He turned towards the door. "Gotthold!" There was despair in the tone; the young man's hand fell from the latch. "Can it be, Cecilia? I have frightened you by my vehemence; but it shall not happen again. Only say one word--tell me you love me, and I will bear all; everything else is a matter of indifference to me; we must and shall see some way of escape; but you cannot let me go so, not so, I implore you!" But he searched her face for some token of assent in vain. Her features seemed set in a horrible smile. "No," she said, "not so: not before you have promised that you will save my husband, whom I love and honor; from whom I cannot, will not part." She uttered the words slowly, in a monotonous tone, like something learned by rote, and now paused like a scholar who has forgotten her lesson. "What does this farce mean?" said Gotthold. The door of the sleeping-room opened, Gretchen put her curly head in, and then came bounding towards her mother. Cecilia clasped the child passionately in her arms, and hastily continued, while a feverish flush replaced her former death-like pallor: "Save him from the bankruptcy into which he will fall, if you do not help him. The matter concerns--concerns--" She released Gretchen, and pressed both hands upon her brow. "Mamma, mamma," screamed the little one, beginning to cry aloud, as Gotthold supported the tottering figure to the nearest chair. "What is the matter with my wife?" asked Brandow. Gotthold had not heard him enter. At the first sound of his voice Cecilia raised herself from his arms, and stood erect between the two men, without support, clasping the child to her heart, pale as death, but with an expression of sorrowful resolution; and there was a strange, unvarying firmness in the tone of her voice, as, fixing her eyes upon her husband, she said: "He knows, and will do it." And then turning to Gotthold: "You will do it for the sake of our old friendship, Gotthold, will you not? And farewell, Gotthold; we shall not see each other again." She held out an icy hand to him, took Gretchen in her arms, and left the room without looking back, while the child stretched out its little hands over her shoulder, calling, "Bring me something pretty to-day, uncle Gotthold. Do you hear, uncle Gotthold?" CHAPTER XVI. "If women only wouldn't take everything tragically," said Brandow; "it's really a pity. First she proposed it herself, and now--but we mustn't expect the dear creatures to be consistent." "And what do you require of me?" asked Gotthold. He had seated himself at the table, while Brandow strode restlessly up and down the room, pretending to busy himself in doing first one thing and then another. "Require! How you talk! Require! If I had had anything to require of you I shouldn't have been silent so long; but I think my wife has told you all, or did she--" "She has told me everything except the amount."