Raoul was exceedingly like his mother, whose beauty he had inherited;

in his slender youthful figure there was nothing to remind one of his

father or his grandfather, or of the race of Steinruecks. He had a fine

head, crowned with dark curls, a broad brow, and dark, eloquent eyes,

but the fire lying hidden in their depths could leap up in an instant

like a consuming flame, and even in moments of quiet conversation there

was sometimes a hot devouring glow in them. Unquestionable as was the

young Count's beauty, there was something veiled and demonic about it,

which, however, only made it more attractive.

"Then he sent for you yesterday evening?" Hortense said, in a tone of

displeasure. "I knew that a storm was brewing and tried to avert it,

but I did not suppose that it would burst forth on your first evening."

"Yes, my grandfather was extremely ungracious," said Raoul, also in

high displeasure. "He took me to task about my follies as if they had

been state offences. I had confessed all to you, mamma, and hoped for

your advocacy."

"My advocacy?" the Countess repeated, bitterly. "You ought to know how

powerless I am when you are under discussion. What can maternal love

and maternal right avail with a man who is accustomed ruthlessly to

subdue everything to his will, and to break what will not bend? I have

suffered intensely from your father's being so absolutely dependent

that I continue to be so after his death. I have no property of my own,

and this dependence constitutes a fetter that is often galling enough."

"You are wrong, mamma," Raoul interposed. "My grandfather does not

control me through our pecuniary dependence upon him, but by his

personal characteristics. There is something in his eye, in his voice,

that I cannot defy. I can set myself in opposition to all the world,

but not to him."

"Yes, he has schooled you admirably. This is the result of an education

designed to rob me of all influence with you, and to attach you solely

to himself. You are impressed by his tone of command, his imperious

air, while to me they merely represent the tyranny to which I have been

forced to submit ever since my marriage. But it cannot last forever."

She breathed a sigh of relief as she uttered the last words. Raoul made

no reply; he leaned his head on his hand and looked down.

"I wrote you that you would find Hertha and her mother here," the

Countess began again. "I was quite surprised by the change in Hertha;

since we saw her years ago she has developed into a beauty of the first

class. Do you not think so?"

"Yes, she is very beautiful, and thoroughly spoiled,--full of caprices.

I found that out yesterday."

Hortense slightly shrugged her shoulders. "She is conscious of being a

wealthy heiress, and, moreover, she is the only child of a very weak

mother, who has no will of her own. You have a will, however, Raoul,

and will know how to treat your future wife, I do not doubt. Upon this

point I find myself, strangely enough, absolutely in harmony with your

grandfather, who wishes to see you in possession of all the Steinrueck

estates. The income of the elder line is not very large, and little

more was left to your grandfather than a hunting castle, while Hertha,

on the other hand, is heiress to all the other property, and must one

day inherit her mother's very large jointure. Moreover, you and she are

the two last scions of the Steinrueck race, and a union between you two

is everyway desirable."

"Yes, if family considerations alone were in question. You took good

care to impress this upon us when we were but children," Raoul said,

with a tinge of bitterness in his tone that did not escape his mother,

who looked at him in surprise.

"I should suppose that you would have every reason to be satisfied with

this family arrangement. It contents even me, and my aspirations for

you are lofty. You were always seemingly in favor of it. What is it

that clouds your brow to-day? Have you been so displeased by a mere

caprice of Hertha's? I grant that she did not give you a very amiable

reception yesterday, but that should not cause you to hesitate about

entering upon the possession of a lovely wife and, with her, of a large

fortune, which would make you the envy of thousands."

"It is not that, but I dislike resigning my freedom so soon."

"Freedom!" Hortense laughed bitterly. "Do you really dare to utter

that word beneath this roof? Are you not weary of being treated at

twenty-five like a boy for whom every step is prescribed? Of being

scolded if your conduct does not please? Of having to entreat for the

fulfilment of every reasonable desire, and of being obliged to submit

humbly to an autocrat's refusal? Can you hesitate a moment to grasp the

independence offered to you? Next year, according to the will, your

grandfather's guardianship of Hertha is at an end, and she, and her

husband with her, will enter into full possession of what is hers by

right. Liberate yourself, Raoul, and me!"

"Mamma!" said the young Count, with a warning glance towards the door,

but the excited woman went on, more passionately,--

"Yes, and me. For what is my life in this house but a perpetual

struggle, and a perpetual defeat? Hitherto you have had no power to

protect me from the thousand mortifications to which I have been

subjected day after day; now you will have it,--it rests with yourself.

I shall take refuge with you as soon as you are master of your own

house."

Raoul arose with an angry gesture. His mother's passionate eloquence

was not without its effect; it was plain that the picture which she

drew of freedom and independence was very alluring to the young man,

who had just suffered so keenly from his grandfather's severity.

Nevertheless he hesitated to reply, and a struggle was evidently going

on within him.

"You are right, mamma," he said at last, "perfectly right. I do not

object at all, but if the affair is to be precipitated, as would seem

at present----"

"You have every reason to rejoice. I do not understand you, Raoul. I

cannot imagine---- You are not entangled elsewhere?"

"No, no!" exclaimed the young Count, hastily, "nothing of the kind, I

assure you, mamma."

His mother seemed but little relieved by this assertion, and was about

to question him further, when the door was noiselessly opened, and the

Countess's maid said, in an undertone,--

"His Excellency the general."

She had scarcely time to retire when the general appeared. He paused on

the threshold for an instant, and looked inquiringly from mother to

son. "Since when have the laws of etiquette been so strictly observed

in our house?" he asked. "I am to be announced, I see, Hortense."

"I do not know why Marion announced you; she knows that such formality

is quite superfluous."

"Certainly, if it were not ordered; her voice sounded as if raised in

warning."

With these words Steinrueck sat down beside his daughter-in-law,

acknowledging by only a slight nod his grandson's 'good-morning.'

Mother and son had hitherto spoken in French, but now they instantly

had recourse to German; and the general continued: "I came to ask for

an explanation, Hortense. I have just heard that two rooms in the

castle have been prepared for guests by your orders. I thought our

relatives were to be our only guests this year. Whom have you invited?"

"It is only for a brief visit, papa," the Countess explained. "Some

acquaintances of ours have been staying at Wildbad, and on their way

home wish to spend two or three days with us. I heard of their coming

only this morning, or I should have told you."

"Indeed! I should like to know whom you expect."

"Henri de Clermont and his sister."

"I am sorry that I was not consulted about this invitation,--I should

not have allowed it."

"It was given for Raoul's sake, at his particular request."

"No matter for that. I do not wish the Clermonts admitted to our

circle."

Raoul started at this decided expression of disapproval, and his face

flushed darkly. "Excuse me, sir, but Henri and his sister were at our

house several times last winter."

"To see your mother. I have nothing to say with regard to those whom

she personally receives, but this visit to Steinrueck, when we are here

a family party, would betoken a degree of intimacy which I do not

desire, and therefore it must not take place."

"Impossible!" Hortense rejoined, with nervous irritability. "I have

sent the invitation now, and it cannot be recalled."

"Why not? You can write simply that you are not well, and feel quite

unequal to the duties of a hostess."

"That would make us perfectly ridiculous!" exclaimed Raoul. "The

pretext would be seen through immediately; it would be an insult to

Henri and his sister."

"I think so too," Hortense added.

"There I must differ from both of you," the general said, with

emphasis; "and in this case I am the only one to be consulted. It is

for you to recall the invitation as seems to you best. Recalled it must

be, for I will not receive the Clermonts in my castle."

This was said in the commanding tone that always provoked the

passionate woman. She arose angrily. "Am I to be compelled to insult my

son's friends? To be sure they belong to my country, to my people, and

that excludes them from this house. My Love for my home has always been

cast up to me as a reproach, and Raoul's preference for it is regarded

as a crime. Since his father's death he has never been allowed to visit

France; his associates are selected for him as if he were a school-boy;

he hardly dares to correspond with my relatives. But I am weary of this

slavery; at last I will----"

"Raoul, leave the room," Steinrueck interrupted her. He had not risen

from his seat, and he had preserved an unmoved countenance, but a frown

was gathering on his brow.

"Stay, Raoul!" Hortense cried, passionately, "stay with your mother!"

The young Count certainly seemed inclined to espouse his mother's

cause. He walked to her side as if to protect her and to defy his

grandfather, but at this instant the general also arose, and his eyes

flashed. "You heard what I said! Go!"

There was such command in his tone that it put an end to Raoul's

resistance. He found it absolutely impossible to disobey those eyes and

that voice; he hesitated for an instant, but at an imperious gesture

from his grandfather he complied and left the room.

"I do not desire that Raoul should be a witness to these scenes, which

are unfortunately so frequent between us," Steinrueck said, coldly,

turning to his daughter-in-law. "Now we are alone, what have you to

say?"

If anything could irritate the angry woman still more, it was this

cold, grave manner which impressed her as contempt. She was beside

herself with indignation. "I will maintain my rights!" she exclaimed.

"I will rebel against the tyranny that oppresses both my son and

myself. It is an insult to me to compel me to recall my invitation to

the Clermonts, and it shall not be done, let the worst come to the

worst!"

"I advise you, Hortense, not to go so far; you might repent it," the

Count rejoined, and he was no longer self-possessed; his voice sounded

stern and menacing. "If you want the plain truth you shall have it.

Yes, it is of the first importance that Raoul should be withdrawn from

influences and associations which I disapprove for my grandson. I

relied upon Albrecht's repeated solemn assurance that the boy should

have a German education. Upon your brief infrequent visits I could not

satisfy myself upon this point, and unfortunately the lad was schooled

for those visits. Not until after my son's death did I discover that he

had blindly acceded to your will in this matter, and had intentionally

deceived me."

"Would you reproach my husband in his grave?"

"Even there I cannot spare him the reproach with which I should have

heaped him living. He yielded when he never should have yielded. Raoul

was a stranger in his native land, ignorant of its history, of its

customs, of everything that ought to have been dear and sacred to him.

He was rooted deep in foreign soil. The revelation made to me when you

returned with him to my house forced me to interfere, and with energy.

It was high time, if it were not too late."

