The old count, with his wife, followed by Count Pückler's footman, now approached. "My child, my child!" murmured the old countess, bending over her daughter, "what has happened? Why are you so pale? Why do you weep?"
Camilla looked up to her with streaming eyes. "Mother," she exclaimed, in a heart-rending voice, "mother, he will kill himself!"
"Who?" asked her father, aghast.
"My betrothed," she gasped faintly. "With a more generous and scrupulous regard for his honor than we are manifesting for ours, he will not survive the disgrace of his country. As Breslau is doomed, he will die! As I did not care to die with him, he angrily repulsed me, and went up to his room to die alone. Oh, mother, father, have mercy on my anguish! Help me to save him!"
"Is the count really here?" said Camilla's father to the footman. "Is he in this room?"
"Yes, gracious count, my master came home a few minutes ago. Without saying a word, he went to his room, and locked himself up."
The old count stepped to the door, and, grasping the knob, shook it violently. "Count Pückler, open the door," he cried aloud. "Your father-in-law and the mother of your betrothed are standing at your door, and ask to be admitted!"
"Frederick! Frederick!" begged Camilla, "I am on my knees in front of your door-sill, and implore you to have mercy—to have compassion on me! Oh, do not close your heart against me—oh, let me come in, my dear friend!" She paused and listened, hoping to hear a word or a movement inside. But every thing remained silent.
"If you refuse to listen to our supplications, we shall enter by force," exclaimed the count.
"My son," wailed the old countess, "if you will not listen to us, at least have mercy on my daughter, for she will die of grief if you desert her."