THE YOUNG WIDOW OF BREMEN. 157 



worthy of the light." " There is forgiveness," I replied, " for all sin 

 which is repented of; and there may have been some palliation for 

 yours sudden passion an accidental blow" he instantly sprang up 

 to the full stretch of his shackles. " You surely cannot think that I 

 killed him ?" cried he. ts Your own voice said it/' I replied. He 

 answered in low and half-choked accents, " God pardon me ! What 

 could I do ? I should have died beneath their hands. The very sight 

 of that rack maddened me. I could not bear that second torture (holding 

 up his crushed hands). I said all they wanted, for leave to die in peace ; 

 but to stain my fair name to be beheaded as a murderer to die with a 

 lie on my lips ! God pardon me ! My poor, poor mother !" 



I now saw the whole truth ; and my heart bled with indignation and 

 sorrow. I vowed I would make his innocence appear : it was impossible 

 his judges could be wicked enough to condemn him. He shook his 

 head mournfully, and begged I would comfort his mother. 



All my efforts all that man could do was vain. His own hand had 

 sealed his fate. He was convicted, and executed. 



I will hasten over what I .cannot bear to think of. He died resigned 

 and firm. Up to the very last moment he told no one of his real 

 confession to me. But just ere his eyes were bound, he turned to the 

 multitude, and cried loudly, " That for the sake of his father's name, 

 and his mother, who yet lived, he would not die without raising his 

 voice to declare before God that he died innocent of blood that in the 

 madness of torture and agony he had confessed to utter falsehoods 

 merely to procure ease, for which he implored Heaven to pardon him !" 

 Then he prayed in silence, and waited for the death-blow. 



His poor mother pined daily. She could not be prevailed upon to 

 stir into the open air ; and if she had now been seen as of old, gliding 

 along the ramparts, few would have recognized in her wasted features 

 the young widow of Bremen. 



There was another sad page in this unhappy story. She received a 

 parcel from Jena, which contained a small box, and a letter from Franz 

 Meyer, the Greek professor. His daughter Sophia was dead ; her last 

 care had been to make up this little pacquet her last request that he 

 would send it when she died, to Mary Von Korper. It contained 

 young Hermann's portrait, and a note from poor Sophia. She said that 

 she sent her lover's features to the only one now on earth who knew 

 how to love them ; and that she prayed with her parting breath, that 

 Heaven might bring her to join them where his innocence would be 

 known to all, as it was now known to them alone. 



It was many years before Mary Von Korper crossed her threshold. 

 At last I prevailed on her to walk slowly about the neighbourhood of 

 her house. She seemed slowly sinking into the grave ; and her phy- 

 sician told her that exercise was her only chance of life. One morning 

 she expressed a wish to cross some fields at the back of her house, where 

 there was a seat, in a beautiful little woodland, of which she used to be 

 fond. We proceeded onwards ; as we slowly passed the corner of this 

 wall here, where the fatal scuffle between Hermann and young Brauer 

 had taken place so long before, I saw an officer standing on this very 

 spot, his arms folded, looking towards us. Mary was then leaning on 

 me, holding her face down ; and just before she lifted her head to speak 

 to me, I was shocked to feel how light was her emaciated frame, though 

 I was then bearing her whole weight. As she raised and turned her 



