The bells continued to ring, the cannon to thunder. There was great
rejoicing in St. Petersburg.
Issuing from the villa, Count Rasczinsky again mounted his foaming
steed.
Like a storm-wind swept he over the plain--but not toward St.
Petersburg, not toward the city where the people were saluting their new
emperor!
Away, away, far and wide in the distance, his horse bounded and panted,
bleeding with the spurs of his rider. Excited constantly to new speed,
he as constantly bounds onward.
Like a nocturnal spectre flies he through the desert waste; the
storm-wind drives him forward, it lifts the mantle that enwraps him like
a cloud, and under that mantle is seen an angel-face, the smile of a
delicate little girl, two tender childish arms clasping the form of
the count, a slight elfish form tremblingly reposing upon the count's
breast.
"You weep not, my angel," whispered the count, while rushing forward
with restless haste.
"No, no, I neither weep nor tremble, for I am with you!" breathed a
sweet, childish voice.
"Cling closer to me, my sweet blossom, recline your head against my
breast. See, evening approaches!--Night will spread its protecting veil
over us, and God will be our conductor and safeguard! I shall save you,
my angel, my charming child!"
The steed continues his onward course.
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