The Count suddenly lifted his head. "Whom did you fall upon?"

"Eh?--yes, that was stupid," Wolfram muttered in confusion.

"Do you mean the boy who was given in charge to you?"

The forester cast down his eyes before the Count's angry glance and

meekly defended himself. "It did not hurt him, and it didn't last long

either, for the reverend father at St. Michael forbade us to beat the

boy, and we obeyed. And the fellow deserved what he got, besides."

Steinrueck did not reply; he knew that he had given the boy into rude

keeping, but this glimpse of the realities of the situation rather

startled him, and after a minute's pause he asked, sternly, "Did you

bring your foster-son with you?"

"Yes, Herr Count, I have done as you bade me."

"Then let him come in."

Wolfram went to call Michael, who was waiting in the antechamber, and

the Count looked eagerly and anxiously towards the door by which in

another moment his grandson would enter, the child of the outcast

daughter whom he had so sternly thrown off, and yet whom he had once

loved so tenderly. Perhaps the boy would be the image of his mother, at

all events he would resemble her in some feature, and Steinrueck did not

know whether he most feared or longed for such resemblance.

The door opened, and Michael entered with his foster-father. He too had

bestowed greater care than usual upon his dress in view of this

interview, but it had availed him little. His Sunday coat fitted him no

better than his week-day garb, and, moreover, although new, was rustic

in cut and material. His thick, matted curls refused to be smoothed,

and were tossed more wildly than usual above his brow, while the

shyness and embarrassment which he felt in such a presence made his

face more vacant of expression than usual, and his awkward carriage and

movements still more heavy and clumsy.

The Count cast one sharp, rapid glance at him, and but one; then he

compressed his lips in an expression of bitter disappointment. This,

then, this was Louise's son!

"Here is Michael, Herr Count," said Wolfram, as he roughly pushed the

lad forward. "Make your bow, Michael, and thank the kind gentleman who

has befriended such a poor orphan. It is the first time you have seen

your benefactor."

But Michael neither bowed nor uttered a word of thanks. He gazed as if

spell-bound at the Count, who was indeed an imposing figure in his

uniform, and seemed to forget all else.

"Well, can't you speak?" asked Wolfram, impatiently. "You must excuse

him, Herr Count, it's only his stupidity. He hardly ever opens his

mouth at home, and whenever he sees anything new and strange like all

this he loses the little wit he has."

It was with an expression of positive dislike that the Count at last

turned to the boy, and his voice sounded cold and imperious as he

asked, "Is your name Michael?"

"Yes," was the reply, uttered mechanically as it were, while the young

fellow's eyes never stirred from the tall figure, and the commanding

countenance turned so haughtily towards him. Steinrueck did not perceive

the boundless admiration in those eyes,--all that he saw was their

dreamy, vague expression, a curious stare that irritated him.

"How old are you?" he asked, in the same tone.

"Eighteen."

"And what do you know? what can you do?"

This question seemed to embarrass Michael extremely; he did not speak,

but looked at the forester, who answered for him. "He does not do much

of anything, Herr Count, although he runs about the forest all day

long, and he does not know much either. I have no time to look after

him; at first we sent him to the village school, and later on his

reverence took him in hand and taught him. But he couldn't do much with

him, Michael can't understand well."

"But he must adopt some calling. What is he fit for? what does he want

to be?"

"Nothing at all,--and he is fit for nothing," said the forester,

laconically.

"This is a fine account of you," said the Count, contemptuously. "To

run about the forest all day long is not much to do, and can be done

with but little instruction; it is a disgrace for a strong young fellow

like you to be fit for nothing else."

Michael looked surprised at these harsh words, and a dark flush began

to mount into his cheeks, but the forester assented with, "Yes, I think

so too; but there is nothing to be done with Michael. Just look at him,

Herr Count; no one can ever make a decent forester of him."

It seemed to cost the Count an effort to continue an interview so

repugnant to him, but he controlled himself, and said, sternly and

authoritatively, "Come here!"

Michael never stirred; he stood as if he had not heard the command.

"Have you not even learned obedience?" Steinrueck asked, in a menacing

tone. "Come here, I say!"

But Michael still stood motionless, until the forester, feeling himself

called upon to come to the rescue of what was probably stupidity,

seized him roughly by the shoulder, encountering, however, decided

resistance on the part of his foster-son, who shook him off angrily.

There was only defiance in the movement, but it looked like a desire

for flight, and as such the Count understood it. "A coward, too!" he

murmured. "There has been quite enough of this!"

He rang the bell and ordered the servant to have the carriage brought

round immediately. Then he turned to the forester, and said, "I have a

word or two to say to you; follow me," as, opening the door of a small

adjoining room, he preceded him into it.

Wolfram attempted, as he followed, to excuse his foster-son's conduct:

"He is afraid of you, Herr Count; the fellow has not a spark of

courage."

"So I see," Steinrueck rejoined, with infinite contempt; he could

forgive almost anything save cowardice,--that was inexcusable in his

eyes. "Never mind, Wolfram, I know you cannot help it; but you must

keep the fellow for a while yet; there is nothing for him but this

mountain forestry; he may dream away his life here for all I care,

since he is good for nothing else."

He went on talking to the forester without bestowing another glance

upon Michael, who stood motionless. The dark flush had not faded from

his face, which was no longer expressionless. Gloomily, with compressed

lips, he gazed after the man who had just passed so pitiless a verdict

upon himself and his future. He had often heard such words before from

the forester without their producing any effect upon him, but they had

a different sound when issuing from those haughty lips, and the

contemptuous glance of those eyes pierced him to the very soul. For the

first time he felt the treatment to which he had been accustomed from

childhood as a burning disgrace, crushing him to the earth.

He was alone in the room. Through the bow-window the sunlight streamed

in, and fell full upon the writing-table, where the diamonds in the

star of the order glittered and sparkled in every colour of the

rainbow. Even on the dark wainscoting bright gleams were playing, and

they mingled with the glow of the fire upon the hearth, which was

sinking away to embers.

"What are you doing here?" a child's voice suddenly asked.

Michael turned round; upon the threshold of the adjoining room, the

door of which had been left open, stood a child about eight years of

age, looking in amazement at the stranger, who now answered,

laconically, "I am waiting."

The little girl, the daughter of the deceased Count, approached and

gazed curiously at the lad, then, probably arriving at the conclusion

that this coarsely-dressed young man could not possibly be a visitor in

the castle, turned up her little nose, although, since he was waiting

for somebody, she could not object to his presence. She turned to the

hearth, where she amused herself by blowing into the embers and

watching the sparks.

She was a graceful little creature, slender and delicate as a fairy,

undeniably pretty, in spite, many would have said, of the red hue of

the hair that fell in long thick curls over her shoulders and down upon

the black crape of her dress, giving a strange charm to the childish

figure. A pair of large eyes, undeterminable in colour, looked out of

the rosy little face; they shone like stars, but there was an odd gleam

in them,--they were not innocent, childish eyes.

Before long she grew tired of watching the sparks, and looking about

for some other amusement her glance fell again upon Michael, whom she

now honoured with a longer inspection. "Where did you come from?" she

asked, standing directly in front of him.

"From the forest," he replied, as laconically as before.

"Is it far from here?"

"Very far."

"And do you like our castle?"

"No."

Hertha gazed at him with surprise in her bright eyes; she had asked the

question with much condescension, and this strange man had dared to

declare briefly and dryly that he did not like a Count's castle. As she

was apparently considering whether or not to be displeased, her glance

fell upon Michael's hat, which he held in his hand, and which was

adorned with a bunch of magnificent Alpine roses. "Oh, what beautiful

flowers!" she exclaimed. "Give them to me." And she had possessed

herself of the hat and pulled out the flowers before Michael could say

a word. He looked rather amazed to see this appropriation of his

property, but made no attempt to prevent it.

The child seated herself in an arm-chair beside the hearth, seeming

delighted with her flowers, and began to talk easily and familiarly.

She told about the big castle where she had been accustomed to live

with her mother and father, and where it was all much prettier than

here, of her pony upon which she had learned to ride, and which had

unfortunately been left there, of her mother, and of much else besides.

The apparent dulness of her hearer seemed to amuse her mightily; she

tried to make him talk, and actually did extort from him that he was

the forester's son, and lived high up in the mountains in the forest

lodge, a fact that interested her much.

There was something bewitching in the sweet, beguiling childish voice,

and in the fairy-like little figure nestling gracefully among the

cushions of the arm-chair, where the hair glistened against the dark

background. Michael slowly drew near, and gradually began to reply more

easily; this beguiling talk and laughter cast about him a spell the

power of which he vaguely felt, although he did not understand it, and

could not shake it off.

As she talked, Hertha continued to play with the flowers, which she

separated, arranged, and rearranged, but at last wearying of them she

began to pull to pieces the nosegay she had so ardently coveted. Her

little hands pitilessly destroyed the white blossoms, throwing them

heedlessly on the ground. Michael frowned, and in a tone of

remonstrance, but still more of entreaty, said, "Do not pull them to

pieces! Those flowers were hard to find."

"But I don't like them any more," declared the child, and she continued

her work of destruction. Without further ado Michael seized her by the

arm and held her fast.

"Let me go!" exclaimed the little girl, angrily trying to escape from

his grasp. "I don't like your flowers any more; and I don't like you,

either, any more. Go away!"

There was more than mere childish waywardness in these words. The "I

don't like you, either, any more," sounded haughty and contemptuous,

and meanwhile the strange gleam appeared in the eyes that made them so

unchildlike. Michael suddenly loosened his grasp of her arm, but at the

same moment snatched the flowers from her.