"I assuredly did not return to your house voluntarily." The Countess's

voice was sharp and bitter. "I would have gone to my brother, but you

laid claim to Raoul, you took him from me by virtue of your

guardianship, and I could not be separated from my child. If I could

have taken him with me----"

"And have made a thorough Montigny of him," Steinrueck completed her

sentence. "It would not have been difficult; there is in him only too

much of you and of yours. I look in vain to find traces of my blood in

the boy, but disown this blood he never shall. You know me in this

regard, and Raoul will learn to know me. Woe be to him if he ever

forgets the name he bears or that he belongs to a German race!"

He spoke in an undertone, but there was so terrible a menace in his

voice that Hortense shuddered. She knew he was in terrible earnest,

and, conscious that she was again defeated in the old conflict, she

took refuge in tears, and burst into a passionate fit of sobbing.

The general was too accustomed to such a termination to a stormy

interview to be surprised; he merely shrugged his shoulders and left

the room. In the next apartment he found Raoul pacing restlessly to and

fro. He paused and stood still upon his grandfather's entrance.

"Go to your mother!" his Excellency said, bitterly. "Let her repeat to

you that I am a tyrant,--a despot who delights in tormenting her and

you. You hear it daily; you are regularly taught to suspect and dislike

me; such teaching bore fruit long since."

Harsh as the words sounded, there was suppressed pain in them,--a pain

reflected in the Count's features. Raoul probably perceived it, for he

cast down his eyes and rejoined in a low tone, "You do me injustice,

grandfather."

"Prove it to me. For once repose in me frank and entire confidence; you

will not repent it. I scolded and threatened yesterday; you have lately

often forced me to do so, but nevertheless you are dear to me, Raoul,

very dear."

The voice, usually so stern and commanding, sounded kindly, nay, even

tender, and was not without its effect upon the young man. Affection

for the grandfather from whom he had been estranged from boyhood

stirred within him. He had always feared him, but at this moment he

felt no fear. "And you too are dear to me, grandfather," he exclaimed.

"Come," said Steinrueck, with a warmth rarely manifested by him, "let us

have a pleasant hour together for once, with no adverse influence to

interfere. Come, Raoul."

He put his arm around his grandson's shoulder, and was drawing him away

with him, when the door was hastily flung open and Marion appeared.

"For heaven's sake, Herr Count, come to the Frau Countess! She is very

unwell, and is asking for you."

Raoul turned in dismay to hasten to his mother, but paused suddenly

upon encountering his grandfather's grave look of entreaty. "Your

mother has one of her nervous attacks," he said, quietly. "You know

them as well as I do, and that there is no cause for anxiety. Come with

me, Raoul."

He still had his arm about the young man, and Raoul seemed to hesitate

for a few moments, then he tried to extricate himself. "Pardon me,

grandfather; my mother is suffering, and asking for me. I cannot leave

her alone now."

"Then go!" Steinrueck exclaimed, harshly, almost thrusting the young man

from him. "I will not keep you from your filial duty. Go to your

mother!"

And, without even another look towards Raoul, he turned and left the

room.

* * * * *

Saint Michael was one of the highest inhabited spots of the

mountain-range. The quiet little Alpine village would have been utterly

secluded had it not possessed a certain significance as a place of

pilgrimage. The single dwellings lay scattered upon the pasture-lands

and mountain-meadows, with the village church and the parsonage in

their midst. Everything was contracted, plain, even shabby; the special

church alone, which was the resort of pilgrims, and which stood upon a

solitary height at a little distance from the village, had an imposing

aspect. It had been founded by the Counts von Steinrueck who had built

this church, now old and gray, on the site of the ancient Saint

Michael's chapel that had once stood here, and they had since often

bestowed gifts upon it and had endowed it. Saint Michael was still the

patron saint of the family to which he had so often given a first name.

Its founder had been called Michael, and the name had been handed down

from generation to generation ever since. Even the Protestant branch of

the family, who had years previously left their ancestral home and

settled in Northern Germany, preserved this ancient tradition, which,

if it had no religious significance for them, still possessed an

historic importance. Thus, the present head of the house was a Count

Michael, and his son and grandson had been christened after him,

although each bore another name by which he was commonly called. The

interior of the church was not very remarkable; it showed the usual

adornment of pictures and gayly-painted statues of the saint, often

very imperfectly executed. But the high altar was an exception; it was

very richly and artistically carved, and the two figures of angels on

the sides of the steps with outspread wings and hands held aloft in

prayer, as if guarding the sacred place, were exquisite examples of

sculpture in wood. They with the altar were a gift from the Steinruecks,

as were the three gothic windows in the altar recess, the costly

stained glass of which glowed in gorgeous colour. The picture above the

altar, however, a large painting, dated from a period of great

simplicity in art. It had grown very dark with age, and was worn in

spots, but its details were still distinctly to be discerned. Saint

Michael, in a long blue robe and flowing mantle, the nimbus around his

head, was distinguished as the warlike angel by a short coat of mail,

but was otherwise of peaceful aspect. His sword of flame in his right

hand and the scales in his left, he was enthroned upon a cloud, and at

his feet crouched Satan, a horned monster with distorted features, and

a body ending in a serpent's tail. Blood-red flames flashed upwards

from the abyss, and a circle of cherubs looked down from above. The

picture was entirely without artistic merit.

"And that is meant to betoken conflict and victory," said Hans Wehlau,

as he stood gazing at the picture. "Saint Michael looks so solemnly

comfortable on his cloud, and quite as if the Evil One below him were

of no consequence; if Satan were wise he would snatch that sword just

above the tip of his nose; that's no way to hold a sword! The saint

ought to swoop from above like an angel, and seize and destroy Satan

like a mighty blast, but he'd better not try flying in that long gown;

and as for his wings, they are quite too small to support him."

"You show a godless want of respect in criticising pictures of saints,"

said Michael, who stood beside him. "You are your father's own son

there."

"Very likely. Do you know I should like to paint a picture of

that?--Saint Michael and the devil, the conflict of light with

darkness. Something might be made of it if a fellow really set himself

to work, and I have a model close at hand."

He turned suddenly, and looked his friend full in the face, in a way

that provoked Michael to say, "What are you thinking of? I surely

have----"

"Nothing angelic about you! No, most certainly not; and among the

heavenly host, hovering in ether in white robes and palm branches, you

would cut a comical figure. But to swoop down upon your enemy with a

flaming sword and put him to rout like your holy namesake would suit

you exactly. Of course you would have to be idealized, for you're far

from handsome, Michael, but you have just what is needed for such a

figure, especially when you are in a rage. At all events, you would

make a much better archangel than that one up there."

"Nonsense!" said Michael, turning to go. "Moreover, you must come now,

Hans, if you mean to walk back to Tannberg. It is four good leagues

away."

"By that tiresome road, which I shall not take. I am going through the

forest; it is nearer."

"Then you will lose your way! You do not know this country as I do."

"Then I will find it again," said Hans, as they walked out of the

church into the open air. "At least I shall not be received in Tannberg

by an angry face. I am glad my father has gone, and I think the whole

household breathes more easily. At the last he hung over us all like a

thunder-cloud; we always had to be prepared for thunder and lightning."

"It was certainly better for him to shorten his stay and go home,"

Michael rejoined, gravely. "Irritable and angry as he was, there was

always danger of a decided breach, which should be avoided at all

hazards. I advised him to return home."

"Yes, you protected me to the best of your ability. You and my aunt

stood beside me like two angels of peace and shielded me with your

wings, but it did not do much good after all, my father was too angry.

You were the only one who could get along with him."

"And so you regularly sent me into action when there was anything to be

done."

"Of course; you risked nothing in the engagement. My father always

treats you with respect, even when you disagree with him. It's odd,--he

never had any respect for me."

"Hans, be sensible; do stop jesting for a while. I should suppose you

had reason enough to be grave."

"Good heavens! what am I to do? I never had the slightest talent for

the part of a grovelling sinner. At least you have contrived to extort

a gracious permission that I should remain in Tannberg while your leave

lasts, and when we go home the storm will have somewhat blown over. But

here is the path; my love to my uncle Valentin. I have, as my father's

son, 'compromised' him again by my visit, but he would have it. _Au

revoir_, Michael."

He waved his hand to his friend and struck into a side-path leading

down the mountain. Michael looked after him until he vanished among the

hemlocks, and then took his way back to the village.

He had been at Saint Michael for several days, and on the previous day

Hans had paid a short visit. It had been a rare and much-desired

gratification for the pastor, who regretted keenly that his nearest

relatives should hold themselves aloof from him. Any intercourse with

his brother, who was a declared opponent of Romanism, was made a

reproach to the priest. The two met only at intervals of years, when

the Professor visited his relatives in Tannberg; and in the fact of

their correspondence might perhaps be found the reason why Valentin

Wehlau was left in a lonely secluded Alpine village, and--forgotten.

Michael, however, had of late years frequently visited his old friend

and teacher, but Lieutenant Rodenberg was an entire new-comer for the

inhabitants of Saint Michael, who scarcely remembered the shy, awkward

boy from the forest lodge,--indeed, they had seldom seen him. He had

been looked upon as a relative of Wolfram's, bearing the forester's

name, and the lodge had long since passed into other hands. Count

Steinrueck had found a better and more profitable situation for his

former huntsman upon one of his ward's estates, perhaps as a reward for

rendered service, perhaps because, upon his visits to his castle, he

did not wish to be reminded by Wolfram's presence of the past. At all

events, the forester had left this part of the country nearly ten years

previously.

When Michael re-entered the parsonage, which he had left half an hour

before in its usual solitude and quiet, he found it in a state of

unusual turmoil. The old servant was bustling about in her kitchen,

among her pots and pans, as if some festival were in preparation. Two

young peasant girls from a neighbouring farm were running to and fro;

the upper rooms were being aired and arranged; the peaceful household

seemed to be turned topsy-turvy, and as Michael entered the study the

sacristan was taking a hurried leave of the priest, with much

importance of mien.

Nothing was changed in the little room; the same monastic simplicity

reigned within it; the whitewashed walls, the huge tiled stove, the

carved crucifix in the corner, even the old pine furniture, were all

the same; time had left them unchanged. Not so their owner.

The pastor had grown much older. Whilst his brother, who was in fact

several years his junior, still preserved his youthful freshness and

vigour, the priest produced the impression of old age. His form was

bent, his face furrowed with wrinkles, his hair white, but the same

mild lustre shone in the eyes which at times made one forget the

weariness and age evident in the man.

