him with
its thousand minute, invisible threads, and the experiences of his
past years appeared to mock him for his credulity and confidence.

Besides this woman, whom he adored as an angel, arose the demon of
skepticism and mistrust, and regarded him with mocking smiles and
looks of contempt; but still Feodor von Brenda was a name of honor, a
cavalier to whom his pledged word was sacred, and who was ready to pay
the debt of honor which he had incurred toward his betrothed; and this
love for the Countess Lodoiska, although cankered by doubt and gnawed
by the experiences of his own life, still had sufficient power over
him to cause the future to appear not gloomy but full of promise,
and to allow him to hope, if not for happiness, at least for rest and
enjoyment.

The war-cry roused him from these dreams and doubts of love. Elizabeth
had united with Maria Theresa against Frederick of Prussia, and the
Empress of Russia was about to send an army to the support of her
ally. Feodor awoke from the sweet rest into which his heart had sunk,
and, like Rinaldo, had torn asunder the rosy chains by which his
Armida had sought to fetter him. He followed the Russian colors, and
accompanied General Sievers as his adjutant to Germany.

As to him all life was only an adventure, he wished also to enjoy the
exciting pastime of war. This, at least, was something new, a species
of pleasure and amusement he had not yet tried, and therefore the
young colonel gave himself up to it with his whole soul, and an ardent
desire to achieve deeds of valor.

But it was his fate to be carried early from the theatre of war as
a prisoner, and in this character he arrived with General Sievers at
Berlin. But his durance was light, his prison the large and pleasant
city of Berlin, in which he could wander about perfectly free with the
sole restriction of not going beyond the gates.

General Sievers became accidentally acquainted with Gotzkowsky, and
this acquaintance soon ripened into a more intimate friendship. He
passed the greater part of his days in Gotzkowsky's house. As a lover
of art, he could remain for hours contemplating the splendid pictures
which Gotzkowsky had bought for the king in Italy, and which had not
yet been delivered at Sans Souci; or, by the side of the manufacturer
he traversed the large halls of the factory in which an entirely new
life, a world of which he had no idea, was laid open to him. And then
again Gotzkowsky would imp