“Yes, he lives, he does not suffer from bodily ills, but the sickness of the soul.”
“And do not I also?” asked she, with quivering voice. “Oh! I know what he suffers, as we are wretched from the same cause. But tell me, have you seen him?”
“Yes, Fraulein, I have.”
“Where is he? Where did you see him?”
“In prison!”
Marie grew paler, and retreated, shuddering. The director continued: “In a dark, damp prison at Spandau. The poor fellow has been there for two months without air, light, or occupation, and his only society is his own revengeful thoughts and angry love-complaints.”
Marie gave one hollow moan, covering her corpse-like face with her hands.
“In this abode of torture, in this dwelling of the damned, he must remain ten long years, if death does not release him?”
“What did you say?” she groaned. “Ten long years? Have they condemned him?”
“Yes, he was guilty of a great crime—eloping with a minor—who, with the king’s consent, and that of her parents, was betrothed to another. Read the sentence of the court, which was forwarded to me as the head of the college where Moritz was employed. See, here is the king’s signature, which affirms the sentence, rendering it legal, and here upon the margin are the lines your father read.”