"What is the matter, your reverence?" asked Michael, surprised. "The

whole house is astir, and old Katrin is so agitated that she ran away

without answering me."

"We are to have an unexpected visit," replied Valentin,--"a

distinguished guest for whom some preparation is necessary. Scarcely

had you and Hans departed when a messenger arrived with a note from

Countess Steinrueck,--she will be here in a couple of hours."

The young man, who was just about to take a seat, paused in amazement.

"Countess Steinrueck? What can she want here in Saint Michael?"

"To visit the church. The Countess is very pious, and never fails to do

so when she is at the castle. Moreover, our church was endowed by her

family, and owes much to her personally. She visits her husband's grave

almost every year, and always comes here when she does so."

"Is she coming alone?" The question was asked in an agitated tone, in

strong contrast to the priest's quiet reply.

"No; her daughter is coming too, and the necessary attendants. You must

resign the guest-chamber for to-day, Michael. The double drive over the

mountains would be too fatiguing for the ladies; they will stay

overnight, and accept the simple hospitality of the parsonage. I spoke

with the sacristan about a room for you; he will have one ready for you

to occupy until to-morrow."

Michael at first made no reply; he walked to the window and stood with

folded arms looking out. At last, after a long pause, he said, in an

undertone, "I wish I had gone home."

"Why? Because these ladies bear the name of Steinrueck, and you have

chosen to outlaw, to put beyond the pale of your sympathy, all of that

name? How often have I entreated you to rid yourself of this

unchristian hatred!"

"Hatred, do you call it?" the young man asked, in a voice that trembled

slightly.

"What else is it? When you told me the other day of your meeting with

your grandfather, I saw how stubborn and implacable you still were, and

now you extend your ill feeling to the Count's innocent relatives, who

have shown you nothing but kindness. You, to be sure, told me nothing

of your acquaintance with them, but Hans was more communicative. He is

most enthusiastic about the young Countess."

"For as long as he can see her. As soon as we return to town he will

forget all about her. It is his fashion."

The words sounded contemptuous, and so bitter, that Valentin shook his

head disapprovingly. "It is fortunate in this case that it is so," he

rejoined. "It would be sad for Hans to be in earnest, for, apart from

the difference of rank, the hand of the Countess Hertha was disposed of

long ago."

"Disposed of? To whom?" Michael asked, hastily, turning from the

window.

"To Count Raoul Steinrueck, her relative. In their sphere marriages are

usually contracted for family reasons, and this one was thus arranged

years ago. There has been no betrothal as yet, because the Countess

could not bring herself to part with her daughter, but it is to take

place shortly."

The priest had formerly been the Countess's confessor, and was still

perfectly aware of all the family affairs; he mentioned them now as

matters of course, and went on speaking of them in detail, not

observing that his listener seemed thunderstruck. Michael had turned to

the window again, and stood with his face pressed against the pane,

never stirring until Valentin had finished speaking.

"There will be a great deal of disturbance in your house to-day, your

reverence," he said at last, "and I should be sorry to inconvenience

the sacristan. It would be better for me to go to the lodge, and stay

there until to-morrow."

"What are you thinking of?" Valentin exclaimed, in displeasure. "I can

understand the reserve of which Hans accuses you, but this is going too

far."

"The Countess knows nothing of my being here, and if you say nothing

about it----"

"She will learn it through Katrin or the sacristan. A guest is so rare

in my lonely home that it is always discussed by my people; and how am

I to excuse your flight to the Countess?"

"Flight?" the young officer said, angrily.

"She cannot regard it as anything else, since she knows nothing of your

relations with the family."

"You are right," said Michael, drawing a deep breath. "It would be

flight and cowardice. I will stay."

"Yes, you are quite inaccessible to good sense," said Valentin, with a

fleeting smile, "but as soon as flight is mentioned the soldier in you

is astir, forcing you to stand your ground. But I must see after

Katrin; she is quite upset, and will need my aid and counsel."

Michael was left alone. He had tried to go, he had been forced to stay,

and his eyes were bright as they sought the road winding up from the

valley. Flight! The young warrior had indignantly repudiated the word,

and yet for weeks he had been fleeing from a power to which he would

not bow, and which nevertheless threatened to master him. As if it were

in league with the fiend, it made constant assaults, now amid brilliant

social scenes, now here in a lonely Alpine village; just when he

thought it farthest away it suddenly appeared. Again he was to stand

face to face with it, and Michael well knew what that meant; but as he

stood erect, stern, and resolute, prepared for conflict, he did not

look like defeat.

* * * * *

The expected guests arrived in due time, the Countess in a little

mountain wagon intended for such excursions, her daughter having

preferred to travel the road on horseback. A lady's-maid also came in

the wagon, and a mounted servant accompanied the party, which was

originally to have comprised the Countess Hortense, but she was

suffering from one of her nervous attacks, and the mountain drive would

have been too exhausting for her.

Immediately upon their arrival the ladies performed their devotions in

the church, and a solemn mass was appointed for the next morning.

In the afternoon the pastor, with his two younger guests, sauntered

through the village. The Countess, who felt fatigued, remained in the

parsonage, and Michael had been compelled to walk with the priest and

the Countess Hertha, since the young lady, accustomed to rule those

about her with sovereign sway, had required him to do so in a tone that

was not to be gainsaid. It was in the middle of September, but the day

had been unusually warm. The heat made itself felt even at this

altitude: the temperature was sultry and oppressive. The pasture-lands

around Saint Michael were bathed in the sunlight, and the skies were

still clear, but mists hovered restlessly about the mountain-ranges,

and dark clouds began to gather above their summits, now darkly veiled,

and anon gleaming clear and distinct.

"I fear we are going to have a storm this evening," said Valentin.

"This has been like a day in midsummer."

"Yes, we felt it so as we were coming up the mountain," said Hertha.

"Do you think that we ought to be arranging for our return?"

"No," replied Michael, scanning the mountains, "when the clouds gather,

as now, over there above the Eagle ridge, they will hang for hours

about the rocks before the storm comes, and then it is apt to take its

course down the valley and leave us untouched. But there will be a

storm. Saint Michael's flaming sword is flashing there."

He pointed to the Eagle ridge, where in fact it was lightening, faintly

and in the distance, but still unmistakably.

"Saint Michael's flaming sword?" Hertha repeated, inquiringly.

"Certainly; do you not know the popular superstition so wide-spread in

these mountains?"

"No; I have never been here except for a few weeks at a time, and know

nothing of the people."

"Their belief is that the lightning is the sword of the avenging

archangel flashing from the skies, and that the storms, which often

enough do mischief in the valleys, are punishments wrought by him."

"Saint Michael loves storm and flame," said Hertha, smiling. "I have

always felt very proud that the leader of the heavenly host, the mighty

angel of war and battle, is the patron saint of our family. You bear

his name, too; it is my uncle Steinrueck's."

Valentin cast an anxious glance at his former pupil, but Michael looked

quite unmoved, and replied, composedly, "Yes--by chance."

"The saint's day is close at hand," the young Countess observed to the

priest. "The church will be thronged then, will it not, your

reverence?"

"The inhabitants of all the surrounding villages visit the church on

that day; but our chief church festival comes in May, upon the day when

the saint's appearance took place. Then the entire population of these

mountains flocks hither from the most distant heights and the most

secluded valleys, so that church and village can scarcely contain the

crowds. The legend is that on that day Saint Michael, although

invisible, descends from the Eagle ridge and ploughs the earth with his

flaming sword as he did visibly centuries ago, when his shrine was

founded here."

As he uttered the last words they paused before a wayside crucifix

rising solitary from the green meadow and facing towards the Eagle

ridge. A wild rosebush wreathed about the base of the cross, almost

concealing the wood-work, and its thick, luxuriant shoots were woven

about the sacred image like a living frame; its time for blooming had

long since passed, but the warm, sunny autumn days had lured forth a

few late buds, not fragrant and rich in colour like their sisters of

the plain, but pale, wild mountain-roses, which, blooming to-day, are

torn by the wind to-morrow, and yet they gleamed pink amid the dark

green like a last greeting from departing summer.

A peasant lad approached, hat in hand and rather timidly; he had a

message for his reverence, whom he had been seeking in the village. His

mother was very sick, and was fain to see his reverence; the house was

very near, hardly two hundred paces distant, and if his reverence could

spare a few minutes the sick woman would be very grateful and much

comforted.

"I must go with Hies," said Valentin. "I leave the Countess in your

charge, Michael; if she wishes to return to the parsonage----"

"No, your reverence, we will await you here," Hertha interrupted him.

"This view of the Eagle ridge is so magnificent!"

"I shall be back again shortly," the priest rejoined, inclining his

head courteously, as he turned away with Hies, and walked to a small

house near by, within the door of which he vanished.

The unexpected _tete-a--tete_--the first they had ever had since they

had known each other--seemed to embarrass the pair thus left alone, for

their animated conversation was suddenly arrested.

Saint Michael, as it lay before Hertha and her companion, looked

like the most secluded of highland valleys, so embedded was it in the

green Alps that surrounded it. There was but one distant view, and it

might well vie with all others,--that of the Eagle ridge. The mighty

range of rocks rising there in gloomy majesty commanded the landscape,

and towered above all the surrounding summits; dark pine forests

clothed its sides, and its depths hid savage abysses, down which

mountain-torrents tumbled with a roar faintly audible in the clear air.

The summit of the ridge indeed, with its naked, jagged peaks and its

sheer precipices, seemed inaccessible for mortal man; those peaks

soared to dizzy heights, and the highest of them all, the Eagle's head,

wore a crown of glaciers that glittered in icy splendour, its giant

wings, on each side, seeming to shelter the little hamlet of Saint

Michael lying at its feet. The ridge was rightly named; it did, indeed,

bear a resemblance to an eagle with outstretched wings.

The silence lasted some time, and was at last broken by Hertha.

"According to the legend, then, the archangel descends from that peak."

"With the first ray of the morning sun," replied Michael. "The sun

rises there above the ridge. The people cling with unswerving fidelity

to their time-hallowed beliefs, and will not relinquish their spring

festivals and their worship of the sun. He is the ancient god of light,

who either blesses or curses mankind; who mutters in the thunder, and

then again ploughs the earth with his flaming sword that the spring may

bring forth fresh life and beauty; the Church has clothed him in the

shining mail of the archangel."

