A cry of surprise burst from the lips of all. There, in the open door, stood, not the student Lupinus, but a young maiden, in a white satin robe-a young maiden with the pale, thoughtful, gentle face of Lupinus. A man stood on each side of her, and she leaned upon the arm of one of them, as if for support, as they walked slowly through the room. Her large eyes wandered questioningly and anxiously over the audience; and now, her glance met Eckhof's, and a deadly pallor covered her face. She tried to smile, and bowed her head in greeting.
"This is the secret from which I wished to fly," murmured Eckhof. "I guessed it yesterday."
"I knew it long since," said Fredersdorf, sadly; "it was my most beautiful and cherished dream that your hearts should find and love each other. Have I not often told you that Lupinus was not your friend, but your bride; that no woman would ever love you as he did? You would not understand me. Your heart was of stone, and her happiness has been crushed by it."
"Poor, unhappy girl!" sighed Eckhof, and tears ran slowly down his cheeks. "I have acted the part of a barbarian toward you! Yesterday with smiling lips I pressed a dagger in her heart; she did not curse, but blessed me!"
"Listen! she speaks!"
It was the maiden's father who spoke. In simple phrase he asked forgiveness of the Faculty, for having dared to send them a daughter, in place of a son. But it had been his cherished wish to prove that only the arrogance and prejudice of men had banished women from the universities. Heaven had denied him a son. He had soon discovered that his daughter was rarely endowed; he determined to educate her as a son, and thus repair the loss fate had prepared for him. His daughter entered readily into his plans, and solemnly swore to guard her secret until she had completed her studies. She had fulfilled this promise, and now stood here to ask the Faculty if they would grant a woman a diploma.
The professors spoke awhile with each other, and then announced to the audience that Lupinus had been the most industrious and promising of all their students; the pride and favorite of all the professors. The announcement that she was a woman would make no change in her merit or their intentions; that the maiden LUPINA would be received by them with as much joy and satisfaction as the youth LUPINUS would have been. The disputation might now begin.
A murmur of applause was heard from the benches, and now the clear, soft, but slightly trembling voice of the young girl commenced to read. How strangely did the heavy, pompous Latin words contrast with the slight, fairy form of the youthful girl! She stood adorned like a bride, in satin array; not like a bride of earth, inspired by love, but a bride of heaven, in the act of laying down before God's altar all her earthly hopes and passions! She felt thus. She dedicated herself to a joyless and unselfish existence at the altar of science; she would not lead an idle, useless, musing, cloister- life. With a holy oath she swore to serve her race; to soothe the pain of those who suffered; to stand by the sick-beds of women and children; to give that love to suffering, weeping humanity which she had once consecrated to one alone, and which had come home, like a bleeding dove, with broken wings, powerless and hopeless!
The disputation was at an end. The deacon declared the maiden, Dorothea Christine Lupinus, a doctor. The students uttered wild applause, and the professors drew near the old Lupinus, to congratulate him, and to renew the acquaintance of former days.
The fair young Bride of Arts thought not of this. She looked toward Eckhof; their glances were rooted in each other firmly but tearlessly. She waved to him with her hand, and obedient to her wish he advanced to the door, then turned once more; their eyes met, and she had the courage to look softly upon the friend of her youth, Ervelman, who had accompanied her father, and say: