"Elise," said her father, opening the room door.
She sprang toward him with a loud exclamation, she rushed into his arms, embraced him, and, nestling in his bosom, she exclaimed faintly, "Have pity on me, my father; do not drive me from you! You are my only refuge in this world."
Gotzkowsky pressed her firmly to his breast and looked gratefully to heaven. "Oh! I well knew my daughter's heart would return to her father."
He kissed ardently her beautiful, glossy hair, and her head that was resting on his breast. "Do not weep, my child, do not weep," whispered he, tenderly.
"Let me weep," she answered, languidly; "you do no know how much sorrow and grief pass off with these tears."
The sound of the post-horn was now heard from the street below and then the rapid rolling of a carriage.
Elise clung still more closely to her father. "Save me," she cried.
"Press me firmly to your heart. I am quite forsaken in this world."
The door was thrown open and Bertram rushed in, out of breath, exclaiming: "She is gone! he did not recognize her, and took her for you. The countess—"
He stopped suddenly and looked at Gotzkowsky, of whose presence he had just become aware.
Gotzkowsky inquired in astonishment, "Who is gone? What does all this mean?"