"That sounds very heretical," the young Countess said, reproachfully.

"Do not let his reverence or my mother hear you. It is easy to see that

you were brought up beneath Professor Wehlau's roof. Was he an early

friend of your father's?"

Michael bowed his head as if in assent. The Professor had insisted upon

this concession from him from the first, as it put a stop to all

annoying conjecture, and had quite satisfied even Hans himself.

"You lost your father very early?"

"Yes, very early."

"And your mother too?"

"And my mother too."

There was evident distress in his tone, and Hertha, perceiving that she

had unconsciously touched some sore spot, hastened to remove the

impression by saying, "I, too, was a mere child when my father died. I

have but a dim remembrance of him, and of the love and tenderness which

he lavished upon me. Where did you live with your parents?"

The young man's lip quivered, and there was bitterness in his heart as

he remembered his childhood, with its lack of love and tenderness. The

disgrace and misery which he had but half understood had nevertheless

stamped themselves upon the boy's memory, and were still vividly

present with the man after the lapse of twenty years. "My childhood was

far from happy," he said, evasively. "There was so little in it that

could possibly interest you that I should be sorry to annoy you with an

account of it."

"But it does interest me," Hertha said, eagerly. "I do not mean,

however, to be importunate; and if my sympathy annoys you----"

"Your sympathy! with me?" Michael suddenly broke forth, and then paused

as suddenly; but what his lips did not utter his eyes said clearly, as

he gazed as if spell-bound at the young Countess, whose beauty was

certainly not dependent upon dress. She had been bewitchingly lovely in

silk and lace, in the brilliant light of the chandeliers, and to-day,

in her simple, close-fitting, dark-blue riding-habit, she was even

lovelier. Beneath the little hat, with its blue veil, the golden braids

gleamed through the thin tissue, and the eyes beamed brightly. There

was something unusual in her air to-day; she seemed released from the

petty conventional code of the brilliant circle in which she was wont

to move, and as if breathed upon by the mighty mountain world around

her, and this lent her a new and dangerous charm.

"Well?" she said, smiling, without noticing Michael's sudden pause. "I

am waiting."

"For what?"

"For the account of your childhood, which you have not yet given me."

"Nor can I give it you, for I can relate nothing of home or of parental

affection. I have grown up among strangers, I owe everything to

strangers, and, kindly and generously as it was bestowed, I still feel

it as a debt which would crush me to the earth had I not vowed to

myself to pay it by my entire future. At last I have taken the helm

into my own hands, and can steer out into the open sea."

"And can you trust that sea, with its winds and waves?"

"Yes. Trust the sea and it will carry you safely. Of one thing I am

sure, however: I shall never drift ashore on a half-shattered wreck,

thankful to escape with mere life. No, I will either steer my vessel

into port or go to the bottom with it."

He stood erect as he uttered the last words with resolute emphasis.

Hertha looked at him in surprise, and suddenly said, "Strange,--how

like you are at this moment to my uncle Steinrueck."

"I? to the general?"

"Extremely like him."

"That must be an illusion," Michael rejoined, coldly. "I regret having

to disclaim the honour of a resemblance to his Excellency, but none can

possibly exist."

"Certainly not; you have not a feature in common; the likeness lies in

the expression, and now it has vanished again. But at that moment you

had the general's eyes, his air, even his voice. It really startled

me."

Her eyes still rested upon his countenance, as if she were expecting a

reply; but Michael turned somewhat aside, and said, changing the

conversation, "The prospect is growing more and more veiled; we shall

soon be surrounded by clouds."

The weather did, in fact, look more threatening; the sun had begun to

set, but his rays were struggling with the mists floating up

everywhere, as if some leader of a mighty host had sounded his

trumpet-call, heard of the whole vast mountain world, and the

cloud-phantoms were rising on all sides to obey the summons, some with

slow majesty, some in desperate haste. Up from the deeps and abysses

soared the mist unceasingly, like a white veil, noiseless and

ghost-like, sweeping up over the forests, leaving a fluttering pennon

here and there amidst the tops of the pines, and then soaring aloft

again. From each side across the gray Alps single clouds came trooping,

followed by huge masses, all rolling towards the Eagle ridge, where

they gathered ever darker and more threatening.

The meadows upon which lay Saint Michael soon looked like an island in

the midst of a billowy, swelling sea, the waves of which rose higher

each minute. There it gleamed white, like the foam of dashing, leaping

breakers, and there it lay gray and formless as in shade, while high

above on the peaks of the ridge, still lit by the sunlight, golden,

shimmering mists were sailing, shot by strange, quivering rays. A

gleaming magic veil was woven about the rocky head and the glacier

crown; they stood half veiled, half revealed in the golden atmosphere.

But at their feet the storm was gathering thick, and now the first dull

thunder rolled, seeming to come from the very depths of the mountains,

and dying rumbling in the distance.

The air had hitherto been quiet; now the wind began to rise. The young

Countess's veil fluttered aloft and caught in a hanging branch of the

wild-rose bush, from which she vainly tried to extricate it. The thorns

held their prey fast, and Rodenberg, who came to her aid, must have

been rather awkward, for the band of her hat slipped and the hat fell

off. Michael, who was stooping to disentangle the delicate tissue,

shrank suddenly and dropped his hand, for close before his eyes gleamed

uncovered the thick braids, the 'red fairy gold.'

"Have you scratched your hand?" asked Hertha, noticing his start.

"No!" He plunged his hand into the thorny tangle and pulled away both

hat and veil; but the thorns revenged themselves: the veil was torn,

and a few drops of blood trickled from the young man's hand.

"Thank you," said Hertha, taking her hat from him; "but you are a rash

assistant. How wrong to plunge your hand in among the thorns! It is

bleeding."

There was real commiseration in her tone, but the reply was all the

colder. "It is not worth mentioning; it is the merest scratch."

He took out his handkerchief and pressed it upon the tiny wounds as he

glanced impatiently towards the little house, where the priest yet

lingered. His visit there seemed to be endless, and the rack here must

be tasted to the last.

The young girl perhaps suspected his agony, but she did not feel called

upon to abbreviate it. The spoiled, petted beauty felt it as an offence

that this man should dare to defy a power which she had so often

exerted over others. He had recognized its might, as she had long since

perceived; he had not approached her with impunity, and yet here he

stood with that impregnable reserve, that haughty brow, which would not

bow. He must be punished!

"I should like to ask you a question, Lieutenant Rodenberg," she began

again. "My mother reproached you awhile ago--I heard her--with never

having accepted her invitation."

"I have already apologized to Madame the Countess. We have been quite

absorbed lately by a family matter, which was indeed the cause of the

Professor's departure. When I return from Saint Michael----"

"You will find some other excuse," Hertha interposed. "You do not

_wish_ to come."

Michael's face flushed, but he avoided meeting the eyes that sought

his; he looked across to the Eagle ridge. "You take that for granted

with a strange degree of certainty, Countess Steinrueck, and,

nevertheless, you wish me to come."

"I only wish for an explanation of what keeps you away from us. You

have saved my own and my mother's life, and you reject our gratitude in

a way that is inexplicable to us if we refuse to consider it insulting.

With a stranger we should never waste a word upon the subject. To one

to whom we owe so much we may well put the question, 'What is there

between us? What have we done to you?'"

The words had a gentle, half-veiled sound, but several seconds passed

before the reply came. Michael's gaze was still riveted upon the rocky

summits; he knew that storm-clouds were gathering around them, but he

saw only the golden mist, the gleaming magic veil; he heard the roll of

the thunder that sounded nearer and nearer, but he heeded only that

low, reproachful 'What have we done to you?'

"You shame me," he said at last, with a final attempt to preserve a

tone of cool courtesy. "The slight service that I did you required no

gratitude; you have always overrated it."

"Again you evade me; you are a master of the art," the young girl

exclaimed, with an expression of extreme impatience. "But I will not

release you from replying; I must know the truth at last."

"And what if I should not comply with your command, for such it

certainly seems to be?"

"It rests with you, of course, to refuse to do so; but it was no

command, only a request, which I now repeat: 'What have we done to you?

Why do you avoid us?'"

A smile played about her lips, the enchanting smile usually so

irresistible, but now without effect. Rodenberg looked her full in the

face, and said, harshly, "You know why, Countess Steinrueck,--you have

long known."

"I?"

"Yes, you, Hertha; you know your power only too well; and now you drive

me to extremes, and leave me no means of escape. So be it,--I am at

your disposal!"

Amazed, almost dismayed, Hertha looked up at him; she was quite

unprepared for this turn of affairs; she had pictured her moment of

triumph very differently. "I do not understand you, Lieutenant

Rodenberg," said she. "What does this strange language mean,--something

it would seem allied to hatred?"

"Hatred?" he broke forth. "Would you add sarcasm to your trifling? You

have never for an instant been ignorant that I love you."

It sounded strange enough, this confession of love, uttered in a voice

in which indignation and passion strove for the mastery, and with eyes

in which there was no tenderness, but a menacing gleam: the emotion

did, indeed, seem allied to hatred.

"And is this the way in which to woo?--to seek a woman's love?" asked

Hertha, indignantly, while a secret dread, hitherto unknown to her,

stirred in her heart.

"Woo?" he repeated, with extreme bitterness. "No, it is not; such

wooing would hardly be allowed me,--a young, insignificant officer with

a bourgeois name, owning nothing save himself and perhaps some hope for

the future. It would soon be made clear to me, and that after a

ruthless fashion, that I must not dare to lift my eyes to the Countess

Steinrueck; that her hand has long been promised to another who, like

herself, wears a coronet."

Hertha bit her lip; the reproof went home,--such assuredly would have

been the conclusion of the affair. It had never occurred to the young

Countess Steinrueck to do more than trifle with the bourgeois officer,

but yet she felt disgraced by the discovery that she had been seen

through from the beginning.

"You do not seem to perceive how insulting your words are," she said,

haughtily, "nor how offensive is this confession----"

"Which, nevertheless, you insisted upon hearing," he interrupted her.

