CHAPTER XLIII.
THE JESUIT.
None save those who have been circumstanced as we unfortunately were, in a city besieged and reduced almost to the last extremity, can fully appreciate the value of the prize I brought with me to lay at the feet of Ernestine; but a pound of fresh meat, or a slice of plain bread, were then worth thrice their weight in gold.
When I entered her little boudoir, which the Fraü of the last occupant had furnished with exquisite taste, and hung with curtains of the richest velvet, she was kneeling at prayer, and the softness of the Turkey carpet enabled me to approach her unheard. Then I paused for a time; but her eye detected me, and she arose with a charming smile.
"You were praying when I left you, and still you are praying! Dear Ernestine, how very bad you must be to have so much to repent of," said I, playfully.
"All my prayers are for my poor father and you, Philip—for your safety and for his," replied she, with somewhat of a pouting air; "believe me, that since I came to Stralsund I have almost forgotten how to pray for myself."
"Now, do not pout, dear Ernestine," said I, clasping her head upon my breast; "for it does not look pretty even in you, who possess the charm of that perfect innocence, without which a beautiful woman is like a rose without perfume."
"Now, where did you pick up this piece of poetry?"
"Not amid the shot and smoke, the slime and slaughter, of yonder batteries; but here with you, Ernestine; for it is you, and you alone, who shed a ray of light and poetry along the dark and dangerous way I am treading."
"And in the hope that Heaven will protect you on that way, to the end of your journey—let me say our journey, Philip—I pray so often."
"Heaven," said I caressing her, "will never be so cruel as to separate two hearts that love each other as ours do."