession, and having them in my power, I stipulated that you should be kept no longer in suspense, else I know not how many fiery trials awaited you.”
“It was my father’s will, not mine!” cried Nina; “if you only knew how hard it was for me to play such a part!”
Louis answered by an expressive look; and Ricco said, deprecatingly, “My art—my child—my all, was at stake! We are told to be wise as the serpent.”