Another sigh, and the spell was broken. "Why--ah! why were you a state prisoner--a _secret_ prisoner in the ----?" "Loved angel," answered the poet, "I scarce can tell; indeed I have not the merest _hint_, in my own mind, to tell me for what I was arrested and thrown into prison!" "Ah! sir," sighed the lovely Bertha, "I can never then wed the man I love--I cannot brave the dangers of an unknown fate--at some moment least expected, to be torn from his arms--lost to him forever!" "We can fly, dearest," suggested the poet, "we can fly to other and more secure lands. In the sunshine of your sweet smile, my dear Bertha, obscurity--poverty would be nothing." "No," said the girl, "I cannot leave my father--the land of my birth--home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret." "Ah! what mean you?" "In a foolish hour," continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, "you impaled your generous self to save a friend--the friend fled--you were arrested--" "Good God!" exclaimed the poet, "Herr Beethoven----" "Gave you possession of----" she continued. "No! no! no!" interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe "yes," even to the ear of his fair preserver. "Sir," calmly continued the girl, "I have risked my own life and liberty to preserve yours, I have----" "I--I know it all, dear--dearest angel, but----" "Those manuscripts," she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze upon the poor victim. "Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be----" "It is known--I know it--I learned it from your captors; but for my _love_," said the girl, "mad--guilty love--your life would have been forfeited--your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be happy--Bertha's love must die with her--Bertha be ever miserable!" "I-a--I will--but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false--false!" exclaimed the almost distracted poet. "Herr Shaubert," said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and throwing herself at his feet, "am I unworthy your love?" "Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God's sake! Rise; let me at your feet swear, in answer--_No!_" "Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned viper, that would gnaw the heart's core of Bertha. Give me the key of your misery; O! bless me--bless your Bertha; give me those accursed manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!"