"Remember, father," stammered she, blushing, "I—"
She stopped as she met the look of her father, which rested on her with penetrating power—as she read the rising anger of his soul in the tense swollen veins of his brow, and his pale, trembling lips.
Bertram had witnessed this short but impressive scene with increasing terror. Elise's anxiety, her paleness and trembling, the watch which she kept over that door, had not escaped him, even on his entrance, and filled him with painful uneasiness. But as he now recognized in Gotzkowsky's features the signs of an anger which was the more violent for the very reason that he so seldom gave way to it, he felt the necessity of coming to the assistance of his distressed sister. He approached her father, and laid his hand lightly on his shoulder.
"Elise is right," said he, entreatingly. "Respect her maiden hesitation."
Gotzkowsky turned round upon him with an impatient toss of the head, and stared him full in the face. He then broke into a fit of wild, derisive laughter.
"Yes," said he, "we will respect her maiden hesitation. You have spoken wisely, Bertram. Listen: you know the partition behind the picture of the Madonna in the picture-gallery. Carry our brave friend thither, and take heed that the spring is carefully closed."
Bertram looked at him sadly and anxiously. He had never before seen this man, usually so calm, so passionately excited.
"You will not go with us, father?" asked he.
"No," said Gotzkowsky, harshly; "I remain here to await the enemy."
He cast on Elise, still leaning against the door, a threatening look, which made her heart tremble. Bertram sighed, and had not the courage to go and forsake Elise in this anxious and critical moment.