and shot through the whole horizon, falling down, as it were, on the fortress of Lœvestein.
Cornelius felt a thrill run through his frame.
“Ah!” he said, “here is Heaven sending a soul to my flower.”
And as if he had guessed correctly, nearly at that very moment the prisoner heard in the lobby a step light as that of a sylph, and the rustling of a gown, and a well-known voice, which said to him,—
“Cornelius, my friend, my very dear friend, and very happy friend, come, come quickly.”
Cornelius darted with one spring from the window to the door, his lips met those of Rosa, who told him, with a kiss,—
“It is open, it is black, here it is.”
“How, here it is!” exclaimed Cornelius.
“Yes, yes, we ought, indeed, to run some little risk, to give a great joy; here it is, take it.”
And with one hand she raised to the level of the grating a dark lantern, which she had lit in the meanwhile, whilst with the other she held to the same height the miraculous tulip.
Cornelius uttered a cry, and was nearly fainting.
“Oh!” muttered he, “my God, my God, thou dost reward me for my innocence and my captivity, as thou hast allowed two such flowers to grow at the grated window of my prison.”
The tulip was beautiful, splendid, magnificent; its stem was more than eighteen inches high, it rose from out of four green leaves, which were as smooth and straight as iron lance heads; the whole of the flower was as black and shining as jet.
“Rosa,” said Cornelius, almost gasping, “Rosa, there is not one moment to lose in writing the letter.”
“It is written, my dearest Cornelius,” said Rosa.
