e liberties of the nations.

There was comfort, genuine consolation in this thought. It made death easy.
The dawn grew brighter. Crimson clouds floated from all directions across
the sky! Perhaps he would be summoned in half an hour.

No, not even half an hour's delay. His executioners were punctual. The
bolts on the outer door were already rattling.

"Come, Kolbielsky, be brave, proud, and strong. Meet them with a joyous
face; let no look betray that you are suffering! They are coming, they are
coming! Farewell, sweet, radiant life! Farewell, Leonore! Love of my heart,
farewell!"

The inner door was opened--Kolbielsky advanced to meet his executioners
with proud composure and a smiling face. But what did this mean? Neither
executioner, priest, nor judge appeared, but a young man, wrapped in a
cloak, with his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his face.

Who was it? Who could it be? Kolbielsky stood staring at him, without the
strength to ask a question. The young man also leaned for a moment,
utterly crushed and powerless, against the wall beside the door. Then
rousing himself by a violent effort, he bent toward the gray-bearded jailer
who stood in the doorway with his huge bunch of keys in his hand, and
whispered a few words. The jailer nodded, stepped back into the corridor,
closed the door behind him and locked it.

The young man flung aside the cloak which shrouded his figure. What did
this mean? He wore Kolbielsky's livery; from his dress he appeared to be
his servant, yet he was not the man whom he had had in his service for
years.

Kolbielsky had the strength to go a few steps forward.

"Who are you?" he asked in a low tone. "Good heavens, who are you?"

The youth flung off his hat and rushed toward Kolbielsky. "Who am I? I?"
he cried exultingly. "Look at me and say who I am."

A cry, a single cry escaped Kolbielsky's lips, then seizing the youth's
slender figure in his arms, he bore it to the window.

The first rays of the rising sun were shining in and fell upon the young
man's face.

Oh, blessed be thou, radiant sun, for thou bringest eternal life, thou
bringest love.

"It is she! It is my Leonore! My love, my--"

He could say no more. Pressing her tenderly in his arms, he bowed his head
upon her shoulder and wept--wept bitterly. But they were tears of delight,
of ecstasy--tears such as mortals weep when they have no words to express
their joy. Tears such as are rarely shed on ear