"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.
The child smilingly reclines upon the bosom of the rider, over whom the
descending sun sheds its red parting beams.
Like a phantom flies he onward, like a phantom he disappears there on
the border of the forest. Was it only a delusive appearance, a fata
morgana of the desert?
No, again and again the evening breeze raises the mantle of the rider,
and the charming angelic brow is still seen resting upon the bosom of
the count.
No, it is no dream, it is truth and reality!
Like a storm-wind flies the count over hill and heath, and on his bosom
reposes Natalie, the daughter of the empress!