Hertha slipped down from the arm-chair, and her lips quivered as if she

were about to burst into tears, but her eyes flashed with anger. "My

flowers! give me back my flowers!" she screamed, stamping her little

feet with rage.

Just then Wolfram reappeared. His interview with the Count must have

been highly satisfactory, for he looked extremely contented. "Come,

Michael, we are going," he said, beckoning to his foster-son.

Hertha knew the forester, who had been at the castle in the hunting

season as one of her father's servants, and instantly surmising that he

would help her to obtain what she wanted, she ran up to him. "I want my

flowers back!" she exclaimed, with all the petulance of a spoiled,

wayward child. "They are mine; make him give them back to me!"

"What flowers?" said Wolfram. "Those Alpine roses? Give them to her,

Michael. She is our master's daughter."

The child shook her curls triumphantly, and stretched out her hand for

the roses; but Michael was upon his guard, and held the nosegay so high

that she could not reach it.

"Come, do you hear?" the forester said, impatiently. "Don't you

understand? You must give the little Countess the flowers this

instant."

"This instant!" Hertha repeated, the childish voice that had been so

sweet now sounding shrill and authoritative. Michael looked down at the

small despot for one or two moments and then suddenly tossed the

flowers into the fireplace.

"Go and get them, then!" he said, roughly; and, turning his back upon

her, he left the room.

"Upon my word, the fellow does me credit to-day! Only wait until I get

him home," muttered Wolfram, with suppressed rage, as he followed the

lad.

Hertha was left alone; she stood motionless, looking wide-eyed after

the pair, but in another instant she bethought herself and ran hastily

to the fireplace. The flickering flame was devouring its prey; the

delicate white blossoms glowed red for an instant like fairy flowers,

and then curled up and sank to ashes.

The little girl folded her hands and looked on, her face still angry

and defiant, but gradually her eyes filled with tears, and when the

last of the flowers had perished in its fiery bed, she suddenly burst

into loud sobs.

When Count Steinrueck, after a few minutes, returned to his study, he

found no one there. A glance at the clock showed him that it was time

he were gone, and he hurriedly went to the writing-table to get the

order that was to complete his uniform. The case was still where he had

left it, but it was empty; probably the servant had seen what was wrong

with the ribbon and had taken it away to arrange it. Steinrueck rang the

bell. "My order," he said, hurriedly, to the man who appeared in answer

to the ring. "Is the carriage there?"

"Yes, Herr Count; but the order,--it is usually in the Herr Count's own

possession."

"Of course; I took it out to-day,--the large star of diamonds. Did you

not observe that the ribbon was loose?"

The servant shook his head. "I did not see the star. I was only in the

room a moment to receive the Herr Count's order about the carriage."

Steinrueck looked in extreme astonishment at the empty case. "Have you

not been in the room since?"

"No, Herr Count."

"Has no one else been here?"

"The forester's son was here when I left the room, and, I think, was

here alone for some time."

There was suspicion more than hinted at in these words, but the Count

shook his head decidedly. "Nonsense! that's impossible. Has no one else

been here? Bethink yourself."

"No, Herr Count; no one has even been in the corridor."

"But the bedroom on that side,--it is a thoroughfare."

"Only from the sleeping apartment of the Frau Countess by the

tapestried door."

Steinrueck turned pale, and involuntarily he clinched his hand, but he

still combated the dawning suspicion. "Look for it," he said. "The star

must be found; perhaps I mislaid it among the books and papers."

And without waiting for the man's assistance he began to look for the

jewel himself. He knew perfectly well that he had laid the star in the

case, which he had left open; nevertheless, he lifted every book and

paper, and searched every drawer, but to no purpose the thing was not

to be found.

"It is not here," the servant said at last, in a low tone. "If it was

lying here in the open case, there is but one explanation."

Steinrueck made no reply. He himself doubted no longer. "A thief, then!

A common thief!" The measure of his contempt and aversion was filled to

the brim.

There was silence for a few minutes; the servant stood waiting for

orders, startled by the expression on his master's face.

"Is Wolfram still in the castle?" the Count asked at last.

"I think he is. He wanted to see the major-domo."

"Then send his son to me! But not a word of what has happened!--not

even to the forester; send the boy here."

The man left the room, and for a moment Steinrueck covered his eyes with

his hand. This was terrible! And yet was it unnatural in the son of

such a father? The lad's whole appearance showed that he had inherited

not a drop of his mother's blood, and that other that filled his veins,

did it not proclaim itself what it was, and was it not a duty to

disclaim it and thrust it forth? Away with it!

The Count stood erect, resolute as ever, when Michael entered,

unwillingly to be sure, but with no idea of what this new summons

betokened.

"Close the door," said Steinrueck, "and come here!"

This time no second command was necessary: Michael obeyed without

hesitation. He stood before the Count, who, looking him directly in the

eye, held out to him the empty case. "Do you know what this is?" he

asked, with apparent composure.

The young man shook his head; he did not comprehend the strange

question.

"It was lying here on the writing-table," Steinrueck continued, "but it

was not empty as it is now. It contained a star of sparkling stones.

Did you not see it?"

Michael reflected. That, then, must have been the glittering object

that sparkled so in the sunlight, but of which he had taken little

heed.

"Well, I am waiting for an answer," said the Count, still keeping his

eye fixed on Michael's. "Where is the star?"

"How should I know?" asked Michael, more and more surprised at this

strange examination.

The Count's lips quivered. "You do not know, then? You are hardly so

stupid as you pretend to be. You act a farce extremely well. Where is

the star? I must know, and that instantly."

The threatening tone of the last words revealed the truth to the lad,

and he stood as if paralyzed, so horrified, so dismayed, that for the

moment he was utterly incapable of exculpating himself. His aspect

deprived Steinrueck of all shadow of doubt. He saw in it the

consciousness of guilt.

"Confess, fellow!" he said in an undertone, but with terrible emphasis.

"Give up what you have stolen, and thank God that I let you go

scot-free. Do you hear? Give up your booty!"

Michael shrank as if he had received a stab, but in an instant he burst

forth, "I a thief? I take----"

"Hush!" interrupted Steinrueck, angrily. "I will have no noise, no

commotion, but you do not stir from the spot until you have confessed.

Confess!"

He seized the young fellow by the arm, and his grasp was like iron, but

with a single wrench Michael freed himself. "Let go of me!" he gasped.

"Never say that again! Never again, or----"

"What! you would threaten besides?" cried the Count, who took this

outburst for the height of insolence. "Take care, boy; one word more,

and I shall forget to spare you."

"I am no thief!" shouted Michael; "and whoever dares call me so I'll

fell him to the earth!"

In an instant he had seized a heavy silver candelabrum from the table

and swung it like a weapon towards the Count, who recoiled a step,--not

from the menaced blow, but from the face confronting him. Was that the

same young man that had stood there a few moments before with the

vacant, dreamy countenance, the timid, sheepish air? He reared his head

now like a wounded lion ready to rush upon the stronger foe, rage and

savage hatred informing every feature. And Steinrueck's eyes, flashing

annihilation, encountered two other eyes, dark blue like his own, and

gleaming with the same fire. There was one breathless moment. No

coward, no thief, ever looked like that.

The door flew open,--the loud, menacing voice must have been heard in

the anteroom,--and the forester appeared on the threshold, the

frightened face of the servant looking over his shoulder.

"Boy, are you mad?" shouted Wolfram, hastening to his master's aid, and

seizing Michael by the shoulder. But the lad shook himself free as a

wounded stag shakes off the murderous pack, then dashed the candelabrum

on the ground, and rushed to the door. But here he was intercepted by

the servant. "Hold him!" the man cried out to the forester. "He must

not escape! He has robbed the Herr Count!"

Wolfram, who was about to secure his foster-son, paused in horror.

"Michael,--a thief?"

A cry burst from the lips of the tortured boy, a cry so desperate that

Steinrueck interfered hurriedly, and would have ordered both men to

refrain, but it was too late. The servant staggered aside beneath the

blow of Michael's powerful young fist, and the lad rushed past him and

away, as if goaded to madness by those terrible words.

* * * * *

When Wolfram the forester made his appearance at St. Michael's

parsonage, he seemed to be expected, for his reverence came to meet him

in the hall.

"Well, Wolfram, any tidings yet?"

"No, your reverence, not a trace of the fellow; but I come from the

castle; and I have something from there to tell you."

Valentin opened the door of his study and beckoned the forester to

follow him, but he was evidently not as much interested in news from

the castle as in the question which he repeated with anxiety. "Then

Michael has not been at home yet?"

"No, your reverence, not yet."

"This is the third day, and we have no trace of him. I trust he has

come to no harm."

"He couldn't come to harm," the forester said, with a harsh laugh.

"He's wandering about, not daring to come home, because he knows what

he'll get when he does come; but he'll have to show himself at last,

and then--God have mercy on him!"

"What do you mean to do, Wolfram? Remember your promise."

"I kept it as long as there was anything to be done with the fellow,

but that's over now. If he thinks that he can knock down and run over

everybody he shall learn that there is one man at least who is a match

for him. I'll make him feel that, so long as I can lift a finger."

"You will not touch Michael until I have had a talk with him," said the

priest, gravely. "You say you come from the castle. How are they there?

Has the missing order been found at last?"

"Yes, the very day it was lost. Little Countess Hertha had taken away

the glittering thing to play with, and after a while she ran with it to

her mother, and so the whole matter was explained."