"Listen, then! I will not deny to you what cannot, indeed, be denied. I

will confront my fate, for it has come upon me like a fate. Yes, I have

loved you, Hertha, from the first moment of seeing you, and if I could

have hoped for your love in return the coronet of the Steinruecks would

not have deterred me for an instant. If my bliss were as far above me

and as unattainable as the Eagle ridge there, I would scale the heights

though every step threatened ruin. I would snatch it to my arms in

spite of all the world! But I was warned, warned by a child, who once

cozened from me my Alpine roses, to play with them for a while and then

to pluck them wantonly to pieces. Those are the same golden curls,

the same beautiful, evil eyes,--I knew them the first moment that we

met,--but never again shall those lips say to me with contempt, 'Go

away, I do not like you any more! I am tired of playing.' Those words

have rung in my ears through all the bewitching music of your voice.

The boy chose to have his flowers perish in the flames rather than

leave them in your grasp, and the man will crush and annihilate his

love, even though a part of his life dies with it,--it never shall be a

plaything in your hands!"

Hertha had grown deadly pale; no one had ever before dared thus to

insult her, to hurl the truth so recklessly and unsparingly in her

face; but what did this man whom she had driven to extremity care

whether she were offended or not? The tempest which she herself had

evoked raged about her; she could no longer restrain its fury. She saw

this clearly as Michael stood before her all aflame and overwhelmed her

with this strange mixture of love and hatred. His every fibre vibrated

with intense passion, and yet he struggled against it with a force that

would not succumb. He was conquered, not subdued.

"You will please release me, Lieutenant Rodenberg, from listening

further to such words as these," the young Countess said at last,

summoning up all her self-possession. "I will go and meet his

reverence."

"No need to do so. I am going," said Michael; his voice was low but

firm. "I am aware that hereafter we can have nothing to say to each

other. Farewell, Countess Steinrueck."

He bowed and went. Hertha did not see which way he turned, nor did she

perceive that the priest was approaching. She stood motionless.

The wind was rising; the sprays of the wild rosebush waved and

fluttered above her head, the sea of clouds swelled and rolled nearer

and nearer, while the misty breakers seemed ready to descend in floods

upon the pastures. The transfiguring glow above the Eagle ridge had

faded, the golden phantoms had vanished: heavy gray masses of mist were

swimming there now; they sank lower and lower, and joined the dark

clouds below that were suddenly torn asunder, and with a quivering,

jagged flash it leaped forth,--the flaming sword of Saint Michael!

* * * * *

The storm passed down into the valleys in full force, and there, after

the lightning had flashed and the thunder had rolled for an hour, it

ended in a pouring rain.

Through the dripping forest strode a young man whom the tempest had

overtaken. If Hans Wehlau had followed his friend's advice and pursued

the tiresome mountain-road, he would long since have reached Tannberg,

but he lost his way in the romantic forest, and struck into a path that

led him far away from his goal. A projecting rock afforded him some

shelter, but now, when it was growing dark and the rain was still

pouring, he had no choice save either to pass the night in the wet

forest, or to march on in hopes of finding a charcoal-burner's hut or

some other shelter for the night, and he decided upon the latter

course.

At last the thick, close forest came to an end, and the young man, as

he emerged upon a clearing, saw at some distance a feeble ray of light.

The darkness and mist did not allow of his discovering what kind of

structure it was that lay before him upon a wooded height and

projecting only here and there from among the trees, but there

certainly were human beings living there, and thither, accordingly, the

young man directed his steps.

The path leading up the height seemed to be in a very neglected

condition. Hans stuck fast several times in the swampy soil, and had to

cross first a brook that ran directly across the path, and then a

ruinous wooden bridge, and at last to pass through a gateway, where

only the stone pillars on either side were standing, the gate itself

being lacking. An apparently extensive building with walls and towers,

but in a ruinous condition, lay before the young man, but it had now

become very dark, so that it was with difficulty that, guided by the

ray of light he had first seen, he found a little closed door directly

beneath the lighted window.

He knocked, at first gently, then louder and more persistently; after

the lapse of a few minutes the window above was opened, and a hoarse

voice asked who was there.

"A stranger who has lost his way and begs for shelter for the night."

"I have no shelter for vagabonds and tramps. Be off immediately!"

"This is an amiable reception," exclaimed Hans, indignantly. "I am

neither a vagabond nor a tramp, but a respectable man, and quite ready

to pay for my night's lodging."

"Pay? In the Ebersburg!" came from above just as indignantly. "This is

no tavern; go to where you came from."

"That I shall certainly not do, for I came out of a rain-spout, and

have utterly lost my way in the forest. How can you leave a man

standing outside in such a storm and refuse to let him in? Open the

door!"

"No!" said the hoarse voice, evidently provoked. "Stay outside!"

"Deuce take it, my patience is exhausted!" cried the young man,

angrily, as a fresh fall of rain wetted him to the skin. "Open the

door, or I will break it down and take the old barracks by storm."

And he began to beat at the door with his fists. What he had been

unable to procure by courteous means this change of manner effected;

his violence evidently impressed the invisible guardian of the place,

for after a few seconds his voice spoke in a much gentler tone, "Who

are you, and what do you want?"

"I am at present a thoroughly drenched individual, and I want only to

be dried. Moreover, I am qualified to give the most satisfactory

explanations, if desired, with regard to my station, name, age, origin,

home, family, and so forth."

"You are a man of family, then?"

"Of course I am. Every man must have a family."

"I mean noble family."

"Of course. Now open the door."

"Wait; I'll come," sounded encouragingly from above, and instantly the

window was closed and the ray of light vanished.

"One has to be examined as to his pedigree before he is admitted here,

it seems," said Hans to himself, crowding up against the door to escape

the rain. "No matter. I should not mind in the least appropriating a

coronet if it would procure me a dry lodging for the night. Thank God,

they are opening the door at last!"

In fact, a key was turned and a bolt drawn on the inside; the door then

opened, and an old man appeared, leaning upon a cane with his right

hand, and holding a lamp high in his left.

His figure was lean and bent, but it must once have been tall and well

formed. The parchment-coloured skin, with its thousand lines and

wrinkles, made the face almost that of a mummy; the eyes were dim, and

from beneath a black cap a few straggling white locks stole forth. His

short walk seemed to have fatigued the old Herr, for he leaned more

heavily upon his cane, and coughed, while he lighted his guest into the

house.

"I beg pardon for my rude persistence, but I was really almost

drowned," said Hans, with a bow, that sent the drops flying in all

directions. "Have I the honour of seeing the master of the house?"

"Udo, Freiherr of Eberstein-Ortenau upon the Ebersburg," was the reply,

delivered with great solemnity. "And you, sir?"

"Hans Wehlau Wehlenberg upon the Forschungstein," was the equally

solemn rejoinder.

The name seemed to please the old gentleman; he inclined his head and

said, with dignity, "You are welcome, Herr Hans Wehlau Wehlenberg.

Follow me."

He carefully closed and locked the door again, and then preceded his

guest to show him the way. They first passed through a hall, the roof

of which seemed to be defective, for the rain had left traces

everywhere on the floor. Then they ascended a narrow, steep staircase,

the stone steps of which were much worn, then traversed a seemingly

endless passage, where their footsteps on the tiles echoed loudly, and

in which the lamp carried by the lord of the castle was the only light.

At last he opened a door and entered with Hans. "Make use of this

apartment," he said, putting the lamp upon a table. "The storm has

disarranged your dress, I see. I will leave you while you change it,

and shall expect you at supper; until then, farewell, Herr von Wehlau

Wehlenberg."

He waved his hand with an air of knightly courtesy and was gone. Hans

looked about him: the room was small, dark, and very scantily

furnished. The large canopied bed in one corner seemed the sole relic

of former grandeur, but its fine carving was shabby and worn, the

silken hangings were frayed, and the sheets were of the coarsest linen.

"The best thing to do would be to go to bed as quickly as possible,"

said Hans to himself, as he made arrangements for drying his clothes

near the stove; "but since this Freiherr von Eberstein-Ortenau has

invited me to supper, I must put in an appearance. Where shall I get

dry clothes? Perhaps I may find here somewhere an old suit of armour or

a mediaeval mantle that I can don. I think it would produce an

impression if I should walk into the ancestral hall clad in mail. Let

me see."

He began to search, and soon found a cupboard in the wall, unlocked,

which seemed to contain the entire modest wardrobe of the lord of the

castle. Hans took possession, without compunction, of the best articles

in it, and had scarcely finished dressing when an old woman with a

kerchief tied round her head appeared, and in the broadest mountain

patois summoned 'the Herr Baron' to supper.

"Only baron! I ought to have made myself a count at least," said Hans

to himself, as he obeyed the summons, following the old servant, who

conducted him to a room which seemed to be drawing-room and dining-room

combined.

At the first glance it presented a stately aspect, but it was a strange

mixture of former splendour and present decay. The walls were covered

with fine wainscoting, but the ceiling was rudely whitewashed, and the

tiled stove was of a very common description. The same contrast

appeared in the furniture: high-backed oaken chairs stood around a

coarse pine table, articles of the meanest earthenware were ranged upon

a richly-carved corner cupboard, and the fine old pointed arched

window, the same whence had issued the ray of light seen by the

wanderer, was curtained with flowered chintz.

"I must ask forgiveness for my presumption," said Hans, addressing the

master of the castle, who was seated in an arm-chair. "My dress was in

so disordered a state that, relying upon your kindness, I appropriated

this coat."

He certainly did look oddly enough in the old-fashioned garb, but

withal so handsome, with his cheeks reddened by the keen mountain air,

and his curls still wet with the rain, that a smile hovered upon the

old Freiherr's thin lips, and he replied, kindly, "I am glad you found

what you wanted in my wardrobe. Sit down; I wish to ask you a

question."

"Now comes the examination as to pedigree," thought Hans, and he was

not mistaken; his host went straight to the point.

"Hans Wehlau Wehlenberg; that sounds well," he continued. "But the name

of your estate is rather uncommon. Where is the Forschungstein

situated?"

"In Northern Germany, Herr Baron," replied Hans, without the quiver of

an eyelash.

"I thought so, since I do not know it. I am thoroughly acquainted with

all the Southern German families of rank and their estates. My own

family is one of the most ancient. It dates from the tenth century,

according to historic proof, and is probably much older. I suppose

there are no families so old as that in Northern Germany?"

