He looked after her until she had disappeared, his eyes dimmed with tears. "My child," said he, in a low voice, "she is lost to me. Oh, I am a poor, pitiable father!" With a deep groan he pressed his hands to his face, and nothing was heard but the painful sobs wrung from the heart of this father wrestling with his grief.
Suddenly there arose from without loud lamentations and cries for help. They came nearer and nearer, and at last reached Gotzkowsky's house, and filled its halls and passages. It was not the outcry of a single person. From many voices came the sounds of lamenting and weeping, screams and shrieks:
"Help! help! have pity on us, save us! The Austrians are hewing us down—they are burning our houses—save us!"
Gotzkowsky dropped his hands from his face and listened. "What was that? who cries for help?" asked he, dreamingly, still occupied with his own sorrows, scarcely conscious of the reality. But suddenly he started, and from his eyes beamed life and courage. "Ah!" cried he aloud, "mankind is suffering, and I am thinking of my own griefs. I know these voices. The wives and children of my workmen, the poor and oppressed of the city are calling me. The people need me. Up, Gotzkowsky! give them your heart, your life. Endeavor to be a father to the unfortunate, and you will not be poor in children!"
Without the wailing and cries for help continued to resound, and the voices of weeping and trembling women and plaintive children cried aloud, "Gotzkowsky, help us! have pity on us, Father Gotzkowsky!"
"Father!" cried he, raising his head, his countenance beaming with delight. "They call me father, and yet I complain. Up! to my children who love me, and who need my help!"
* * * * *