"All because of a child's carelessness, then," Valentin said, bitterly,

"a degrading, shameful suspicion fell upon Michael, who----"

He broke off suddenly, and the forester grumbled, "Why did he not open

his lips and defend himself? I should have told them they were wrong,

but Michael stood stock-still, I suppose, until they tried to seize

him, and then behaved like a wounded bear. And to attack the Herr

Count! You can hardly believe it, but I saw him myself, standing with

the lifted candlestick. And I have to pay for the fellow's cursed

behaviour. The Herr Count was very cross to-day, he would hardly speak

a word to me, but he gave me a letter to bring to your reverence."

He took an envelope from his pouch and handed it to the priest. "Very

well, Wolfram. Now go, and if Michael shows himself at the lodge, send

him directly to me. I forbid you to maltreat him in any way until I

have talked with him."

The forester left, grumbling at being obliged to postpone his

punishment of the 'cursed boy,' but vowing that it should take place

for all that. When Valentin was alone he opened the letter from the

Count. It was brief enough:

"I wish to inform your reverence that the missing article has been

found, and of course the charge of theft is proved unfounded. With

regard to your _protege's_ conduct in behaving like a madman, even

daring to make an assault upon myself, instead of defending himself and

helping to explain the affair, you have doubtless heard all particulars

from Wolfram, and will comprehend why I must decline all compliance

with your wishes. This rude, unbridled fellow, with his savage

disposition, belongs to the sphere in which he has passed his life.

Wolfram is just the man to control him, and he will remain in his

charge. All education would be wasted upon such a nature, and I am

convinced that after what has occurred you will agree with me.

"Michael, Count Steinrueck."

The priest dropped the letter and sat lost in sad thought. "Not a

single word of regret for the shameful suspicion that fell upon an

innocent fellow-being; nothing but contempt and condemnation. And yet

the boy is bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh."

"Your reverence!" The words came from the half-opened door, and were

spoken in a suppressed voice. Valentin started up and breathed a sigh

of relief. "Michael! Are you here at last? Thank God!"

"I thought--you, too, would turn me off," Michael said, gently.

"I want to talk with you. Why do you keep at the door there? Come in."

The young man slowly approached. He wore the same Sunday suit which he

had worn on that eventful day, but it had evidently been exposed to the

wind and rain.

"I have been anxious about you," Valentin said, reproachfully. "No

trace of you for forty-eight hours! Where have you been?"

"In the forest."

"And where did you pass the nights?"

"In the empty herdsman's-hut on the mountain."

"In all the storm? Why did you not go home?"

"I knew that Wolfram would attempt to beat me, and I do not mean to be

beaten again. I wished to spare both him and myself what would have

happened."

His answers sounded monotonous, but the old indifference had gone;

there was something in Michael's whole air and bearing strange, gloomy,

decided. He was very different from his former self. The priest looked

at him with anxiety.

"Then you ought to have come to me. I expected you."

"I have come to your reverence, and what they have told you of me is

not true. I am no thief."

"I know it. I never for an instant believed that you were, and now no

suspicion rests upon you. The missing star has been found; little

Countess Hertha carried it off for a plaything."

Michael stroked aside the damp curls from his brow, and his face wore a

strange, hard expression. "Ah, the child with the red-gold hair and the

beautiful evil eyes. It is she that I have to thank, is it?"

"The little girl is not to blame; she simply, after the fashion of

spoiled children, carried off from her uncle's room what she supposed

to be a plaything, and took it to her mother. You were the one at

fault; you ought to have exculpated yourself calmly and sensibly,

and the affair would have been immediately explained, instead of

which--Michael, can it be true that you lifted your hand against Count

Steinrueck?"

"He called me a thief!" Michael gasped. "Oh, if you knew how he treated

me! I was to confess--to return what I had not stolen. He never asked

whether I were guilty or not. He would have liked to kick me out of the

castle."

There was a degree of savage bitterness in the lad's words, and

Valentin could understand it; he saw that his pupil had been irritated

to madness. "They did you wrong," he said, "grievous wrong, but you

ought not to have given way to furious passion, and the consequences of

your anger will recoil heavily upon yourself. The Count is naturally

indignant at what has occurred. You need no longer reckon upon his aid,

he will hear nothing more of you."

"Will he not? But he shall hear _from_ me! Once more at least."

"What do you mean? You do not propose to----?"

"Go to him! Yes, your reverence. Now that he knows to what unmerited

disgrace he subjected me, he shall take it all back!"

"You propose to call Count Steinrueck to account?" the priest exclaimed

in dismay. "What an insane idea! You must give this up."

"No!" said Michael, in a hard, cold tone.

"Michael!"

"No, your reverence, I will not, even although you forbid my going. I

choose to ask him why he called me thief."

All his thoughts revolved about this one point, the disgrace which had

been heaped upon him, and which burned into his soul like red-hot iron.

Valentin was at his wit's end; he saw that here his remonstrances could

avail nothing, and the savage desire for revenge that was plain in this

intent of the lad's filled him with dread. If Michael really carried

out his plan of taking the Count to task, and if the Count should

undertake to chastise the 'rough, unbridled fellow,' some terrible

misfortune might ensue; it must be prevented at all hazards.

"I never thought that my words would avail so little with you," he

said, sorrowfully. "Well, then, something else must appeal to you.

Whether the Count has wronged you or not, it would be a crime for you

to lift a finger against him; you must never--heed what I say--never

confront him as a foe; he stands nearer to you than you dream."

"To me? Count Steinrueck?"

"Yes. I meant to have told you hereafter of what I now reveal to you,

but your insane behaviour forces me to speak. You would else be in

danger of making a second assault upon--your grandfather!"

Michael started, and stood staring wide-eyed at the speaker. "My

grandfather! He is----?"

"Your mother's father. But you must cherish no hopes from the tie; your

mother was disinherited and cast off. Her marriage separated her

forever from her family, and was her ruin."

He paused and looked at Michael, who for the moment said not a word,

although it was evident that the revelation had agitated him terribly.

His features worked, and his chest rose and fell as though he were

labouring for breath; at last after a long pause he said, gloomily, "Go

on,--is there no more to tell?"

"No, my son, no more for the present. It is a sad story, ending in

grief and misery; a tissue of crime and misfortune that you could

hardly understand. Hereafter, when you are older and more mature, you

shall hear everything; for the present let the bare facts content you:

I vouch for their truth. You see now that the person of Count Steinrueck

should be sacred to you."

"Sacred? When he hounded me like a thief from his door?" Michael

suddenly burst forth. "He knew that he was my grandfather, and yet

could treat me so! Like a dog! Ah, your reverence, you ought not to bid

me hold him sacred. I hated the Count because he was so hard and

pitiless to a stranger, but now,--I should like to----"

He clinched his fist with so terrible a look that Valentin

involuntarily recoiled. "For the love of all the saints you would

not----?"

"Touch him,--no! I know now that I must not lift my hand against him,

but if I could call him to account otherwise, I would give my life for

a chance to do so."

Valentin stood speechless, dismayed, though this savage outbreak was

not alone what dismayed him. He too saw now what had so surprised his

brother, that strange gleam that flashed out suddenly like lightning to

vanish as instantly. The rugged, undeveloped features were the same,

but the dreamy face had gone; as if a veil had been raised all at once

there were revealed other eyes, another brow, and the movement with

which Michael turned to leave the room was full of savage resolve.

"Where are you going?" the priest asked, hastily. "To the forest

lodge?"

"No; I have nothing to do there now. Farewell, your reverence."

"Stay! Where, then, are you going?"

"I do not know,--away,--out into the world."

"Alone? Without means? Utterly ignorant of the world and of life? What

will you do?"

"Go to ruin like my mother," the lad replied, roughly.

"No, by heaven, that you shall not!" exclaimed the priest, rising with

unwonted determination. "If my vows tie my hands,--if I cannot take

care of you,--I can intrust you to another. It was a special providence

that brought my brother here; he will not refuse to help me: I can rely

upon him."

Michael shook his head in dissent. "Better let me go, your reverence; I

am accustomed to be maltreated and turned out everywhere; I do not want

to be a burden upon a stranger. I can scarcely be worse off out in the

world than I was with my parents. I can remember it from my earliest

childhood. Neither my mother nor I ever had a kind word from my father,

and he often used to beat us both; it was not very different from the

life at the lodge, except that I was not starved at the forester's."

Valentin shuddered; he could not help it at the thought of the woman

whom he had formerly seen in all the pride of her beauty and rank.

This, then, had been the end of it all. A terrible glimpse into the

depths of human misery.

"You _must_ not go, Michael," he said, gently but decidedly. "There can

be no question of your return to the lodge. Here you will stay until I

hear from my brother,--I know beforehand what he will say,--and until

then I take charge of you."

Michael did not gainsay this, and made no further attempt to depart. He

turned darkly away to the window, and stood there with folded arms

looking out, the same sullen determination in his look that had

characterized it when he would have rushed away. Yes, the somnambulist

had wakened when his name had been called, out the call had been rude,

and the awakening bitter.

* * * * *

A golden autumnal day had arisen from the dim morning mists; the

mountains were unveiled and the valleys were filled with sunshine.

The little mountain-town, which lay about a league from Castle

Steinrueck, nestling most picturesquely at the entrance of the valley,

was harbouring a distinguished guest. Professor Hans Wehlau, of

worldwide reputation as a light of science, was paying a visit to his

brother-in-law, the burgomaster of the little town. For ten years the

Professor had now been living in the capital of Northern Germany, where

he occupied a prominent position in the university. Since the death of

his wife he had rather withdrawn from society, from which his two sons

were also secluded by the duties of their several occupations; the

younger was completing at another university the studies in natural

science which he had begun under his father's tuition, and the elder,

an adopted son, the child of a friend who had died, having embraced a

military career, was stationed with his regiment in a provincial town.

