"I shall never be the Baroness von Meyer," said Rachel, calmly, but an icy chill ran through her veins, for she loved her father, and felt that they must shortly part forever.

"Yes, you will be the Baroness von Meyer to-morrow. I have anticipated all your objections. The rabbi that is to marry you is a Pole. He will not understand your reply, and the young baron has magnanimously consented to overlook any little informality of which your folly may be the cause; for he likes money, and is too good a Jew not to aid me in rescuing my heiress from disgrace. You see that your poor little struggles will all be in vain. Resign yourself, then, and accept the brilliant destiny which awaits you."

"I will sooner die than consign myself to misery and disgrace!"

"Be easy on that subject. God will shield you from misery, and your father's watchful eye will see that you do not consign yourself to disgrace," replied the banker, coldly. "But enough of words. Night sets in, and I have yet a few preparations to make for tomorrow. It is proper that you pass the last evening of your maiden life in solitude, and that you may not spend it in weariness, I have ordered your drawing-rooms to be lighted, and your trousseau to be laid out for your inspection. Go, and gladden your heart with its magnificence. Good-night."

So saying, Baron Eskeles Flies left the room. Rachel heard him turn the key in the lock, and withdraw it. She then remembered that the drawing-rooms were lighted. Perhaps her father had neglected to fasten some of the doors leading thence into the hall. She sprang to the door of communication, and flung it open. The rooms were brilliantly illuminated, and the sparkling chandeliers of crystal looked down upon a wilderness of velvet, satin, flowers, lace, and jewels--truly a trousseau for a princess.

But what cared Rachel for this? Indeed, she saw nothing, save the distant doors toward which she sped like a frightened doe. Alas! they, too, were locked, and the only answers to her frantic calls were the mocking echoes of her own voice.

For a few moments she leaned against the wall for support; then her glance took in the long perspective of magnificence which was to gild the hideous sacrifice of a whole human life, and she murmured, softly:

"I must be free. I cannot perjure myself. I shall keep my vow to Gunther or die! My father is no father--he is my jailer, and I owe him no longer the obedience of a child."

She went slowly back, revolving in her mind what she should do.

Unconsciously she paused before a table resplendent with trinkets, whose surpassing beauty seemed to woo the young girl to her fate. But Rachel was no longer a maiden to be allured by dress. The exigencies of the hour had transformed her into a brave woman, who was donning her armor and preparing for the fight.

"Gunther awaits me," said she, musing.

But why--where? that she could not say. But she felt that she must free herself from prison, and that her fate now lay in her own hands.

At that moment she stood before a large round table which was just under the principal chandelier of her superb reception-room. Here lay dainty boxes containing laces, and caskets enclosing jewels. Not for one moment did she think of their contents. She saw but the gilt letters which were impressed upon the red morocco cases.

"RACHEL VON MEYER" was on every box and case. In her father's mind she already bore another name.

"Rachel von Meyer!" said she, with a shudder. "My father denies me his name! Who, then, am I?"

A flush of modest shame overspread her face, as scarcely daring to articulate the words, she knelt, and murmured:

"I am Rachel Gunther. And if such be my name," continued she, after a pause of rapture, "I have no right to be here amid the treasures of the Baroness von Meyer. I must away from this house, which is no longer a home for me. Away, away! for Gunther awaits me."

And now she looked with despair at the locked doors and the lofty windows, so far, far from the ground.

"Oh, if I had but wings!--I, who am here a prisoner, while my heart is away with him!"

Suddenly she gave a start, for deliverance was possible. She looked from the window as if to measure its height, and then she darted through the rooms until she saw a table covered with silks. She took thence a roll of white, heavy ribbon, and, throwing it before her, exclaimed joyfully:

"It is long, oh, it is quite long enough. And strong enough to support me. Thank Heaven! it is dark, and I shall not he seen. A gold ducat will bribe the guard at the postern--and then I am free!"

She returned to her sitting-room, and, with trembling haste, threw a dark mantle around her. Then, looking up at her father's portrait, her eyes filled with bitter tears.

"Farewell, my father, farewell!"

Scarcely knowing what she did, she fled from her room, and returned to the only object which possessed any more interest for her there, the long, long ribbon which, like a gigantic serpent, lay glistening on the floor where she had unrolled it. She stooped to pick it up, and trailing it after her, she flew from room to room, until she came to the last one of the suite which overlooked the park. She opened a window, and listened.

Nothing was heard there save the "warbling wind," that wooed the young branches, and here and there a little bird that ventured its note upon the night.

Rachel secured the ribbon to the crosswork of the window, and then let it fall below. Once more she listened. She could almost hear the beatings of her own heart, but nothing else broke the silence of the house.

She gave one quick glance around her beautiful home were lay all the splendor that might have been hers, and grasping the ribbon firmly in her hands, she dropped from the window to the ground.

CHAPTER CLV.

THE MARRIAGE BEFORE GOD.

Gunther had returned from the palace to his own lodgings in the city.

Here, the labors of the day over, he sat dreaming of his love, wondering whether she thought of him during these dreary weeks of their forced parting.

He had stretched himself upon a divan, and, with his head thrown back upon the cushion, he gave himself up to thoughts of that love which was at once the greatest grief and the greatest joy of his life.

"Will it ever end?" thought he. "Will she ever consent to leave that princely home for me?"

Sometimes a cloud came over his handsome, noble features, sometimes the sunlight of happiness broke over them, and then he smiled. And on he dreamed, happy or unhappy, as he fancied that Rachel was his, or was parted from him forever.

The door-bell rang with a clang that startled him. But what to him was the impatience of those who sought admittance to his house? He had almost begun to fancy that Rachel was before him, and he was vexed at the intrusion.

Meanwhile, the door of his room had been softly opened, but Gunther had not heard it. He heard or saw nothing but his peerless Rachel. She was there with her lustrous eyes, her silky hair, her pale and beautiful features. She was there.

What! Did he dream? She was before him, but paler than her wont, her dark eyes fixed upon him with a pleading look, her lithe figure swaying from side to side, as with uncertain footsteps she seemed to be approaching his couch. Good God! Was it an apparition? What had happened?

Gunther started to his feet, and cried out, "O my Rachel, my beloved!"

"It is I," said she, in a faltering voice. "Before you take me to your heart, hear me, Gunther. I have fled from my father's house forever--for he would have sold me to a man whom I abhor, and whom I could never have married, had my heart been free. I bring neither gold nor jewels. I come to you a beggar--my inheritance a father's curse, my dowry naught but my love and faith. So dowered and so portioned, will you take me, Gunther?"

Gunther looked upon his love with eyes wherein she must have read consolation for all her trials, for her sweet lips parted with a happy smile.

"My treasure!" was his reply, as he took her little trembling hand, and pressed it fondly within his own. "Come, my Rachel, come and see how I have longed for this day."

He drew her forward, and opened a door opposite to the one by which she had entered.

"Come, your home is ready, my own."

They entered together, and Rachel found herself in a drawing-room where taste and elegance amply atoned for the absence of splendor.

"Now, see your sitting-room."

Nothing could be more cheerful or homelike than the appointments of this cosy apartment, lighted like the drawing-room by a tasteful chandelier.

"There," said Gtinther, pointing to a door, "is your dressing-room, and within, your chamber, my Rachel. For six months this dwelling has awaited its mistress, and that she might never enter it unawares, it has been nightly lighted for her coming. I was almost tempted to despair, beloved. You have saved me from a discouragement that was undermining my health. Now you are here, and all is well. When shall the priest bless our nuptials! This very night, shall he not, my bride?"

"He can never bless them," replied Rachel, solemnly.

Gunther turned pale.