"Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty to preserve yours, I have——"
"I—I know it all, dear—dearest angel, but——"
"Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze upon the poor victim.
"Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be——"
"It is known—I know it—I learned it from your captors; but for my love," said the girl, "mad—guilty love—your life would have been forfeited—your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be happy—Bertha's love must die with her—Bertha be ever miserable!"
"I-a—I will—but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false—false!" exclaimed the almost distracted poet.
"Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?"
"Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let me at your feet swear, in answer—No!"
"Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of your misery; O! bless me—bless your Bertha; give me those accursed manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"
This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room, sighed, tore his mouchoir, oscillated between honor and temptation—the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting spy, opened the secret drawers of the poet's secretary, and amid carefully-packed literary rubbish, the dreaded memorial was found—clutched with the eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor author's manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid with each scathing word of the memorial, he hurriedly issued his orders—gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a countess, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and misery to his children.