All, however, were to share in this excursion to relatives among the

mountains. The Professor had been here for some weeks, and his sons had

arrived on the previous day.

The burgomaster's fine spacious house looked out upon the market

square, and the upper rooms, usually unoccupied, had been placed at the

disposal of the guests. The Frau Burgomeisterin did all that she could

to make the stay beneath her roof of her dead sister's husband

agreeable to him, and her efforts in this direction were all the more

praiseworthy since she was always upon a war-footing with him. She was

perpetually vacillating between respect for his reputation, very

flattering to her vanity in so near a relative, and detestation for the

'godless' scientific doctrines to which he owed his fame, and it was a

great trial to her that her nephew, whom, in the absence of any

children of her own, she loved like a son, should have been compelled

by his father's command to pursue the path of science.

It was early in the morning, and the Professor was standing at the

window of his room looking out upon the quiet market square. Wehlau had

changed but little in the last ten years. He had the same intellectual

face, with its sarcastic expression and piercing eyes; the hair,

however, had grown gray. Beside him stood the Frau Burgomeisterin, an

imposing figure, of whom the evil-disposed in Tannberg affirmed that

she ruled the ruler, and was the autocrat of her household.

"And our boys are here at last!" said the Professor, in apparently high

good humour. "You'll have noise and confusion enough now, for Hans will

turn the house upside down. You know him of old. They both look very

well: Michael, especially, has a very manly air."

"Hans is much the handsomer and more attractive," the lady rejoined,

very decidedly. "Michael has neither of these qualities."

"Granted, in the eyes of you ladies, that is! On the other hand, he has

an earnestness and solidity of character by which our harum-scarum Hans

might well take example. It is no small distinction for so young an

officer to be ordered for service on the general's staff. He surprised

me yesterday with this piece of information, while Hans will have some

difficulty in getting his diploma."

"That's not the poor boy's fault," his sister-in-law declared. "He has

never had more than a half-hearted interest in the profession that has

been forced upon him. It cost my poor sister many a secret tear to have

you insist so inexorably upon his burying his talent."

"And you whole rivers of them," the Professor added, with a sneer. "You

all made my life wretched combining with the boy against me, until I

issued my mandate, which he was forced to obey."

"With despair in his heart. In destroying his hope of an artistic

career you deprived him of his ideal,--of all the poesy of his young

life."

"Don't mention Poesy, I entreat," Wehlau interrupted her. "I am on the

worst of terms with that lady for all the mischief she does and the

heads she turns. I set my son straight, I rejoice to say, in time. I

have not noticed any despair about him. Moreover, he has not a particle

of talent for it."

"Good-morning, papa!" called a gay young voice, and the subject of the

conversation appeared in the door-way.

Hans Wehlau junior was a slender and very handsome young fellow of

twenty-four, with nothing in his exterior to suggest the dignity of the

future professor. His straw hat, before he removed it, sat jauntily

upon his thick, light brown hair, and his very becoming summer suit,

with a 'turn-down' shirt collar, had an artistic, rather than a

learned, air. His fresh, youthful face was lit up by a pair of laughing

blue eyes, and altogether there was something so attractive and

endearing about him that the Professor's evident paternal pride was

very easy to understand.

"Well, Head-over-heels, here you are!" he said, gayly. "I have been

preparing your aunt for the turmoil that you carry with you wherever

you go."

"On the contrary, sir, I have grown monstrously sedate," Hans declared,

illustrating his assertion by putting his arm around the waist of his

aunt, who had just innocently set down her basket of keys, and waltzing

with her around the room in spite of her struggles.

"Let me alone, you unmannerly boy!" she said, out of breath, when at

last he released her with a profound bow.

"Forgive me, aunt, but it was the suitable preface to my errand. The

kitchen department urgently requires your presence; and, as I like to

make myself useful in a house, I offered to inform you of it."

Her nephew's zeal in this respect seemed rather suspicious to the

mistress of the house, who asked, "What were you doing in the kitchen?"

"Good heavens! I was only paying my respects to old Gretel."

"Indeed? And young Leni was not there?"

"Oh, I had her presented to me, as I had not seen her before. It was my

duty as one of the family. My tastes are very domestic."

"My dear Hans," the Frau Burgomeisterin said, with decision, "I take no

interest in your domestic tastes, and if I find them leading you into

the kitchen, the doors will be locked in your face; remember that." She

nodded to her brother-in-law, and sailed majestically out of the room.

"Take care, take care!" said the Professor. "Favourite as you are with

your aunt, there are certain points upon which she will have no

jesting; and she is right. At all events, her mind must now be set at

rest with regard to your despair, as she calls it. She clings

obstinately to the idea that you are unhappy in your profession."

"No, sir, I am not at all unhappy," the young man asserted, seating

himself astride of a chair and looking cheerfully about him.

"I never supposed you were. Such youthful nonsense is sure to vanish of

itself as soon as one is occupied with graver matters."

"Of course, papa," Hans assented, occupying himself for the time with

rocking his chair to and fro, a proceeding which appeared to afford him

great gratification.

"And these graver matters are comprised in science," Wehlau continued,

with emphasis. "Unfortunately, I have of late--those chairs are not

made to ride upon, Hans; such school-boy tricks are very unbecoming in

a future doctor--I have of late had too little time to examine you

thoroughly in your studies. The voluminous work which I have just

completed has, as you know, absorbed all my attention. But now I am

free, and we can make up for our delay."

"Of course, papa," said Hans, who had taken the paternal admonition to

heart, and had left the chair, but was now seated on the corner of a

table, swinging his feet.

Fortunately, the Professor, whose back was turned to him, did not

see this, so the father continued to arrange some papers upon his

study-table, and went on calmly: "Your student days are past, and I

hope they have carried with them all your nonsense. I depend upon

greater seriousness, now that we are to begin scientific study in

earnest. Be diligent, Hans; you will be grateful to me one of these

days when you succeed me as professor."

"Of course, papa," the obedient son observed for the third time; but as

at the moment his father turned and cast an irritated glance at him, he

jumped lightly from the table.

"Will you never have done with these school-boy pranks? Pray try to

take example by Michael; you never see him conduct himself so."

"No, indeed," Hans laughed merrily. "The Herr Lieutenant is the

embodiment of military discipline at all times. Always in position, his

coat buttoned up to the throat. Who would have thought it when he came

to us first, a shy, awkward boy, staring about him at the world and

mankind as at something monstrous? I had to take him under my wing

perpetually."

"I imagine he very soon outgrew any wing of yours," the Professor said,

sarcastically.

"More's the pity. The case is reversed now, and he orders me about. But

confess, papa, that at first you despaired of making a human being of

Michael."

"As far as conventionalities are concerned, I certainly did. He had

learned more, far more, than I had supposed. My brother had been an

excellent teacher to him, and when he was once aroused, he applied

himself with such unwearied diligence and interest that I often

wondered at the strength of character shown in divesting himself of all

his childish, dreamy ways."

"Yes, Michael was always your favourite," Hans said, discontentedly.

"You never put any force upon him, but agreed instantly to his desire

to be a soldier, while I----"

"It was a very different thing," his father interrupted him. "As

matters stand, Michael was forced to shape his future and his mode of

life himself, and with his temperament he is best fitted for a soldier.

The reckless dash at a goal without a glance either to the right or to

the left, the stern law of duty, the despotic subduing of antagonistic

qualities beneath the iron yoke of discipline, all accord perfectly

with his character, and he will inevitably rise in the army. You, on

the other hand, must reap what I have sown, and therefore abide in my

domain; your life is conveniently arranged for you."

The young man's air betrayed but a small degree of satisfaction with

this arrangement; but he suddenly started up and exclaimed, gayly,

"Here comes Michael!"

Ten years are a long time in a human existence, and they seem doubly

long when they occur at the season when a man develops most rapidly; in

Michael's case the change wrought by the years bordered on the

marvellous. The former foster-son of Wolfram the forester and the young

officer were two different individuals, who had not a characteristic in

common.

Handsome, Michael Rodenberg certainly was not,--in that respect he was

far behind Hans Wehlau,--but he was one who could never pass unnoticed.

His tall, muscular figure seemed created to wear a uniform and to gird

on a sword. It had exchanged all the awkwardness of the boy for the

erect carriage of the soldier. His fair, close curls had lost none of

their luxuriance, but they were carefully arranged, and the bearded

face, if it could lay no claim to beauty, was interesting enough

without it. All that was boyish in it had vanished, the strong,

resolute head was that of ripe manhood,--a manhood too early ripened,

perchance, for the countenance expressed at times a degree of gravity

which was almost sternness, and which does not belong to youth.

In the eyes, too, there was none of the old dreamy look; their gaze had

grown keen and firm, but they never had learned to sparkle with the

joyous inspiration of youth. There was something chilling in them, as

indeed in the whole air of the young man, which only at intervals, in

conversation, was animated by a genial glow. Yet, as he stood there,

erect, firm, resolute, he was the ideal of a soldier from head to heel.

"In uniform?" asked the Professor, surprised, as Michael bade him

good-morning. "Have you an official visit to pay here?"

"After a fashion, yes; I must go over to Elmsdorf. The former chief of

my regiment, Colonel von Reval, since he resigned, has always spent the

summer and autumn at his country-seat there. He probably thinks that I

have been here some time, for I found upon my arrival yesterday a few

lines from him inviting me to Elmsdorf. My aunt will, I hope, excuse

me; the colonel has been very kind to me."

