ass, carried him along with them, shouting,
'Viva la Santa Fede!' and in a few minutes the duke, the servants,
every one who resisted, were murdered, and the palace, into which
Berthold was more and more forced by the throng, was in flames. Thick
clouds of smoke rolled through the long passages. Berthold, in danger
of being burned to death, darted through the now open doors in hopes of
finding an outlet, but all in vain; a piercing shriek of agony struck
his ear, and he rushed into the hall. A woman was struggling with a
lazzarone, who held her fast, and was about to plunge a knife in her
heart. It was the princess--it was Berthold's ideal! Losing all
consciousness with horror, he sprang towards them, and it was but the
work of a moment to seize the lazzarone, to fling him to the ground, to
plunge his own knife in his throat, to catch the princess in his arms,
to fly with her through the flaming ruins, to dash down the steps, and
to go on--on--through the dense crowd of people. None attempted to
stop him in his flight. With the bloody knife in his hand, with his
face begrimed by smoke, with his clothes torn, he was taken for a
plunderer and murderer by the people, who willingly conceded him his
prey. In a deserted corner of the city, beneath an old wall, to which,
as if by instinct he had run to escape danger, he fell exhausted. On
recovering, he found the princess kneeling at his side, and washing his
forehead with cold water. 'Oh thanks!--thanks!' said she, in the
softest and most lovely voice; 'thanks to the saints that thou hast
recovered, my preserver, my all!' Berthold raised himself,--he fancied
he was dreaming, he looked with fixed eyes upon the princess--yes, it
was herself--the celestial form which had kindled the divine spark in
his breast. 'Is it possible?--Is it true?--Do I live?' he exclaimed.
'Yes,' replied the princess, 'thou livest for me. That which thou
didst not venture even to hope, has happened through a miracle. Oh! I
know thee well,--thou art the German painter, Berthold, who loved me,
and ennobled me in his beautiful works. Was it then possible for me to
be thine? But now I am thine for ever--let us fly!' A strange
feeling, as when a sudden pain disturbs sweet dreams, darted through
Berthold as the princess spoke. But when the lovely woman clasped him
with her full, snow-white arms, when he pressed her passionately to his
bosom, then did a delicious trembling, hitherto unknown,