“I will myself make it known before all men,” cried Moritz, with a contemptuous laugh. “I have insulted you and branded you.” “We will give our evidence,” respectfully replied the officers. “As soon as we have delivered our prisoner at Spandau, we will announce ourselves to you.” “Then you will receive from me the promised reward of a hundred thalers. If you hush up the entire adventure, so that it is not noised about, after three months, still another hundred.” “We will be silent, Herr Ebenstreit.” “I believe you; a hundred thalers is a pretty sum. Forward, Leberecht, make the postilion push on, that we may arrive in Berlin before daybreak, and no one know of this abominable affair.” The postilion laughed with delight, at the thought of the louis d’or. Upon the box sat Leberecht, a smile of malicious triumph upon his face. “This has been a lucky night,” said he; “we have all done a good business, but I am the most fortunate, with my three thousand thalers and a fine place. I wish he had waited an hour later, and then I should have had another thousand!” Ebenstreit sat with triumphant smile also, by his betrothed. “Money is the king of the world--with it one can accomplish all things,” said he to himself; “if I had been a poor fellow, the general would not have chosen me, nor the king have given me a title, nor could I have won back my beautiful bride. Money gives position, and I hope will give me the power to revenge myself for the pain in my face.” He turned menacingly toward Moritz, who saw it not. With bowed head, speechless, as if numb with the horror of his misfortune, he rode with fettered hands between the two officers, incapable of fleeing, as they had even bound a cord around his arms, each end held fast by one of the riders. The stars and the moon shone down upon him as brightly beautiful as an hour previous. Oh, Marie, you were right, falling stars betoken misfortune! Your star has fallen! CHAPTER XXVII. THE SACRIFICE. Since that painful night, four weeks had passed, four long ones to poor old Trude. To her beloved child they had fled in happy unconsciousness. In the delirium of fever, her thoughts wandered to her lover, always dwelling upon her hopes and happiness. In the intervals of reason she asked for him with fearful excitement and anxiety, then again her mind was clouded, and the cry of anguish was changed into a smile. Then came the days of convalescence and the return to consciousness, and with it the mourning over crushed hopes. Slowly had Trude, the faithful nurse, who watched by her bedside day and night, answered her excited questions, and to her little by little the circumstances of the elopement--how Leberecht had played the eavesdropper and sold Marie’s secret for gold; how he had previously arranged to pursue them, informing the police, ordering the horses, and sending forward a courier to provide fresh relays at every station.