"You were always his special favourite," Hans remarked. "When he

returned at the close of the Danish war, he came to see papa to

congratulate him upon having so distinguished a son. I was furious at

the time, for as I had heard nothing for weeks except songs of praise

in your honour, with animadversions upon my insignificance, your

doughty deeds were deeply annoying to me."

"Most certainly no one ever congratulated me upon possessing _you_, at

least during your university course," Wehlau observed, sharply.

"Moreover, we expected you here last week; why did you come so late?"

"On Michael's account; he could not get leave until he had accompanied

his regiment into quarters after being on special duty. When I went to

his quarters to find him, I had a piece of luck----"

"As usual!" the Professor interjected.

"Yes. I had made up my mind to spend a week in that dull provincial

town, but on my arrival I heard that Michael was three miles away, in a

gay little watering-place, near which his regiment was exercising. Of

course I hurried after him, with a blessing upon the wisdom of the

military authorities. The Herr Lieutenant was indeed head over ears in

strict attention to duty, and quite deaf and blind to all else, even to

an acquaintance for which every other officer of his corps envied him,

and of which he would not take the least advantage. No one else could

gain admission at Countess Steinrueck's; she was very much of an

invalid."

The Professor was evidently struck by the name, and cast a keen glance

at Michael. "Countess Steinrueck?"

"Of Berkheim. You know her, papa; for, as she herself told me, you were

often at her father-in-law's when you were a young physician, and at

her request you went to her when her husband was dying. She is very

grateful yet to you for doing so."

"Of course I know her; but how did you make her acquaintance, Michael?"

"By accident," was the laconic reply.

"It was certainly by no fault of his," Hans said, in a mocking tone

that plainly betrayed his ignorance of the part played in Michael's

life by the name of Steinrueck. "I must tell you the story in detail,

papa; it begins very romantically. Well, Michael was sitting in the

forest,--that is, he was in command of his men there and ordering them

to fire,--when a carriage came driving along a road in the distance.

The horses were frightened by the firing and ran away; the coachman

lost his reins, and the danger was imminent, when from the dim forest

near by a gallant knight rushed to the rescue, stopped the horses, tore

open the carriage door, and lifted out the fainting ladies----"

"Stick to the truth, Hans," the young officer interposed, with some

irritation. "Neither the danger nor the heroism was as great as you

describe. I merely saw that the horses were frightened, and ran up to

avert an accident; but the brutes stopped as soon as I caught hold of

their bridles, and the ladies sat still in the carriage. No need of any

poetical exaggeration."

"Nor of such prosaic treatment of facts," Hans retorted. "I heard the

story from the Countess herself, and she persists quite as obstinately

in saying that you saved her life as you persist in denying having done

so."

Michael shrugged his shoulders and turned to the Professor. "In fact,

the Countess did thus persist, and as the house where I was staying was

near her villa I could not avoid frequent meetings with her. But I was

very much occupied with the service, and had but little time at my

disposal."

"Yes, yes, that eternal 'service'!" exclaimed Hans, indignantly. "At

last he was never to be seen. It was with the greatest difficulty that

I persuaded him to find time to introduce me, and when he had done so

he went off, and left me to explain and apologize for his extraordinary

behaviour. The ladies made him the most amiable advances, but he was a

perfect icicle."

"Michael probably has his own reasons for his conduct," said Wehlau;

"and if he thought best to maintain a degree of reserve, you would have

done well to follow his example."

"Ah, no; that was simply out of the question. The young Countess was

too beautiful,--a perfect princess in a fairy-tale: superb golden hair

and eyes that shine like stars. They can beguile, those eyes of hers."

"And can scorn," Michael added, in a tone the coldness of which

contrasted strongly with his friend's enthusiasm. "Beware of them,

Hans; it is a sad fate to be first beguiled and then scorned."

"You say that because the Countess Hertha is thought very haughty. I

too believe that any man who could not reckon up ten generations of

ancestors at least would have but a poor chance if he were audacious

enough to woo her. Since, however, I do not covet that honour, nothing

hinders my admiration. And if I should really allow myself to be

beguiled by those eyes----"

"Come, come; let all that alone," his father cut short his son's

sentence. "You have no business with fairy princesses or starry eyes; I

bar all such nonsense. All that you have to think about is your coming

thesis."

The two young men exchanged a hasty, significant glance, and Michael

said, lightly, "Do not be troubled, uncle. If Hans is a little

scorched, it will do him no harm; he is used to it."

"Yes, he has been childish and silly enough, but now he will have the

kindness to adopt a graver tone. I have an unoccupied morning to-day,

Hans, and we will have an exhaustive talk about your studies. The

sketch of them that you gave me in the holidays was very slight. I want

now to know all about them."

Again the young men exchanged a glance that seemed to betoken a secret

understanding, as the Professor arose and said, casually, "I only want

to tell Leni that she must be careful to-day about sending my letters

to the post. I shall be back immediately," with which he left the room.

Hans looked after him, folded his arms, and said, in an undertone, "Now

for the bursting of the bomb!"

"Do not take the matter so easily," Michael admonished him. "You

certainly have a hard battle to fight; my uncle will be furious."

"I know it; that's why I am all armed and equipped. You're not going; I

can't spare you. When the fight grows too hot I shall summon you as my

_corps de reserve_. Do stay and help me."

"I am glad, at all events, that there is to be no more secrecy," said

the young officer, discontentedly, as he withdrew into the recess of a

window. "I promised you to be silent, but it was very hard for me;

harder than for you."

"Bah! I did not know what else to do. And you soldiers admit that all's

fair in war. Hush! here he comes! Now for the assault!"

The Professor re-entered the room, and took his seat comfortably in an

arm-chair, beckoning his son to take his place beside him. "You

certainly have been in good hands," he began. "My colleague, Bauer, is

an authority in his specialty, and shares my views entirely. That was

the reason why I yielded to your earnest entreaty and sent you for two

years to B----. I was afraid that the chief attraction for you lay in

the gay student life there, but I nevertheless judged it best that you

should pursue your studies under other guidance than my own, after I

had laid the foundation for them. Now let me hear."

The young man was evidently made very uncomfortable by this prelude; he

twirled his handsome moustache, and stammered somewhat as he replied,

"Yes,--Professor Bauer; I attended his lectures--very regularly."

"Of course; I recommended you to him particularly."

"But I did not learn anything from him."

Wehlau frowned, and said, reprovingly, "Hans, it is very unbecoming so

to criticise a worthy man of science. His delivery, to be sure, leaves

much to be desired, but his treatises are admirable."

"Good heavens, I am not speaking of the Herr Professor's treatises, but

of my own, and they were unfortunately far from admirable. I felt that

myself, and accordingly I made a slight change in my course of study."

"Against my express directions. I laid out your course precisely for

you. To whom did you go, then?"

Hans hesitated to reply, and glanced towards the window where his

'reserves' were stationed, before he said, in a rather constrained

voice, "To--to Professor Walter."

"Walter? Who is he? I do not know the name."

"Oh, papa, you surely must have heard of Friedrich Walter. He has a

world-wide reputation as an artist."

"As a what?" the Professor asked, not crediting his ears.

"As an artist, and that was the reason why I wanted to go to B----.

Master Walter lives there, and did me the honour of receiving me into

his atelier. In fact, I have not applied myself to the study of natural

science; I have become a painter!"

It was out at last. Wehlau sprang to his feet, and stared speechless at

his son.

"Boy, are you mad?" he cried; but Hans, who knew well that his only

hope lay in not allowing his father to speak, rattled on very quickly,

"I have been very diligent all these two years, extremely diligent. My

teacher will tell you so; he thinks I may safely be left to myself now,

and when I came away he said to me, 'It will surely delight your father

to see the progress you have made; refer any one to me.'"

All this was uttered with extreme volubility; the words fell like honey

from his lips, but it did him no good any longer; at last the Professor

understood that there was no jest about the 'slight change' of studies,

and he burst forth, "And you dare to brave me thus! You dare secretly,

behind my back, to play such a farce; to defy my command, to laugh my

wishes to scorn; and now you imagine that I shall yield in the matter,

and say 'yes,' and 'amen'? You will find yourself vastly mistaken."

Hans hung his head and looked crushed. "Do not be so hard upon me,

papa! Art is my ideal, the poesy of my life, and if you knew how my

conscience has pricked me for my disobedience!"

"You look as if your conscience pricked you," the Professor stormed,

still more furious. "Ideal,--Poesy,--the same cursed old trash! The

shibboleth to hide all the folly that men perpetrate. Never imagine

that such nonsense will go down with me. Whatever pranks you may have

played hitherto, now you are coming home, and I shall take you in hand.

You will shortly pass the examination for your degree! Do you hear? I

order you to do so."

"But I have not learned anything," Hans declared, with positive

exultation. "While the lectures were going on I sketched or caricatured

either the professors or the audience, as the case might be, and all

that you taught me I forgot long ago; I could not write an essay a page

long, and you cannot send me to the university again."

"You are actually boasting of your ignorance," said Wehlau, sternly;

"and the inconceivable deception you have practised upon me you perhaps

consider another piece of heroism to be proud of."

"No; only as a necessary weapon, when all other means failed. How I

formerly implored and entreated you to yield to my desires, and all in

vain! You would have had me sacrifice my talent, my entire future, to a

profession for which I was not fitted, and in which I never could have

excelled. You denied me the means for my artistic education and thought

thereby to force my inclination. When I said to you, 'I want to be a

painter,' you met me with an inexorable 'no.' Now I say to you, 'I am a

painter,' and you will have to say 'yes.'"

"That remains to be seen," Wehlau burst forth afresh. "I will see

whether I cannot govern my own son. I am master in my own house, and

I'll have no rebellion there; those who oppose me will have to leave

it."

The young man's cheek paled at this threat; he stepped up close to his

father, and his voice sounded imploring, but gravely in earnest.

"Father, do not let matters go too far between you and me. I am not

made as you are. I have always had a horror of your cold lofty science

that makes life so clear and so--desolate. You do not comprehend that

there is another world, and that there is a temperament to which this

other world is as necessary as the air to the lungs. You wring from

nature her secrets; everything that lives and moves must be adjusted to

your rules and theories; you know the origin and end of every created

being. But you do not know your own son, whom you cannot fit to your

theories. He has clasped close his morsel of poesy and ideality, and

has pursued his own path, in which he will never disgrace you."

With this he turned and walked towards the door; but the Professor, who

was in no wise disposed to end the interview thus, called angrily after

him, "Stay, Hans! Come back this instant!"

But Hans thought fit not to hear the call, he saw that his _corps de

reserve_ was advancing, and he left it to Michael to cover his retreat

as best he might.

"Let him go, uncle," said Michael, who had come forward some minutes

before, and now attempted to soothe the angry man. "You are too

irritated; you must be calmer before you speak to him again."

The admonition was vain. Wehlau had no idea of becoming calmer, and

since his disobedient son was no longer present, he turned upon his

advocate. "And you too have been in the plot; you knew it all; do not

deny it. Hans tells you everything; why did you keep silence?"

"Because I had given my word, and could not break it, however I might

dislike secrecy."

"Then you ought to have taken the boy in hand yourself and brought him

to reason."

"That I could not do, for he is right."

"What! Are you beginning too?" shouted the Professor, shaking a

menacing finger; but Michael held his ground and repeated firmly, "Yes,

uncle, perfectly right. I never would have allowed myself to be forced

to adopt a calling which I disliked and for which I was not fit. I

should, it is true, have waged more open and therefore sterner warfare

than Hans has done; he has simply avoided a struggle. From the day when

you forced him to the course of study you approved, and to which he

ostensibly applied himself, he began to make a preliminary study of

painting, but he finally perceived the impossibility of completing his

artistic education beneath your eyes, and therefore he went to B----.

He must have done extremely well there, for if a man like Professor

Walter testifies to his artistic ability, it is indubitable, you may be

sure."

"Silence!" growled the Professor. "I will not hear another word. I say

no, and no again,--and---- Are you coming to triumph too? I suppose you

also were in the plot."

The last words were spoken to his sister-in-law, who came innocently

into the room to get her basket of keys which she had left behind her,

and who looked amazed at this angry reception.

"What is the matter?" asked she. "What has happened?"

"Happened? Nothing has happened! Only a very slight change in my son's

studies, as he is pleased to express it. But woe to the boy if he

appears before me again! He shall find out who and what I am."

With these words Wehlau strode into the next room, slamming the door

behind him, while his sister-in-law gazed at Michael in dismay. "Tell

me, in heavens' name, what has occurred?"

"A catastrophe. Hans has made a confession, which he could no longer

suppress, to his father. He did not pursue his studies at the

university, but used his time there in studying art with Professor

Walter. But excuse me, aunt, I must go and find him. He had really

better avoid meeting his father for the present."

So saying, Michael hastily left the room, where the Frau Burgomeisterin

stood motionless for a few minutes; but at last her face broke into a

beaming smile, and with an expression of supreme satisfaction she said,

"And so he's played a trick upon the infallible Herr Professor, and

such a trick! Darling boy!"

* * * * *

Elmsdorf, the estate of Herr von Reval, was situated at no great

distance from the town. It was no old mountain stronghold, with an

historic past, like Steinrueck, but a pleasant modern country-seat which

its situation made a very desirable summer residence. The house, a

spacious villa with balconies and terraces, was surrounded by a park,

not very extensive indeed, but charmingly laid out, and the interior of

the mansion, without being magnificent, gave evidence of the taste and

wealth of its possessors.

Colonel Reval had sent in his resignation from the army three years

previous to our present date in consequence of wounds received in the

last war. Since then he, with his wife, had spent the winters in the

capital and the summers at Elmsdorf, which he had converted from a very

simple abode into a charming country-seat.

Michael Rodenberg, who had served in the colonel's regiment, and

afterwards had been his adjutant, had always enjoyed the special favour

of his chief, who even after he had quitted the service continued to

give proofs of his regard for the young officer.

Elmsdorf to-day was holding high festival, celebrating the birthday of

its mistress, and, as the hospitable mansion was very popular in the

country around, the company assembled was very numerous. Michael was

present, of course, and Professor Wehlau and his son had also received

invitations. Unfortunately, there was no hope of seeing the

distinguished man of science among the guests. He excused his absence

on the plea of indisposition, but in truth he was averse to all society

at present, since his son's obstinate disobedience filled him with

indignation and controlled his mood to a great degree. Both the young

men, however, had driven over to Elmsdorf.

Herr and Frau von Reval received their guests with all the hospitable

grace that made their house a social centre in all the country round

about. Hans Wehlau on this occasion justified his father's assertion

that he was fortune's favourite, to whom without any effort of his own

all hearts and homes were flung wide open. He had scarcely been

presented to the mistress of the house before she showed him special

marks of favour, every one thought him charming, and he moved among all

these strangers as if he had been intimate in the household from

boyhood.

All the more of a stranger did Michael feel himself to be. He possessed

neither the inclination nor the capacity for so swift and easy an

adaptation of himself to his surroundings. With the exception of the

colonel and his wife he knew no one of the company, and the few words

possible upon a casual introduction interested him but little. This

brilliant assemblage, in the midst of which Hans swam like a fish in

its native element, won but a passing regard from his grave, unsocial

friend, who was a looker-on, not a sharer in its gayeties.

Wandering through the rooms, Michael came at last to the conservatory,

a quiet spot shut off from the suite of reception-rooms; with its

palms, laurel-trees, and flowers, it invited to rest. Here all was cool

and secluded, and the young man felt no inclination to return to the

heated rooms where he could not be missed. He passed slowly from one

group of plants to another, until he was interrupted by the entrance of

Colonel Reval.

"Still unsocial, Lieutenant Rodenberg?" he said, in a tone half of

jest, half of reproach. "You are but a poor guest at our _fete_. What

are you doing here in this lonely conservatory?"

"I have just found my way hither," Michael began; "and, moreover, I am

a stranger in society----"

"Only an additional reason for frequenting it. Take pattern by your

young friend, who is already at home there. I missed you some time ago

from the drawing-room, where I wanted to present you to Count

Steinrueck. You do not know him?"

"The general in command? No!"

"He came only awhile ago, and you will shortly have to report yourself

to him officially. The general is extremely influential, but greatly

feared because of his inflexible severity in military matters. He

spares no one, least of all, indeed, himself; although he is over

seventy, his age never seems to enter his mind."

Michael listened in silence; he had known that the Count was at

Steinrueck, and that he must be prepared for a meeting which had

hitherto been spared him, but which would be unavoidable in future,

since he must in time report himself to the general in command.

"We hoped to see the young Count too," Reval continued, "but we have

just heard that he does not arrive until to-morrow evening. It is a

pity; he would have been an interesting acquaintance for you."

"You mean the general's son, colonel?"

"No, the son died some years ago; I mean his grand son, Count Raoul. He

certainly is one of the handsomest fellows I have ever seen; always

foremost in youthful follies, full of talent, and with a disposition so

charming that he takes everybody by storm. Indeed, he is a gifted

creature, but such a madcap that he will give his grandfather no end of

trouble if he does not succeed in controlling him betimes."

"Apparently, Count Steinrueck is the very man to do so," Michael

remarked.

"So it seems to me. Count Raoul, who fears neither man nor devil, has

nevertheless a very wholesome dread of his grandfather, and when His

Excellency issues an ukase, which, between ourselves, is not

infrequently necessary, the young fellow is ready to obey."

A low rustle, as of silken robes, was heard behind the gentlemen, whose

backs were towards the entrance; they turned, and at that instant the

young officer stepped back so suddenly that the colonel looked at him

in surprise.

Two ladies had entered; the elder, in dark velvet, pale, delicate, an

evident invalid, seemed desirous of reaching a long low seat beneath a

group of palms, where she could rest; the younger stood at the head of

the flight of steps leading into the conservatory, her figure full in

the light of the chandelier hanging above her head.

Hans Wehlau had described her well; she was like the princess in a

fairy-tale, tall and slender, with a face of bewitching beauty, and

large eyes that shone like stars, the colour of which it was impossible

to define for at times they looked deeply dark, and then again

brilliantly light. The red curls that had formerly fallen upon the

child's shoulders had vanished; there was now only a slight reddish

tinge upon the thick golden braids, contrasting with the pale lustre of

the pearls twined among them; and yet, as she stood bathed in the light

from above her head, her hair gleamed like the 'red gold' of fairy

treasure-chambers. Over her blue silk gown a cloud of delicate lace was

looped with single flowers, with here and there a diamond dew-drop on

their petals. She looked a creature woven out of sun and air.

"Ah, Countess Steinrueck!" exclaimed the colonel, as he hastened to

offer his arm to the elder lady, so evidently fatigued. "It was too

warm in the ballroom; I am afraid you have given us the pleasure of

seeing you at too great a sacrifice."

"It is only fatigue, nothing more," the Countess assured him, as he

conducted her to a seat. "Why, there is Lieutenant Rodenberg!"