He was evidently about to question his guest as to his genealogical

tree; but Hans, with great skill, frustrated his intent by asking a

question himself. "Pray, whom does this picture represent? It struck me

as soon as I entered." And he pointed to a painting upon the opposite

wall. It was the half-length portrait of a man of about forty, with

dark hair, brilliant dark eyes, and nobly-formed regular features,

which did not, however, express any high degree of intelligence. The

dress, apparently a uniform, was partly concealed by a cloak, and the

portrait was certainly modern. As the lord of the castle turned to look

at it he seemed utterly to forget pedigrees and centuries, and asked,

eagerly, "Do you like the picture?"

"Extremely! What a handsome head! and admirably painted too. An

Eberstein of course?"

The old gentleman looked half flattered, half displeased, as he

replied, slowly, "Yes, an Eberstein. You do not recognize him, then?"

Hans started; he glanced first at the portrait, and then at the

shrunken figure before him, with its wrinkled features and weary eyes.

"It cannot--is it your own portrait, Herr Baron?"

"It is mine, and thirty years ago it was said to be extremely like. I

take no offence at your not recognizing it; I am but an old ruin, like

my Ebersburg."

The words sounded so infinitely sad that Hans made haste to try to

console the old man. "But I distinctly recognize the features now," he

said. "There was something familiar to me in them from the first, but I

took the picture for a likeness of one of your sons."

"I have no sons," Eberstein rejoined, sadly; "my race perishes with me,

for my first marriage was childless, and my second brought me only a

daughter. I cannot imagine where Gerlinda is. I must call her." He

thereupon arose with difficulty, and hobbled to the closed door of the

next apartment.

"Gerlinda von Eberstein,--ugh!" Hans said to himself. "It sounds like a

drawbridge and portcullis. A mediaeval chatelaine, I suppose; and as the

father is over seventy the daughter must be at least forty; at all

events I need not be shy about presenting myself before her in this

costume."

He looked towards the door, although with a very moderate degree of

curiosity, but he suddenly arose as if electrified, for what appeared

upon the threshold in no wise answered his expectations.

There stood before him a very young girl in a plain, gray stuff gown,

her dark hair simply parted, and braided at the back of her head. The

child-like face was rather pale, but, if not regularly beautiful, was

exquisitely lovely. The eyes were cast down, and were veiled by dark,

drooping lashes. The Freiherr must have married for the second time

very late in life, for his daughter was at the most but sixteen years

old.

"Hans, Freiherr von Wehlau Wehlenberg of Forschungstein, my daughter

Gerlinda;" the lord of the castle made the introduction with all due

solemnity. Hans was so surprised that he bowed low twice, which

salutation the young girl returned by an extremely stiff inclination,

something between a courtesy and a nod. Then, with eyes still downcast,

she took her place at the table, where a cold supper was set forth, and

the very frugal meal began.

The old Freiherr was loquacious, and talked incessantly with the guest,

who had won his heart by admiring the portrait, but Fraeulein Gerlinda

was very taciturn. She fulfilled quietly and attentively all her duties

as hostess, but maintained a perfectly stiff wooden demeanor, and met

with a persistent silence all Hans Wehlau's attempts to converse with

her. Her father replied in her stead to the young man's remarks, and

her face was as immovable as if she heard not a word.

"The poor child seems to be deaf and dumb," Hans said to himself. "It

is a pity, for her face is lovely. I wish she would lift her eyes for a

moment."

He made a last attempt to induce her to speak by asking her directly

how long she had lived upon the Ebersburg, and whether it was not very

lonely here in winter, but her father again replied in her stead: "We

live here all the year round, and my daughter has been used to this

solitude from her earliest childhood. I have given my consent, however,

to her shortly spending a few days at Steinrueck, at the urgent

invitation of the Countess, who is her godmother. You are acquainted

with the Countess Steinrueck?"

"I have that honour."

"An old family, but full two hundred years younger than mine," the old

man remarked, with much complacency. "The founder of their race is

first spoken of in the Crusades; unfortunately, there is a blot on

their scutcheon, a _mesalliance_ of the worst description, dating about

thirty years ago; until then the family records were stainless."

"Ancient as the Crusades, and to be overtaken by such a misfortune in

the nineteenth century!" Hans exclaimed, with an indignant expression

that won him a nod of approval from his host.

"A misfortune indeed! You are perfectly right, and seem to have a

lively appreciation of rank and position which it pleases me extremely

to see. Yes, Count Michael has recovered from the blow. I never could

have done so; it would have crushed me to the earth, for my escutcheon

is stainless, absolutely stainless!"

He began a long heraldic dissertation upon the aforesaid escutcheon, in

which he played with the centuries and with the comparatively modern

race of Steinruecks as if they were but babies in arms. Hans paid very

little attention; he was racking his brain with conjectures as to

whether Fraeulein Gerlinda von Eberstein were really a deaf-mute or not;

and so absorbed was he that the Freiherr at last noticed his absent

manner, and asked him if he were listening.

"Of course; so stainless a pedigree cannot but excite my admiration.

The Eberstein-Ortenaus, then----"

"Have borne that double name since the fourteenth century," the

Freiherr completed the young man's sentence. "Gerlinda, child, tell our

guest how it occurred."

Fraeulein Gerlinda clasped her hands upon the table, without raising her

eyes, and, with a face as expressionless as ever, she suddenly, to the

guest's dismay, began to speak, or rather to rattle off after the

manner of a child repeating a lesson learned by rote: "In the year

thirteen hundred and seventy a feud arose between Kunrad von Eberstein

and Balduin von Ortenau, because the hand of Hildegund of Ortenau had

been refused to the Knight Kunrad of Eberstein, and the Ebersburg, as

well as the fortress of Ortenau, was sacked several times, until, in

the year thirteen hundred and seventy-one, the Knight Balduin was taken

prisoner by the Ebersteiners and thrown into the castle dungeon, where

at last he consented to the union of Hildegund with Kunrad, which union

was celebrated with great pomp in the year thirteen hundred and

seventy-two, and in consequence, in the year thirteen hundred and

eighty-six, upon the death of the Knight Balduin, the fortress of

Ortenau and the lands belonging to it came into the possession

of the lords of Eberstein, who since then have borne the name of

Eberstein-Ortenau."

"Wonderful!" said Hans, who was really thunderstruck at this

performance of the supposed deaf-mute. He could not understand where

she got the breath for her long speech; he had lost his with simply

listening.

"Yes, my Gerlinda is well versed in the history of our house," said the

Freiherr, triumphantly. "She remembers it even better than I do, for my

memory is beginning to fail me. Yesterday she corrected me in a date,

when I was speaking of the enfeoffment of Udo von Eberstein. You

remember, my child?"

As if the hitherto motionless pendulum of a clock had been set going by

this question, Fraeulein Gerlinda started off again and told a much

longer story, this time from the fifteenth century, about a certain

Eberstein who in a certain battle had saved the Emperor's life and had

been by him endowed with a certain castle. All the hard names and the

numerous dates fell from her lips with the greatest fluency and

certainty, but with a monotony of intonation that reminded one of the

clapper of a mill, the more so as her speech came to a pause as

suddenly as it began. Hans involuntarily pushed back his chair a

little, the whole scene partook of the supernatural. The Freiherr,

however, who received this as an expression of admiration, seemed

inclined to initiate him still further into the chronicles of his race,

when the old clock in the corner struck the hour of nine.

"Nine o'clock already," said Eberstein, as he rose from his chair. "We

live very regularly, Herr von Wehlau, and are wont to retire at this

hour, a custom which I doubt not your fatiguing ramble in the forest

will make grateful to you. I wish you a calm and refreshing night in

the Ebersburg."

"That was terrible!" said Hans, with a sigh, when he found himself

alone in his sleeping-room in the old castle. "That old man of the

tenth century, and that little chatelaine whom I took for deaf and

dumb, and who chatters out the old chronicles like a magpie, have

nearly turned my brain. I am completely mediaeval, and have become

extremely exclusive since I have been Hans Wehlau Wehlenberg of the

Forschungstein."

Thereupon he went to bed, and dreamed that the old Freiherr was going

through all Northern Germany with a lantern to find the Forschungstein,

and that Fraeulein Gerlinda, disguised as a magpie, was fluttering

beside him, chattering incessantly about Kunrad von Eberstein and

Hildegund von Ortenau; and when they could not find the Forschungstein,

they seated themselves in the branches of their genealogical tree and

ascended with it up, up and away into the tenth century, and a very

imposing spectacle it was.

When Hans waked the next morning the sun was shining brightly into his

room, and his clothes were sufficiently dry to be donned. It was still

very early, and no one seemed to be stirring in the house: so he

resolved to inspect by daylight the house, which he had reached in

darkness and storm. He issued from his room into the long corridor,

which was lit by a narrow window, and without much difficulty succeeded

in finding the winding staircase with the worn steps, by which he

descended into the front hall and thence into the open air.

Undoubtedly the Ebersburg had formerly been a strong and stately

castle, perhaps destroyed and rebuilt several times in the course of

centuries. Now it was but a ruin. The greater part of it had fallen to

decay, and all that was left of the once solid masonry seemed tottering

to its fall. In the castle court-yard the grass grew luxuriantly, and

an entire generation of bushes and small trees had sprung up, making

the place an actual thicket. From the roof of the old watch-tower,

which was still apparently in repair, green grasses were nodding, and

rooks were flying in and out of the window openings. Fragments of

masonry were lying about, with here and there remains of the ancient

apartments.

The only wing still standing, that which was now inhabited by the

Freiherr, presented a dreary aspect. The ruins were at least

picturesque, but the attempts to patch up this part of the castle only

brought into stronger relief the decay of the building. The crumbling

masonry had been coarsely whitewashed, the missing doors and windows

had been replaced in the rudest fashion, and where the rooms were not

used boards had been nailed over the apertures. The magnificent old

balcony had been supplied with a thatched roof, and the broad stone

steps of the entrance hall had been replaced by wooden ones.

Hans Wehlau's artist's eye was outraged by this sight, and he turned

again to the ruins, forcing his way through the green thicket in the

court-yard, and at last, through an opening in the wall that might once

have been a gate-way, he emerged upon the former castle terrace. Here,

however, his wanderings were stayed, for from the lower story of the

watch-tower, apparently used as a stable, there issued a joyous

bleating, and immediately afterwards a goat came leaping through the

door-way into the open air, followed by Fraeulein Gerlinda, dressed, in

spite of the earliness of the hour, in the gray dress of the evening

before, and carrying carefully in both hands a small wooden milk-vessel

filled to the brim.

This unexpected encounter astonished both the young people. Gerlinda

stood as if rooted to the spot, and the guest could not but divine that

Fraeulein von Eberstein, with her long line of ancestry dating from the

tenth century, had milked the goat with her own high-born hands that

there might be milk for breakfast. Her evident dismay embarrassed Hans

too, so that he could not utter any fitting phrase, but bowed in

silence. Fortunately, the goat comprehended the annoying nature of the

situation, and put an end to it by merrily leaping up upon the stranger

and then rubbing so affectionately against her young mistress that the

vessel in her hands was shaken and part of the milk was spilled.

This was a happy interruption of the pause of embarrassment; Hans made

haste to take the milk, which Gerlinda allowed him to do, saying

gently, by way of excuse, "Muckerl is so glad to get out into the air."

"Thank heaven she can utter something besides mediaeval chronicles!"

thought Hans, enchanted with her remark. He expressed his pleasure in

Muckerl's liveliness, asked exact information as to her age and state

of health, and meanwhile placed the milk in safety by setting the

vessel down upon a projection of the wall, for Muckerl was scanning him

with a highly critical air, and seemed rather inclined to repeat her

charge at him; the next moment, however, thinking better of it, she

turned her attention to the luxuriant grass that covered the ground.

The view from the Ebersburg was not an extensive one; the castle lay

secluded in a deep hollow of the valley, and the mountains rising on

all sides were thickly wooded, but the old ruin nestled among delicious

green, the tree-tops rustled gently in the morning air, and the birds

twittered among them.

The morning sun lay broad upon the ancient castle terrace. Here all

around, to be sure, were ruin and decay, but vigorous, luxuriant life

was striving compassionately to conceal the desolation. There were

broad breaches in the wall bounding the terrace, but wild shrubs and

bushes grew there, forming a living breastwork; the huge watch-tower,

where the rooks were flying in and out of the windows, was wreathed

round with thick dark-green ivy; amid the gray fragments of stone lying

about were nestling tender mosses, and vigorous wild vines were

trailing everywhere. Upon every stone, from every crack in the walls,

hardy plants were springing and thrusting themselves forth, while over

everything brooded the deep, dreamy stillness of early morning.

In the midst of these relics of vanished splendour the last scion of

the Ebersteins, in her gray Cinderella costume, stood leaning against

the wall. All the primness and stiffness of the previous evening had

vanished; the young girl was evidently confused at finding herself

alone with the stranger guest, and looked up at him with the expression

of a frightened child. Thus for the first time he could see her

eyes,--a pair of beautiful brown eyes, soft and shy as those of a

gazelle; they were in perfect harmony with the lovely face.

The silence lasted some time; Hans was so taken up with gazing into the

eyes that were at last unveiled for him that he forgot to resume the

conversation, and when he did so at last, it was in a purely mechanical

way, as he involuntarily continued the subject of the previous evening.

"I have just been inspecting the Ebersburg," he began. "It must once

have been a stately pile, which could give its enemies enough to do,

and at the time of the feud, when Kunrad von Ortenau and Hildegund von

Eberstein--no, I have transposed their names."

His mention of the names was unfortunate; as soon as Fraeulein Gerlinda

heard of the middle ages she became as prim and stiff as an image of

wood; her long eyelashes drooped, as did her head, and she began in the

old monotone, "Kunrad von Eberstein and Hildegund von Ortenau, in the

year of our Lord----"

"Yes, yes, Fraeulein Gerlinda, I remember all about it;" Hans

interrupted her in dismay. "Through your kindness I am thoroughly well

informed as to the chronicles of your family. I merely meant to remark

that a residence in this old mountain stronghold must be very

monotonous. You make a great sacrifice to your father in staying here.

A young lady longs to be abroad in the world, to enjoy life."

Gerlinda shook her head in dissent, and suddenly opened her mouth to

say, with all the infallible wisdom of a philosopher of seventy, "The

world and life are worth nothing!"

"Nothing?" asked the young man, surprised. "Where did you learn to be

so sure of that?"

"My papa says so," Gerlinda replied, with much solemnity. Evidently her

father's utterances were those of an oracle to her. "The world grows

worse with each century, and now shows abundant signs of final

annihilation, since the nobility no longer receive the homage due

them."

Her eyes were again stubbornly downcast, and she spoke in a tone that

vividly recalled to her hearer his dream. His lips twitched oddly, but

he contrived to say, quite seriously, "Yes, the nobility. But there are

some other men beside them in the world."

Fraeulein Gerlinda looked surprised; she seemed to mistrust this fact

and apparently reflected profoundly, remarking at last, as the result

of her reflections, "Yes, of course,--the peasants."

"True. And we cannot utterly dispute the existence of even other

classes of human beings. Literary men, for instance, artists, in whose

ranks I belong----"

Fraeulein Gerlinda opened wide her brown eyes and repeated, "Among the

artists?"

"Absolutely," Hans said to himself, quite forgetting his elevated rank,

"she thinks me a mediaeval specimen too;" and he added, aloud,

"Assuredly, Fraeulein Gerlinda, I occupy myself with art, and flatter

myself that I have attained a degree of proficiency in it."

The young lady seemed to think such an occupation very derogatory.

Fortunately, she recalled the fact that a certain Eberstein, in a

certain century, had taken up with astrology, and that partly explained

Herr Wehlau Wehlenberg's extraordinary tastes, but she nevertheless

felt herself called upon to repeat to him a saying of her father's: "My

papa says that a man of an ancient, noble line ought to make no

concessions to the present; it is beneath his dignity."

"That is the Herr Baron's opinion," said Hans, with a shrug. "He seems

to have been so entirely secluded from the world that he has lost all

sympathy with it; others of his rank, however, feel very differently.

Look, for example, at the Counts von Steinrueck, whose family is just as

old as yours."

"Two hundred years younger," Gerlinda interrupted him, indignantly.

"Quite right; full two hundred years. I remember their ancestors are

first met with in the Crusades, while yours date from the eighth

century."

"From the tenth."

"Certainly, from the tenth! It was a slip of the tongue; I meant, of

course, from the tenth century. But to return to the Steinruecks: Count

Michael is a general in command; his son was, I think, attached to our

embassy in Paris; his grandson has some official position. They are all

men of the present, and would hardly coincide with your father in

opinion; and you, too, will differ from him when you have seen

something of life and the world."

"I do not want to see anything of them," Gerlinda said, softly and

timidly. "I am afraid of them."

Hans smiled; he drew a step nearer, and bent down towards the girl; his

voice sounded sweet and tender, as if he were speaking to a child.

"That is very natural; you live here in such seclusion, in a fairy

world, long since faded from reality, like the palace of the Sleeping

Beauty in the fairy-tale. But some time the day will come when the

hawthorn hedges will part asunder, and the green walls open, a day when

you will awaken from your enchanted sleep; and believe me, Fraeulein

Gerlinda, your eyes will open then not upon the dust and mould of

centuries, but upon the warm, golden sunshine that floods our present

age, in spite of all its conflicts and trials. Ah, you will learn to

love it all."

Gerlinda listened in silence, but a faint, happy smile playing about

her lips betrayed her knowledge of the story of the Sleeping Beauty.

She slowly raised her eyes, only for an instant, and dropped them

hastily; that which shone upon her in the young man's gaze might

perhaps be a ray of the light he had promised her; she suddenly flushed

crimson and turned hastily away.

Muckerl certainly was a very intelligent goat, for she had quietly

continued to browse, only glancing gravely now and then towards the

pair, and appearing on the whole quite satisfied with the course of the

conversation. But the matter now must have begun to look grave to her,

for she suddenly left her breakfast and ran to her young mistress,

beside whom she placed herself, as if on guard.

"I believe--I ought to go back to the castle," said Gerlinda, scarcely

audibly.

"Already?" asked Hans, who had not observed that half an hour had been

consumed in talk.

They set out together, Hans carrying the milk, Fraeulein Gerlinda beside

him, and Muckerl following, gravely nodding her head from time to time.

The affair evidently had a suspicious look to her,--why had the two

suddenly fallen silent?

An hour later Hans stood at the foot of the Ebersburg. He had taken

leave of the Freiherr and of his daughter without laying aside his

incognito, for fear of causing the old gentleman unnecessary annoyance.

What mattered it that the Freiherr should continue to regard him as a

'mediaeval specimen'? The adventure was at an end; it was not likely

that he should ever again see the Ebersburg.

He glanced up once more at the gray pile, taking a last look at the

sunny castle-terrace, and the much-lauded present to which he was now

returning seemed terribly prosaic compared with the fairy-tale that he

had dreamed up there in the midst of the green waving forest, in those

ancient ruin? where all around was blooming fair and fresh, with the

little Dornroeschen who had retired to her solitude, and was dreaming of

the knight who was to break through the hedge and waken the Sleeping

Beauty with a kiss from her magic slumber. The young fellow suppressed

a sigh, and said, half aloud, as he turned away, "After all, it is a

pity that I am not really Hans Wehlau Wehlenberg of the

Forschungstein."

* * * * *

A gay company was assembled at Steinrueck, in thorough enjoyment of the

hunting season, and of the long sunny autumn days. No one was invited

to make a long visit, however, save Gerlinda von Eberstein, who had

arrived some days since; but each day new guests made their appearance

and others departed. Hertha and Raoul Steinrueck usually formed the

centre of this brilliant society. It had long been known that the two

were destined for each other, and that the announcement of the

betrothal would probably soon take place; therefore when the general

issued invitations for a large entertainment every one knew that it

would be the occasion for this public announcement.

The evening was at hand, and the entire castle was filled with the

activity wont to precede some important festivity. Servants were

running to and fro, here and there decorations were being completed,

and the reception-rooms were already a blaze of light.

The family, with the exception of Gerlinda and Hertha, had just entered

these rooms. Count Steinrueck, with the widowed Countess on his arm,

looked unusually cheerful: to-day was to bring him the fulfilment of

his dearest wish; the betrothal of the last two scions of his house was

to be celebrated at their ancestral castle, and thus the prosperity of

his line was assured,--all the Steinrueck possessions would be united

under one master.

Hortense, who followed him leaning on her son's arm, also looked

proudly content. In her rich and tasteful toilette, and by the

artificial light, she looked very beautiful, and far outshone her

cousin; that pale, delicate woman was indeed cast into the shade. Raoul

was gay and good-humoured; a cloud now and then darkened his brow for a

moment, but it quickly vanished, and he lavished the tenderest

attentions upon his mother.

"We limited the invitations as much as possible," said Hortense, as she

looked through the lighted apartments, "and yet there will scarcely be

room for our guests. That is the worst of these old mountain castles,

that have no large ball-room and no extended suite of rooms; it is

impossible to give an entertainment in them!"

"They were not built for any such purpose," said the general, quietly.

"They were intended for a home within, and for protection and defence

without. They certainly do not conform to modern requirements, least of

all to yours, Hortense; you never loved Steinrueck."

"In that respect I perfectly agree with mamma," Raoul interposed. "What

delights me here is the hunting in these mountain forests. The castle

itself, with its dim, confined rooms, its endless, echoing corridors,

and its steep, dark staircases, always seems to me like a prison. I

breathe a sigh of relief when I escape from it."

"You seem entirely to forget that this ancient pile is the cradle of

your race, and as such should be dear and sacred to you even if it lay

in ruins," said the general, with some acerbity.

Raoul bit his lip at this very distinct reproof. "Pardon me,

grandfather, I have all due reverence for our ancestral home, but I

cannot possibly think it beautiful. Now, if it were the cheerful sunny

castle in Provence, with its Eden-like surroundings, its past so rich

in legend and in song, where long ago I used----"

"You mean the castle of Montigny?" Steinrueck interrupted him, in a tone

which admonished the young Count to desist.

His mother, however, went on in his stead: "Certainly, papa, he means

my lovely sunny home. You can understand that it is as dear to us as

yours is to you."

"Us?" the general repeated, in a tone of cold inquiry. "You should

speak only for yourself, Hortense. I think it very natural that you

should be attached to your paternal home, but Raoul is a Steinrueck, and

has nothing to do with Provence. His attachment belongs to his

fatherland."

The words sounded half like a threat, and Hortense, irritated, seemed

about to reply angrily, when the Countess, her cousin, who perfectly

understood the state of feeling in the family, quickly changed the

subject. "Our young ladies seem to be late," she remarked. "I begged

Hertha to help Gerlinda a little with her toilette; the poor child has

not the least idea of how she ought to look."

"The little demoiselle seems to be of a very limited capacity," Raoul

said, sarcastically. "She is usually as silent as the tombs of her

ancestors, but as soon as you touch the historic spring, she begins to

chatter like a parrot, and a whole century comes rattling down upon you

with terrific names and endless dates; it, really is fearful."

"And yet you are always the one to induce Gerlinda to make herself thus

ridiculous," the Countess said, reproachfully. "She is much too

inexperienced and simple-hearted to suspect a sneer beneath your

immense courtesy and extravagant admiration of her acquirements. Can

you not leave her in peace?"

"She really provokes ridicule," Hortense interposed. "Good heavens,

what toilettes! and what curtsies! And then when she opens her mouth!

You must forgive me, my dear Marianne, but it is almost impossible to

introduce your _protegee_ into society."

"That is not the poor child's fault," said Marianne. "She was so

unfortunate as to lose her mother when she was very little; she has

seen nothing of the world, has known no one except her father, and he,

in his eccentricity, has absolutely done everything in his power to

make the girl unfit for social intercourse."

"I admire your patience, Marianne, in still having anything to do with

Eberstein," said Steinrueck, "I went to see him once, long ago, because

I pitied him in his isolation, but I think he told me six times in the

course of my visit that his family was two centuries older than mine,

and there was no getting a sensible word out of him. He seems now to

have become almost childish."

"He is old and ill, and it is a hard fate to pine away in poverty and

loneliness," the Countess said, gently. "Since he was forced by his

gout to retire from the army, he has nothing to live upon save his

pension and the old ruins of the Ebersburg. If he could only be

persuaded to let Gerlinda leave him for a while, I should like to take

her to Berkheim, or to the city, where we shall spend some time this

winter; but I suppose it will be impossible to induce him to spare

her."

"Selfish old fool!" said the general. "What is to become of the poor

child when he closes his eyes? But our young ladies are indeed late; it

is time that they were here."

This was true, but no exigencies of the toilette had caused the delay.

Hertha was in her room entirely dressed; she had dismissed her maid,

and was standing before her mirror gazing steadily into its depths. She

might have been supposed to be lost in the contemplation of her own

beauty, but her eyes had a strange dreamy look in them, and evidently

saw nothing of the image before them; they were gazing abroad into

space.

The door was softly opened, and Gerlinda appeared. The two young girls

had always been much together whenever the family were at Steinrueck,

but there was not the slightest intimacy between them. Gerlinda looked

up with timid admiration to the brilliant Hertha, who accorded the girl

at most a compassionate toleration, and at times even ridiculed her

unmercifully. To-day, too, the 'little demoiselle' gazed at the young

Countess with admiration, devoid of the slightest envy of Hertha's

bridal loveliness, as she stood before the mirror dressed in white

satin falling in soft folds about her perfect figure. A single white

rose in her hair was its sole ornament, and a bunch of half-opened buds

lay on her dressing-table.

"How beautiful you are!" said Gerlinda, involuntarily.

The young Countess turned with a smile, which, however, was not one of

gratified vanity. "I can return the compliment," she replied. "You look

most lovely to-night."

The young girl no longer wore the gray Cinderella gown: the Countess

had taken care that her god-child should be suitably attired on this

occasion; but Gerlinda was evidently oppressed by her unwonted

splendour. Perhaps, too, she felt how unsuited she was to this

brilliant circle, and this made her still more shy. She stood before

Hertha, timid and embarrassed, scarcely daring to raise her eyes.

"Only you must not stand in that ridiculously prim attitude," said

Hertha. "On that lonely Ebersburg you absolutely forget how to move

about among people. You see no one there but your father, and perhaps

the peasants of the village where you attend mass."

Gerlinda was silent and hung her head. No one? She thought of the guest

who had arrived in the storm and rain and had departed in the sunshine;

but she had never mentioned him hitherto, although his coming had been

a great event in her lonely life. An involuntary shyness closed her

lips; least of all could she have spoken of it here and now. The memory

of the sunny morning dream in the ruinous old castle was not for the

ear of the young lady who could so coolly tutor and criticise her

little friend.

Hertha turned away, and as she did so she accidentally brushed from her

dressing-table her bouquet, without noticing its fall. Gerlinda picked

it up.

"Thanks," said Hertha, indifferently, as she took the flowers. They

seemed to have been but loosely put together, for one of the roses had

become detached from its sister buds and lay directly at the feet of

the young Countess, who looked down at it with a rather strange

expression. Perhaps she was thinking of that other evening when just

such a fragrant half-opened bud had fallen from her hand, only to

perish beneath the tread of an iron heel.

"Let it alone," she said, as Gerlinda was about to stoop again. "What

does a single rose matter? I have enough here."

"But it is your lover's gift," said the young girl.

"I am going to carry these this evening, and Raoul cannot ask anything

more. If the formal congratulations were only over! It is so deadly

tiresome to listen to the same thing from everybody, and to have to

respond to all those conventional phrases. I am not at all in the mood

for it to-night."

The words sounded impatient, and there was nervous impatience in the

way in which she began to pace the room to and fro. Gerlinda's eyes,

opening wide with amazement, followed the proud, queenly figure in the

trailing satin robe; she could not understand how a girl at her

betrothal should not be in the mood to receive congratulations, and she

asked, naively, "Do you not like Count Raoul?"

Hertha paused suddenly. "That's an odd question. What put it into your

head? Certainly I like him; we have been brought up for each other. I

knew when I was a child that he was to be my husband. He is handsome,

gallant, amiable, my equal in name and rank; why should I not like him?

I suppose you think that there ought to be in a marriage of to-day all

the romance of your old chronicles, where the lover had to fight and

struggle for his bride. You told us such a story yesterday about some

Gertrudis----"

"Gertrudis von Eberstein and Dietrich Fernbacher," Gerlinda hastily

began, as if the name had been a cue. "But she could not marry him,

because he was not of knightly descent, but only the son of a

merchant."

"She could not?" said Hertha, tossing her head. "Perhaps she would not;

probably she felt a repugnance at the idea of exchanging the ancient

name of her race for that of a wealthy tradesman. Can't you understand

that, Gerlinda? What would you do if, for example, you loved a man

beneath you in rank?"

"It would be dreadful!" said the little demoiselle, with all the horror

natural to an offshoot of the tenth century, adding, with entire

conviction in her tone, "My papa says that could not happen."

"But it has happened, and in your own race. How did the affair end? did

your ancestress give up her Dietrich?"

Poor Gerlinda was not in the least aware that she was continually the

butt of Hertha's and Raoul's sarcasm, and that they were always

inducing her to make herself ridiculous. She was desirous of showing

her gratitude for the hospitality extended to her, and she supposed in

her ignorance and innocence that every one at Steinrueck was interested

in the stories which to her were so vastly important. So she clasped

her hands gravely, and began to recite, in her usual manner, an extract

from her family chronicles, which did not on this occasion end with a

happy marriage, as in the case of Kunrad von Eberstein and Hildegund

von Ortenau, but with a parting. The story was long, and there was an

endless succession of the noble names and the dates which Raoul found

so terrible, but the young Countess was not in a mocking mood to-day.

She had gone to the window, and stood there motionless, looking out,

until Gerlinda concluded: "And so Gertrudis was married to the noble

lord of Ringstetten, and Dietrich Fernbacher went on a crusade against

the infidels and never returned."

"And never returned,--never!" Hertha's lips uttered the words softly

and dreamily, while again the strange expression appeared in her eyes

which seemed to be gazing at something in the far distance, beyond the

mist and gloom that veiled the landscape outside.

There was a long silence, which Gerlinda hardly dared to break; but at

last she said, gently, "Hertha, I think it is time."