CHAPTER XXIII.
Two years later, on a bright morning in June, the red-painted gate of the prison opened and let out a prisoner, who, with a laugh on his face, was blinking his eyes in the bright sun, as if trying to learn to bear the light again. He swung the bundle which he carried to and fro, and looked carelessly to the right and the left, like one who was not decided which direction to follow, but for whom, on the whole, it was unimportant whither he strayed.
When he passed the front of the prison building he saw a carriage standing there which appeared known to him, for he stopped and seemed to be reflecting. Then he turned to the coachman, who, in his tasselled fur-cap, nodded haughtily from the box.
“Is anybody from Helenenthal here?” he asked.
“Yes; master and the young lady. They have come to fetch Mr. Meyerhofer.”
And directly after was heard from the steps, “Hey, holloa! there he is already—Elsbeth, see! there he is already.”
Paul jumped up the steps, and the two men lay in each other’s arms.
Then the heavy folding doors were opened softly and timidly, and let out a slender female figure, clad in black, who, with a melancholy smile, leaned against the wall and quietly waited until the men unclasped each other.
“There, you have him, Elsbeth!” shouted the old man.
Hand in hand they stood opposite each other and looked in one another’s eyes; then she leaned her head on his breast and whispered, “Thank God that I am with you again!”