Elise could have learned just as well as Bertram had that Feodor had been accidentally saved. Her lover himself could have sent her this information, and she, who in the bitterness of her grief had torn herself loose from her father, might not have had the strength to withstand his ardent prayers. Perhaps in her sense of bereavement, trusting to her love, she might have found the sad courage to brave not only her father, but the judgment and scorn of the world, in order to be united to her lover.
Such thoughts as these arrested Bertram's steps, and compelled him to reflection. Only one thing was positive—he must save her at every hazard, even against her will, even if he should reap, as the sole reward of his devoted love, her aversion; he must save her from her own passionate, foolish heart, or from the wild lust of the unprincipled man to whom she trusted her innocence, her youth, and beauty.
But this duty he had to perform alone; he dared not trust any one with his secret, for fear of thereby defeating the object he had in view, and, instead of saving, bringing disgrace upon her. His resolve was formed. He must seek her out. He must penetrate to where she was, even if hid behind a wall of Russian soldiers. Faithful and unselfish as ever, she should find him at her side, ready to protect her against every attack, every danger, even from her own inexperience or the reckless passion of her lover. Especially above all things, her abduction must remain a secret. To her maidens, therefore, Bertram said, that their young mistress had withdrawn into her room, and shut herself in, in order, after so many sleepless nights, to enjoy a little rest. The same information he left behind for Gotzkowsky, and, providing himself with weapons, he betook himself to the search for Elise. In the first place, he naturally directed his steps to the dwelling of Colonel von Brenda. Here he learned that the latter was not at home, but had gone to an entertainment at the mess-room of his regiment. Thither he hastened, firmly resolved to overcome all obstacles, and in spite of every refusal to see the colonel, and read in his countenance whether he were an accomplice of the crime committed, or whether Elise had followed him of her own free will.
At first, he had been obstinately refused admittance; then in his despair and anguish he had made use of Gotzkowsky's name, a golden key to open the doors, as he well knew. In fact, scarcely had the gold-greedy Russian officers ascertained that the young stranger came as a messenger from Gotzkowsky and wished to inquire of Count von Brenda, after a young lady who had been carried off by the Cossacks, than with a yell of delight they rushed toward the door of the room in which were Feodor and the captured maiden. Bertram had, therefore, to thank the avarice of the Russian officers that the door was opened and he was allowed to enter.
As Bertram appeared on the threshold of the room a scream escaped the lips of the female, and he was enabled, notwithstanding the concealment, to recognize her whom he sought. His heart was convulsed with pain, and his impulse for a moment was, to rush upon this audacious, dissolute young man who stood next to Elise, to murder him, and revenge in his blood the disgrace he had brought upon her. But remembering the sacred duty he had undertaken of protecting Elise and concealing her flight as far as possible, he controlled his anger and grief, and forced himself to appear calm and collected.
Elise, in the mean while, with joyful emotion recognized Bertram. His unexpected and unlooked-for appearance did not surprise her, it seemed so natural to her that whenever danger threatened he should appear as her protector and savior. She had such confidence in Bertram's appearance whenever she stood in need of him, that when she saw him, she looked upon herself as saved, and protected from every danger which threatened her. She motioned Feodor to her side, and with a touch of triumphant pride, said to him, "It is Bertram, the friend of my youth. He has risked his life to save me from dishonor." Feodor felt the reproof which lay in the intonation of these words, and his brow grew dark. But he overcame this momentary irritation, and turning to Bertram, who was approaching him with a firm and determined step, asked him, "Well, sir, whom do you seek?"
"A young girl who has been carried off by force," replied Bertram, and he regarded the young man with angry looks. But Feodor met his glance with firmness and composure. "It is true," said he, "such an outrage has been committed; some Cossacks kidnapped a young girl in a garden and brought her here. I myself will inform the general of this dishonorable deed, for you understand, sir, that this outrage is an insult to us as well as to yourself. I have promised my protection to this young person, and I am ready to defend her against any one who dares to touch her honor or to doubt her virtue. Come, now, sir, and see whether this he the same young girl whom you seek."
He stepped toward Bertram, and as he led him to Elise, he whispered rapidly in a low tone. "Be silent, and do not betray her name, for Elise's honor is at stake."
He raised the veil, and, pointing to Elise's abashed and blushing countenance, he asked, with a derisive laugh, "Well, now, do you recognize her? Will you swear that this is Gotzkowsky's daughter?"
Bertram looked at him with assumed surprise. "Gotzkowsky's daughter?" asked he, shrugging his shoulders. "Why, it is the young lady herself who sent me, and no one is looking for her."