Michael bowed; the blue silk rustled down the steps, and Countess

Hertha stood beside her mother. "Mamma is not very well," she said,

"and so we left the ball-room. She will soon feel better here where it

is so cool and quiet."

"It would be better then----" Michael glanced towards the colonel, and

turned to leave the conservatory, but the Countess interposed with

gracious courtesy,--

"Oh, do not go! It is only that the heat and noise are too much for me.

I am so glad to see you again, Lieutenant Rodenberg."

The colonel seemed surprised that the young officer was acquainted with

the ladies, and the Countess was pleased to tell him how the

acquaintance had been made. She insisted that Michael by his prompt

interference had saved her daughter's life and her own. He protested

against such a statement.

Countess Hertha took no part in the conversation, which soon became

animated, but turned her entire attention to the flowers. She walked

slowly through the conservatory, which was but dimly lighted; there was

infinite grace in her movements, but there was nothing about her of the

half-shyness, half self-consciousness of girlhood. At nineteen she

displayed all the _aplomb_ of a woman of the world, of the wealthy

heiress who doubtless knew perfectly well that she was beautiful. She

paused before a group of exotic plants, and asked in an easy tone,

turning her head towards Michael, "Do you know this flower, Herr

Lieutenant? It is a strange, foreign-looking blossom, and I confess my

botany is at fault."

Michael was forced to cross the conservatory to where she stood; he did

so very deliberately, but he was a shade paler as he gave her the

desired information: "It seems to be a Dionea, one of those murderous

blossoms that close upon an insect alighting upon them, and kill their

prisoner."

A half-compassionate, half-contemptuous smile played about the young

girl's lips. "Poor thing! And yet it must be lovely to die in such

intoxicating fragrance. Do you not think so?"

"No! Death is lovely only in freedom. No intoxication can atone for

imprisonment."

The answer sounded almost rude, and Hertha bit her lip for an instant,

and then changed the subject, saying, with some sarcasm, "I am glad to

see that you are not so entirely monopolized by 'the service' here as

you were in F----; I never met you in society there."

"We were exercising there; here I am on leave."

"Staying with Colonel Reval?"

"No, with relatives."

The tip of the little satin slipper tapped the floor impatiently:

"Their name appears to be a state secret, since you so persistently

suppress it."

"Not at all; there is no reason why I should do so. I am staying in

Tannberg, as the guest of the brother-in-law of Professor Wehlau."

Hertha seemed surprised; she went on playing with a rose that she had

plucked, while her eyes scanned the young man's face. "Oh, the little

mountain town near Steinrueck. We are thinking of passing several weeks

at the castle."

A sudden gleam lit up Michael's face for an instant; the next moment it

had vanished, and he rejoined, coolly, "Autumn is certainly very

beautiful in the mountains."

This time the young Countess was not impatient; perhaps that sudden

gleam had not escaped her, for she smiled, as she continued to toy with

her rose: "We shall hardly meet, in spite of our being such near

neighbours, for I suspect that 'the service' will make demands upon you

even there."

"You are pleased to jest, Countess Steinrueck."

"I am perfectly serious. We first heard of your presence here to-night

from Herr Wehlau. Of course you had instantly rendered yourself

invisible, and were presumably deep in a strategic discussion with the

colonel, when we appeared here. We regret having interrupted it: it was

evident that our intrusion annoyed you."

"You are quite mistaken; I was very glad to see you both again."

"And yet you started when you first observed us."

Michael looked up, and the glance that fell upon the young girl was

stern, almost menacing, but his voice was perfectly calm as he replied,

"I was surprised, as I knew that the Countess intended to return

directly to Berkheim from the baths."

"We changed our plans, by special desire of my uncle Steinrueck, and,

moreover, the physician recommended several weeks of invigorating

mountain air. Shall we not see you at the castle? My mother would be so

glad, and--so should I."

Her voice was low and beguilingly sweet as she uttered the last words,

standing close beside him, half in shadow, and still lovelier than when

in the bright light, while from the cups of the flowers a fragrant

incense arose around her. Her dress made a soft silken rustle,

and the delicate lace almost brushed the arm of the young officer,

who was still a little pale. He paused for a second, as if gaining

self-possession, then bowed low and formally, and said, "I shall be

most happy."

In spite of his words there must have been something in the tone in

which they were spoken that told the young Countess that he did not

mean to come, for there appeared in her eyes the strange gleam that for

the moment robbed them of their beauty. She inclined her head and

turned to join her mother. As she did so the rose dropped, quite by

accident, from her hand, and lay upon the ground without being

perceived by her.

Michael remained standing in the same spot, but a covetous glance

fell upon the flower that had but now been in her hand. The delicate

half-opened bud lay at his feet, rosy and fragrant, and just before him

shimmered the blossoms of the Dionea, that kill their prisoners in

intoxicating perfume.

The young officer's hand involuntarily sought the earth, and a hasty

glance was cast at the group across the conservatory to discover

whether he were observed. He encountered the gaze of a pair of eyes

riveted upon him, expectant, exultant; he must bow. In an instant he

stood erect, and as he stepped aside he trod upon the rose, and the

delicate flower died beneath his heel.

Countess Hertha fanned herself violently, as if the heat had suddenly

grown stifling, but Colonel Reval, who had just finished his

conversation, said, "We really must leave the Countess to entire repose

for a while. Come, my dear Rodenberg."

They took leave of the ladies and returned to the crowded rooms, went

from the quiet, cool, fragrant conservatory, with its soft, dim light,

into the heat and brilliancy, the hum and stir of society. And yet

Michael breathed more freely, as if issuing from a stifling atmosphere

into the open air.

Hans Wehlau, gliding upon the stream of social life, no sooner espied

his friend than he took his arm and drew him aside to ask, "Have you

seen the Countesses Steinrueck, our watering-place acquaintances? They

are here."

"I know it," Michael replied, laconically. "I spoke to them just now."

"Really? Where have you been hiding yourself? You're bored again, as

usual, in society. I am enjoying myself extremely, and I have been

presented to everybody."

"Also as usual. You must represent your father to-day; every one wishes

to know the son of the distinguished scientist, since he himself----"

"Are you at it too?" Hans interrupted him, petulantly. "At least twenty

times to-day I have been introduced and questioned as celebrity number

two, since celebrity number one is not present. They have goaded me

with my father's distinction until I am desperate."

"Hans, if your father could hear you!" Michael said, reproachfully.

"I can't help it. Every other man has at least an individuality of his

own, something subjective. I am 'the son of our distinguished,' and so

forth, and I am nothing more. As such I am introduced, flattered,

distinguished if you choose; but it's terrible to run about forever as

only something relative."

The young officer smiled. "Well, you are on the way to change it all.

Probably in future it will be 'the distinguished artist, Hans Wehlau,

whose father has rendered such service,' and so forth."

"In that case, I will assuredly forgive my father his fame. And so you

have spoken to the Steinrueck ladies. What a surprise it was to find

them here when we thought them in Berkheim! The Countess mother very

kindly invited me, or rather both of us, to the castle, and I accepted,

of course. We will call at Steinrueck together, eh?"

"No; I shall not go there," Michael replied.

"But why not, in heaven's name?"

"Because I have no inducement, and feel no desire to make one of the

Steinrueck circle. The tone that prevails there is notorious. Every one

without a title must be constantly under arms if he would maintain his

position there."

"Well, since the science of war is your profession, it would afford you

a good opportunity for study. For my part, I find it very tiresome to

be forever under arms like you and my father, who always feels obliged

to vindicate his principles in his intercourse with the aristocracy. I

amuse myself without principles of any kind, and always ground arms

before the ladies. Be reasonable, Michael, and come with me."

"No!"

"Very well; let it alone, then! There is nothing to be done with you

when once you take a notion into that obstinate head of yours, as I

found out long ago; but I shall certainly not throw away my opportunity

for seeing again that golden-haired fairy, the Countess Hertha. I

suppose you never even noticed how captivating, how bewitching she is

to-night in that cloud of silk and lace; the very embodiment of all

loveliness."

"I certainly think the Countess beautiful, but----"

"You only think her so?" Hans interrupted him, indignantly. "Indeed?

And you begin to criticise her with your 'but.' Let me tell you,

Michael, that I have unbounded respect for you; in fact, you have been

so long held up to me by my father as a model in every sense, that your

superiority has become a thorn in my flesh. But when there is any

question of women and women's loveliness, please hold your tongue; you

know nothing about them or it, and are no better than what you once

were,--a blockhead!"

With these words, uttered half in jest, half indignantly, he left his

friend and joined a group of young people at a distance. Michael

wandered in an opposite direction, looking stern and gloomy enough.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the room, Colonel Reval was talking with

Count Steinrueck. They had withdrawn into a small bow-window shut off

from the room by a half-drawn _portiere_, and Reval was saying, "I

should like to call your Excellency's attention to this young officer.

You will soon admit him to be in every way worthy your regard."

"I am sure of it, since you recommend him so warmly," replied

Steinrueck. "You are usually chary of such praise. Did he serve in your

regiment from the beginning?"

"Yes. I noticed him first in the Danish war. Although the youngest

lieutenant in the regiment, he contrived with a handful of men to

capture a position which had until then resisted all attack, and which

was of the greatest importance, and the way in which he performed this

feat showed as much energy as presence of mind. In the last campaign he

was my adjutant, and now he has just been ordered upon the general's

staff in consequence of an admirable treatise; you may have seen it,

your Excellency, since it discusses a point upon which you lately

expressed yourself very emphatically, and it was signed with the

writer's name."

