Herr Bernat could only stare in speechless amazement. He made no move to obey the behest to "help himself," whereupon Count Vavel himself thrust his hands into the chest, lifted what he could hold between them of gold and silver, and filled the vice-palatine's hat, which that worthy was holding in his hand. "But--pray--I beg of you--" remonstrated Herr Bernat, "at least, let us count it." "You can count it when you get home," interrupted Count Vavel. "But I must give you a receipt for it." "A receipt?" repeated his host. "A receipt between gentlemen? A receipt for money which is given for the defense of the fatherland?" "But I certainly cannot take all this money without something to show from whom I received it, and for what purpose. Give me at least a few words with your signature, Herr Count." "That I will gladly do," responded the count, turning toward his desk, and coming face to face with Marie, who had descended from her throne. "What are you going to do?" she asked, laying her hand on his arm. "Write." "Are you going to let strangers see your writing, and perhaps betray who you are?" "In a week the strokes from my hand will tell who I am," he replied, with double meaning. "Oh, you are terrible!" murmured Marie, turning her face away. "I am so for your sake, Marie." "For my sake?" echoed the young girl, sorrowfully. "For my sake? Do you imagine that _I_ shall take pleasure in seeing you go into battle? Suppose you should fall?" "Have no fear on that score, Marie," returned the young man, confidently. "I shall have a guiding star to watch over me; and if there be a God in heaven--" "Then may He take me to Himself!" interposed the young girl in a fervent tone, lifting a transfigured glance toward heaven. "And may He grant that there be not on earth one other Frenchwoman who is forced to pray for the defeat of her own nation! May He grant that there be not another woman in the world who is waiting until a pedestal is formed of her countrymen's and kinsmen's skeletons, that she may be elevated to it as an idol from which many, many of her brothers will turn with a curse! May God take me to Himself now--now, while yet my two hands are white, while yet I cherish toward my nation nothing but love and tenderness, now when I forgive and forget everything, and desire none of this world's splendor for myself!" Ludwig Vavel was filled with admiration by this outburst from the innocent girl heart.