"Bertha!—father!—friend!" he exclaimed, hastily glancing to each as he spoke, "what means this?"
A man of middle age rose, and, as he hurried from the room, said—
"Farewell, Forster," addressing the old man; "you have deceived, you have insulted me. The man who is to be your daughter's husband is with her now."
It was the intended husband of Bertha that so spoke, and left the apartment. The old colonel rose to follow him.
"Stay, father," said his son; "what I have now witnessed requires an explanation. This stranger, to whom I owe my life, you have seen before—my sister has seen him—and there is something connected with your acquaintance with each other that I must understand."
"Yes," cried the old man, "I have seen him before—I have—I have."
"Bertha?" said his son; but she raised her hands before her face and wept.
"Sir," said the younger Forster, "I can be grateful. Though I am not acquainted with you, my sister is. Let me call my deliverer brother!" And he took the hand of his weeping sister and placed it in that of Robert Musgrave.
The old man started; but his son soothed him. And Robert Musgrave stood with the hand of Bertha Forster locked in his; and within a few weeks he called that hand his own, and was happy—and the sufferings that the Poor Scholar had endured became as a tale that is told.