"Lieutenant Rodenberg; I remember," the general said, thoughtfully. The

name always affected him painfully, but did not arrest his attention,

since it was a frequent one in the army. There was a Colonel Rodenberg

who had three sons in the service, and the Count had so fully made up

his mind that the young officer in question was one of these that he

judged it superfluous to make any inquiries about him.

"I know the treatise," he continued. "It betokens an unusual degree of

talent, and would have secured my regard for its author, even without

your warm recommendation; and, since you bear such brilliant testimony

to his capacity in other respects----"

"Rodenberg is every way trustworthy; he maintains, it is true, rather

an isolated position among his comrades; his unsocial disposition and

his reserve make him but few friends, but he is universally respected."

"That suffices," declared Steinrueck, who listened with evident

interest. "He who is ambitious and has a high aim in view rarely finds

time to be popular. I like natures which rely entirely upon themselves.

I understand them; in my youth I resembled them."

"Here he is! His Excellency wishes to make your acquaintance, my dear

Rodenberg," said the colonel, beckoning Michael to approach. He

introduced him in due form, and then mingled with his other guests,

leaving his favourite to complete the impression already made upon the

general by the late conversation.

Michael confronted the man whom he had seen but once, and that ten

years before, but whose image had remained ineffaceably impressed upon

his memory, connected as it was with the bitterest experience of his

life.

Count Michael Steinrueck had already passed his seventieth year, but he

was one of those whom time seems afraid to attack, and the years which

are wont to bring decay found him still erect and strong as in the

prime of life. His hair and beard were silvered, but that was the only

change wrought by the last ten years. There was scarcely an added

wrinkle upon the proud, resolute features, the eyes were still keen and

fiery, and the carriage was as imposing as ever, betraying in every

gesture the habit of command.

His iron constitution, strengthened and hardened as it had been by

every kind of physical and mental exercise, maintained in old age a

youthful vigour which many a young man might have envied.

The general scanned the young officer keenly, and the result of his

examination was evidently a favourable one. He liked this strong, manly

carriage, this grave repose of expression betokening mental discipline,

and he opened the conversation with more geniality than was his wont.

"Colonel Reval has recommended you to me very warmly, Lieutenant

Rodenberg, and I value his judgment highly. You have been his

adjutant?"

"I have, your Excellency."

Steinrueck's attention was aroused, there was something familiar in that

tone of voice, he seemed to have heard it before, and yet the young man

was an utter stranger to him. He began to talk of military matters,

putting frequent questions upon various topics, but Michael underwent

excellently well this rigid examination in a conversational form. His

replies, to be sure, were monosyllabic, not a word was uttered that was

not absolutely necessary, but they were clear and to the point,

perfectly in accordance with the taste of the general, who became more

and more convinced that the colonel had not said too much. Count

Steinrueck was, indeed, feared on account of his severity, but he was

strictly just whenever he met with merit or talent, and he even

condescended to praise this young officer who was evidently most

deserving.

"A great career is open to you," he said, at the close of the

interview. "You stand on the first step of the ladder, and the ascent

lies with yourself. I hear that you distinguished yourself in the field

while still very young, and your latest work proves that you can do

more than merely slash about with a sword. I shall be glad to see you

fulfil the promise you give; we have need of such vigorous young

natures. I shall remember you, Lieutenant Rodenberg. What is your first

name?"

"Michael."

The general started at this rather uncommon name; a strange suspicion

flashed upon his mind, only, however, to be banished instantly; but

again he scanned keenly the features of the man before him. "You are a

son of Colonel Rodenberg, commanding officer in W----?"

"No, your Excellency."

"Related to him, probably?"

"No, your Excellency, I am not acquainted either with the colonel or

with his family."

"What is your father's profession?"

"My father has been dead for many years."

"And your mother?"

"Dead also."

A pause of a few seconds ensued: the Count's eyes were riveted upon the

young officer's face; at last he asked, slowly, "And where,--where did

you pass your early youth?"

"In a forest lodge in the neighbourhood of Saint Michael."

The general recoiled; the revelation, which during the last few moments

he had indeed divined, came upon him like a blow.

"It is you? Impossible!" he fairly gasped.

"What was your Excellency pleased to observe?" Michael asked, in an icy

tone. He stood motionless in a strictly respectful attitude, but his

eyes flashed, and now Steinrueck recognized those eyes. He had seen them

once before flashing just as fiercely when he had heaped unmerited

disgrace upon the boy; they had just the same expression now as then.

But Count Steinrueck did not lose his self-possession even at such a

moment. He had collected himself in an instant, and said in the old

imperious tone, "No matter! Let the past be past. I see Lieutenant

Rodenberg to-day for the first time. I recall neither the praise which

I bestowed upon you, nor the hopes that I expressed with regard to your

future. You may count now, as before, upon my good will."

"I thank your Excellency," Michael rejoined, as coldly as possible. "It

suffices me to hear from your own lips that I am, at least, fit for

something in the world. I have made my way _alone_, and shall pursue it

alone."

The general's brow grew dark. He had been willing to forget

magnanimously, and had thought to achieve great things by this

reluctant acknowledgment, and now his advances were rejected in the

bluntest manner. "Haughty enough!" he said, in a tone that was almost

menacing. "You would do well to bridle this untamed pride. Injustice

was once done you, and that may excuse your reply. I will forget that I

have heard it. You will surely come to a better state of mind."

"Has your Excellency any further commands for me?"

"No!"

An angry glance was cast at the young officer who dared to leave his

general's presence without awaiting his dismissal, but Michael appeared

to consider as such that 'no,' and with a salute he turned and walked

away.

The general, stern and mute, looked after him. He could scarcely

believe his eyes. He had, indeed, been informed that the

'good-for-nothing boy' had run away from his foster-father, and had

never returned, doubtless from fear of punishment. He had not thought

it worth the trouble to institute a search for the fugitive. If the

fellow had vanished, so much the better; they were rid of him, and with

him of the last reminder of the family tragedy that must be buried

forever; he would always have been in the way. Sometimes, indeed, there

was a shadow of dread in his mind lest the fellow should some day

emerge from disgrace and misery and make use of his connection with the

family, which could not be denied, to extort money; but they had got

rid of the father when he had tried that game, and they could likewise

get rid of the son. Count Michael was not the man to be afraid of

shadows.

And now the vanished boy had indeed emerged again, but in the very

sphere to which the Count's family belonged. He was pronounced one of

those who are sure to rise without foreign aid by their own talent and

energy, and he had dared to reject the patronage offered him,

grudgingly enough, but still offered. Why, it almost looked as if _he_

now wished to disown his mother's family.

The Count's brow was still dark when he rejoined the other guests.

Hertha and her mother had just returned to the drawing-room, and the

young lady instantly became the centre of attraction. All crowded round

her to do her homage. Hans Wehlau actually swept like a comet through

the rooms to get near her, and even Steinrueck's gloomy brow cleared as

his glance rested upon his lovely ward.

Lieutenant Rodenberg alone appeared not to observe the entrance of the

ladies. He stood apart, conversing with an old gentleman who discoursed

freely upon the disagreeable summer that had passed, and the delightful

autumn that had begun, and in whose remarks Michael appeared to take a

deep interest. But now, and then he cast at the circle, which he

forbore to approach, a glance as filled with longing as had been that

with which he had looked at the rose at his feet in the conservatory;

and when the garrulous old gentleman at last left him, he muttered to

himself, "'Blockhead!' I wish I had remained one!"

* * * * *

Count Michael Steinrueck occupied a very influential position in the

capital. Raised to the rank of general at the beginning of the last

campaign, he had proved himself one of the most capable of commanders,

and his voice had great weight in military affairs.

Six years previously he had lost his only son, who was attached to the

German embassy in Paris, and since then his daughter-in-law and his

grandson had lived beneath his roof. The latter had originally, by his

grandfather's desire, or rather command, been destined for the army.

Count Michael had been resolved to carry out his plan in opposition to

the wishes of the boy's parents, but he had been unable to do so.

Raoul, who was in fact a delicate boy, sickened just at the time when a

final decision with regard to his future career was absolutely

necessary, and the physicians declared unanimously that he was unequal

to the duties of the military profession. They referred to the father's

already incipient consumption of the lungs, the germ of which might

develop in the son unless great care were taken, and this son was the

last and sole scion of an ancient line. These considerations at last

prevailed with Count Michael, but he had never yet overcome his regret

at the disappointment of his dearest hopes, especially since Raoul,

when once the critical period was past, had bloomed out in perfect

health and strength. After completing his studies at a German

university he had entered the service of the government, and was at

present in the Foreign Office, where, indeed, on account of his youth,

he occupied a subordinate position.

The general, who had now been in possession of Steinrueck for ten years,

was still faithful to his deceased cousin's traditions, and regularly

spent some weeks there during the hunting season, his military duties

allowing him no more extended leave. His daughter-in-law and his

grandson usually accompanied him upon these visits, when the castle was

thrown open, guests were received, hunts were instituted, and the

desolate old mountain castle resounded with life and gayety for a short

time, after which it relapsed into its usual silence and solitude.

It was the morning after Count Raoul's arrival. He was in his mother's

room, and the pair were engaged in an earnest conversation, the subject

of which, however, appeared to be far from pleasant, for both mother

and son looked annoyed.

Countess Hortense Steinrueck had been a distinguished beauty, and,

mother though she were of a grown son, she was still a very lovely

woman. She perfectly understood how to heighten her beauty by the art

of dress, which did much to conceal her years. There was a charm beyond

that of youth in her intelligent face, with its dark, lively eyes, and

her matronly figure was still extremely graceful.