"Why—ah! why were you a state prisoner—a secret prisoner in the ——?"
"Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not the merest hint, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested and thrown into prison!"
"Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I love—I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate—at some moment least expected, to be torn from his arms—lost to him forever!"
"We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha, obscurity—poverty would be nothing."
"No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father—the land of my birth—home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret."
"Ah! what mean you?"
"In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend—the friend fled—you were arrested—"
"Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven——"
"Gave you possession of——" she continued.
"No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe "yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver.