He paused. "Fraeulein von Eberstein?"

"Are you not very slightly related to the Freiherr Friedrich Wehlenberg

of Bernewitz? A very distant relative, I mean."

"Not the most distant connection. I invented in a hurry a name that

sounded like my own, and I never dreamed that it belonged to any one in

reality."

"Then papa never will forgive you," Gerlinda declared in a tone of

despair. "You can never come again to the Ebersburg."

"Do you, then, still wish me to come?" asked Hans.

She was silent, but her eyes filled with tears, and this disarmed the

young man's irritation. It was not the poor child's fault that she had

been brought up so ridiculously. He slowly approached her again, and

said, gently, "Are you very angry with me for my foolish jest? I meant

no harm."

Gerlinda did not reply, but she allowed him to take her hand, and she

listened as he went on in the same tone: "Herr von Eberstein is greatly

attached, I know, to his family traditions, and no one could require

him, at his age, to resign what has been life to him for so long; he

belongs, body and soul, to the past. But you, Fraeulein von Eberstein,

are just entering upon life, and in the nineteenth century we must

adapt ourselves to the spirit of the age and see things as they are. Do

you remember what I said to you on the castle terrace?"

"Yes," was the scarcely audible reply.

Hans leaned towards her, and his voice had the same cordial, sincere

tone as on that sunny morning. "Around you, too, prejudices and

traditions have grown like a thorny hedge, tall and dense. Would you

dream away existence behind it? Perhaps a time will come when you will

have to make a choice between a dead past and a bright sunlit future:

should that time ever come, choose well!"

He carried the trembling little hand, still lying in his own, to his

lips, and several moments passed before he released it; then he bowed

and left the room.

The Countess Steinrueck was conversing with Herr von Montigny when

Gerlinda at last rejoined her. The Marquis expressed his pleasure in

his nephew's betrothal with apparent sincerity. He was enthusiastic

also in his admiration of Hertha, who had evidently fascinated him, as

she had every one else upon this evening, and he understood well how to

clothe his admiration in flattering phrases. When at last he took his

leave to join his sister, the Countess turned to the young girl: "Where

have you been for so long, my child? I lost sight of you. I suppose you

have been sitting alone in some corner. Will you never learn to be like

other young girls in society?"

She looked compassionately at her _protegee_, who was wont to receive

such reproaches in timid silence, but who now, to the Countess's

amazement, replied, with an air of great wisdom,--

"Yes, dear godmother, I will try to learn, for in the nineteenth

century we must adapt ourselves to the spirit of the age and see things

as they are."

Meanwhile, the Marquis de Montigny had found his sister sitting in an

adjoining room engaged in lively talk with Frau von Nerac, in which

Henri de Clermont took quite as lively a part. Both ladies seemed much

entertained, and were laughing at his sallies, when Montigny approached

the group.

"Ah, here you are, Leon!" the Countess called out to him. "No need to

present our compatriots to you,--you have seen them at the embassy."

The glances of the two men encountered each other. Clermont's eyes

gleamed for an instant with a look of hatred, but he bowed courteously;

Montigny returned his greeting coolly as he said, "Oh, yes, we know one

another."

He turned then to Frau von Nerac, to whom also he paid his respects

courteously; but there must have been something in his manner offensive

to the young widow, for her eyes flashed, although an amiable smile

played about her lips.

"Of course we know one another," she repeated. "We had the pleasure of

a visit from the Marquis the day before yesterday."

"And you never mentioned it to me when I spoke of Frau von Nerac

yesterday," said Hortense, in some surprise.

"I was not fortunate enough to see Madame de Nerac," Montigny replied,

with a degree of coldness which struck even his sister. "My visit was

paid to her brother, with whom I wished to arrange a matter of some

importance. You have not forgotten my request, Herr von Clermont?"

Henri's hand trembled slightly as he leaned upon the cushion of the

lounge where he was sitting, but he replied, calmly, "No, Herr Marquis;

such things are not easily forgotten."

"I am glad to hear you say so. I may rely upon it, then, that the

matter will be adjusted as we decided. Take my arm, Hortense; supper is

served."

He offered his arm to his sister, inclined his head to Frau von Nerac,

and led the Countess away. As they left the room Henri leaned towards

the young widow, and said in a whisper, which did not, however, conceal

his agitation, "What do you mean, Heloise? You know why Montigny paid

that visit, you heard the whole conversation from the antechamber, and

yet you ventured to allude to his coming!"

Heloise's lip curled contemptuously, but she replied, also in a

whisper, "You seem very much afraid of this Montigny."

"And you are rash enough to irritate him. You surely understood what he

said as well as I did, and you know that he threatened----"

"That which he never will carry out."

Henri glanced around the room: it was quite empty; every one had gone

to supper. Nevertheless, he still spoke in a whisper as he said, "Do

you forget that we are in his power? He has but to speak the word----"

"He dare not speak it; it would cost him too dear. He who ruins us

ruins himself also, and brings to light what there is every reason for

concealing. You are a fool, Henri, to be frightened by such threats.

Montigny must be silent; he risks his own position if he assault ours.

He never would be forgiven for speaking out."

"No matter for that, he can do us an injury at the embassy; he can

deprive us of our standing there, and it is uncertain enough already.

We must yield, at least in appearance, and forego Raoul's visits for

the present."

"Do you suppose that he will forego them?" asked Heloise.

"That is for you to decide. You have only to say what will send him

away, for a time at least, and this you must do."

"At the bidding of Herr von Montigny? Never!"

"Heloise, be reasonable,--you must make a sacrifice of your personal

feeling. I am sure I set you the example."

"Indeed you do! I never would have submitted to what you endured at

Montigny's hands."

"Do you think I shall forget it?" asked Clermont, with an evil look. "I

bide my time. The day of reckoning will come. But let us go in to

supper; it will excite remark if we isolate ourselves thus. One thing

more: young Wehlau is to present to you his adopted brother, Captain

Rodenberg."

"Indeed," said Heloise, with indifference, rising and taking her

brother's arm, as he added, significantly,--

"One of the general's staff."

"Ah, indeed!"

"See that you persuade him to come with Wehlau, when the latter calls

upon us. I rely upon you, Heloise."

The pair sauntered arm in arm towards the supper-room, where all the

guests were assembled.

* * * * *

Hans Wehlau, prudently avoiding another encounter with his father, had

joined Michael, and was listening, with apparent interest, to what the

latter had to say.

"You have seen her and talked with her then?" asked Hans.

"Seen her?--yes; talked with her?--no. The Countess presented me to

Fraeulein von Eberstein, but I received no reply to my remarks, save an

extraordinary courtesy. She is almost a child,--far too young to be

introduced into society."

"A girl of sixteen is no longer a child," said Hans, irritably. "And

how did you like her altogether?"

"She has a lovely little face. To be sure, I have not seen her

eyes,--she held them obstinately downcast,--and I really have not heard

her speak at all. The little chatelaine, as you call her, seems to

possess rather a limited capacity."

The young artist bestowed upon his friend a glance of sovereign

contempt. "Michael, I always doubted your taste, and now I doubt your

judgment. 'Limited capacity!' Let me tell you, Gerlinda von Eberstein

is cleverer than all the rest put together."

"That is a bold assertion," said Michael. "You seem very much provoked

by any unfavourable word with regard to the young lady. Have you lost

your heart again? How many times does this make?"

"Nothing of the sort this time; my interest in this lovely, childlike

creature is entirely disinterested."

"Indeed?"

"Michael, I will not have you speak in that tone," declared Hans, with

irritation. "But I am quite forgetting that Clermont asked me to

present you to Frau von Nerac."

"Clermont? Ah, yes, the young Frenchman at whose house you have been

visiting so often this winter. You asked me once to go there with you,

I remember."

"And you refused, as usual."

"Because I have neither the time nor the inclination to extend my

circle of acquaintances, at least not this year. It is very different

with you; you are an artist. Have you known this Clermont long?"

"No, only this last winter, and he very politely invited me to his

house. He and his sister have several times asked me to induce you to

accompany me."

Rodenberg looked surprised. "Me? That is strange; they do not know me

at all."

"No matter for that; they asked it out of politeness. Moreover, you

will find the young widow very interesting, perhaps even dangerous."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, of course not for you. Your icy nature never melts, even in

presence of the lovely Countess Steinrueck, and Heloise von Nerac cannot

be called beautiful; nevertheless she might prove the fair Hertha's

successful rival in a certain quarter. I once hinted to you that Count

Raoul was hardly loyal to his betrothed; he frequents Clermont's house

daily."

"And you think that Frau von Nerac is the attraction?" asked Michael,

becoming attentive.

"Apparently. The Count certainly is more devoted to her than is

consistent with his duty as a betrothed man. How far the affair has

gone of course I cannot---- Hush, there he is!"

In fact, Raoul was just passing where they stood, and, although he had

but a slight acquaintance with Hans Wehlau, he stopped and addressed

him cordially. And whilst he talked with the young artist,

complimenting him upon the very successful entertainment of the

evening, he so persistently ignored Captain Rodenberg, who stood close

by, that his intention was evident. Michael took no part in the

conversation, but when the Count turned away, he looked after him in a

way which caused Hans hastily and as if in sudden alarm to lay his hand

upon his arm, saying, "You will not attach any importance to his

rudeness? There is a feud between you and Steinrueck----"

"Which found expression just now after a very childish fashion,"

Michael completed the sentence. "Count Raoul must be taught that I do

not allow myself to be so treated."

"What do you intend to do?" said Hans, uneasily; but there was no time

for a reply, for they had encountered Clermont and his sister, to whom

he presented his friend.

The brother and sister received the captain with great courtesy, and

Henri left him to talk with Frau von Nerac, while he entered into

conversation with Hans with regard to a picture upon an opposite wall,

pronouncing an opinion with which the young artist disagreed. A lively

discussion between the two ensued, in the course of which they walked

across the room to examine the picture more closely, leaving Frau von

Nerac to bestow her entire attention upon Rodenberg.

Their conversation turned at first upon the assembled guests, and the

young widow, looking towards Hertha, who was the centre of an admiring

group, said, "Countess Steinrueck is indeed a brilliant beauty! The

entire assemblage is at her feet, and she receives its homage with the

air of a princess to whom such tribute is due. She will surely rule her

future husband supremely."

"The question is whether the husband will submit to her sway," observed

Rodenberg.

"A husband always submits to the sway of a beautiful and beloved wife.

You, indeed, seem unaccustomed to submit."

"Only because I am quieter and graver than most men; even where a

beautiful woman is concerned, I do not easily lose my head. I am

ignorant of Count Steinrueck's views in this respect. You know him

intimately, madame?"

"He is a friend of my brother's, and I naturally see him often."

The answer sounded as innocent as did the question, but there was

something like dawning mistrust in the look which encountered Michael's

cool observant gaze. It lasted but for an instant, and then Heloise

began with a smile to talk of something else.

She talked well and fluently, and Michael, although he spoke French

with ease if not with elegance, contented himself with listening. All

manner of subjects were touched upon, politics, the news of the day,

art, and society. Frau von Nerac was evidently a mistress of the art of

conversation.

Rodenberg had perceived at the first glance that she was not beautiful,

but at the end of five minutes he comprehended that she did not need

beauty to be dangerous; there was something intoxicating in her mere

proximity. She leaned back in her chair with a grace all her own as she

toyed with her fan, presenting a picture to which the most tasteful of

toilets added a charm. Her smile was bewitching, and the gleam in her

dark eyes was wont to work like a spell. Unfortunately, Captain

Rodenberg seemed quite insensible to this charm; as often as the

brilliant eyes met his they encountered the same cold, scrutinizing

glance, and Heloise knew well that it expressed no admiration.

At last Clermont and Hans finished their discussion and approached the

others. For a few moments the conversation was general, and then the

two young men took their leave, and Henri again seated himself beside

his sister.

"Well, what about Rodenberg?" he asked. "So far as I could hear, he was

extremely monosyllabic. You did almost all the talking. I suppose he is

a clumsy, pedantic German."

Heloise gave a scarcely perceptible shrug. "Give that man up, Henri,

once for all; he is as stolid and inaccessible as a rock."

"No one is absolutely inaccessible; all must be besieged on the right

side, and it is just these stolid natures that are most easily

captured."

"You are mistaken here. There is something in the air and expression of

this Rodenberg that reminds me constantly of General Steinrueck. He has

the iron, inexorable look--that cold, keen gaze--of the old Count. I

cannot endure him!"

"He is of great importance to me," said Henri. "Did you ask him to the

house?"

"No; he would not come if I were to do so; and if by any chance he did

come, it would be to observe, to watch, as he has just done all the

while I have been talking. I have no fancy for encountering those eyes

again. Be on your guard with him, Henri!"

Clermont did not seem to attach much importance to this warning, for he

saw that Heloise was out of sorts, and he knew why she was so. She

could not endure to be cast into the shade by another, and on this

evening all lesser lights paled before the day-star of Hertha's beauty.

The young Countess Steinrueck was enjoying a triumph that might well

satisfy the most extravagant vanity. Wherever she turned she

encountered looks of admiration; all thronged about her to offer her a

homage which she received graciously but haughtily.

Raoul scarcely left her side. He seemed to-night to be fully conscious

of the value of the prize which had fallen to his share so easily, and

the old love for his cousin, dating from his boyhood, flamed up afresh.

It was one of those crises when one loving glance from Hertha's eyes,

one cordial word from her lips, might perhaps have delivered him from

those other fetters, and have won him back to his betrothed,--bridging

over the gulf which each day yawned more widely between them. But there

was a cold reserve, imperceptible to strangers, in her demeanour

towards him which cut him to the soul, chilling all warmth of feeling

and awakening his antagonism.

For the moment the young Countess was not in the reception-rooms, but

in Frau von Reval's dressing-room. Like all who had taken part in the

tableaux, she had retained her costume; the veil that floated over her

shoulders had become disarranged; Frau von Reval's maid was fastening

it afresh. It was soon adjusted, and the maid dismissed; but Hertha,

instead of returning to the reception-rooms, sat motionless in an

arm-chair, gazing dreamily into space.

Frau von Reval's dressing-room was one of a suite of rooms quite

removed from those used for entertaining, and upon this evening the

entire range of apartments upon this side of the house was deserted,

and but dimly lighted,--a quiet, agreeable refuge for any one wishing

to withdraw for a few minutes from the heat and turmoil of the

drawing-rooms. The young Countess seemed, indeed, weary, worn out with

conquest and homage.

Yes, the evening had been one long triumph for her. All had bowed

before the victorious power of her beauty,--all save one. One alone had

dared to defy her; he only had retained sufficient strength of will in

the tempest of passion to break the meshes of the net thrown around

him, and go on his way free from all bondage. Had he not greeted her

to-night as coldly and formally, complimented her with as conventional

a courtesy, as if that hour at Saint Michael were forgotten,

obliterated from his memory?

All the more vividly did it live in Hertha's remembrance. Her anger

stirred afresh as she thought how this man had dared to tell her to her

face that he knew her to be a coquette, that he would root out from his

heart, like some vile weed, his love for her. But, in the midst of her

indignation, a voice within her whispered that he was right. Yes, she

had played a reckless game with him. It was the result of the

waywardness of a nature spoiled by fortune, trained by a weak mother to

disregard all save its own desires, and learning all too early to

despise the homage of the other sex, or to use it as a plaything. But

then, formerly, she had still been free! The proud, self-willed girl

had not yet felt as a fetter the disposal of her hand; she could still

have said 'no' when asked to decide. Instead of this she had given her

consent to Raoul freely, without compulsion,--as, indeed, without love.

But was love a reality? Had she not seen how an intense passion, which

seemed to fill a man's entire soul, could die away and perish in a few

months?

The opening of a door in an adjoining room and approaching footsteps

roused Hertha from her revery, and admonished her that it was time to

return to the assemblage. She was about to rise, when a voice which she

recognized held her motionless.

"Here we are alone. I shall detain you for but a few moments, Count

Steinrueck."

"You wished to speak with me alone, Captain Rodenberg; I am at your

service," was the reply in Raoul's voice.

Hertha could neither see the new-comers nor be seen by them, but she

listened, startled; what she heard sounded harsh, hostile.

In fact, the two young men in the next room confronted each other with

a hostility which neither now took pains to conceal, but Raoul was

irritated and excited, while Michael was calm and cool; this, of

course, gave him an advantage from the beginning.

"I have only one question to ask," the latter began. "Was it by

accident, or by intention, that just now, when you spoke to my friend,

you so entirely overlooked me?"

"Do you attach such value to my notice of you?" There was an offensive

smile upon the young Count's face, and the tone in which the question

was put was still more offensive.

"I attach not the slightest value to your regard. I am not at all

covetous of the honour of your acquaintance. But since we do know each

other, I exact from you the observance of the forms of good society,

with which you scarcely seem familiar."

"Captain Rodenberg!" Raoul burst forth in a tone of menace.

"Count Steinrueck?" was the cold rejoinder.

"You seem to wish to force me to admit relations between us which I do

not acknowledge. You will achieve nothing in this way."

Michael shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "I think I have made

sufficiently manifest the value I attach to relations with the family

of Count Steinrueck. Ask the general, he can satisfy you on that score.

But I do not mean any longer to permit on your part conduct intended

from the first to be insulting. Will you alter this conduct in future?

Yes, or no?"

The question sounded so imperious that Raoul stared at the speaker,

half indignant, half amazed. "It must be admitted, Captain Rodenberg,

that for arrogance you are unrivalled."

"Certain individuals can be reached only with their own weapons. May I

beg for an answer?"

"I am not accustomed to answer questions put in such a tone," the young

Count said, haughtily,--"least of all from the son of an adventurer,

and of a mother who----"

He paused, for Michael stepped up to him, pale as death, but with

flashing eyes. "Silence, Count Steinrueck! One slighting word of my

mother,--one only, and I shall forget myself and fell you to the

ground!"

"With your fists?" asked Raoul, contemptuously. "I am used to fight

with the weapons of gentlemen."

His words produced their effect,--Rodenberg controlled himself. "And

yet you are so ungentlemanly as to goad on your adversary with insults

which no man could endure calmly," he said, bitterly. "I have not

provoked this quarrel, but I see that any continuation of this

conversation would be useless. You shall hear from me to-morrow."

"I shall look to do so," replied Raoul, and, with a brief salutation,

he left the room.

Michael remained for a time; he did not wish to rejoin the company with

the Count. He paced the room several times with folded arms, and then

threw himself into an arm-chair.

Meanwhile, Hertha's first surprise had been gradually transformed to

anxiety, and at last to terror, upon hearing the issue of the

conversation. She now rose, and pale, but resolute, appeared upon the

threshold of the next room. "Captain Rodenberg," she said, softly.

He sprang up dismayed, for at the moment of her appearance he had

perceived that the door of the adjoining apartment was open, and that

every word that had been uttered might have been overheard.

"You here, Countess Steinrueck?" he said, hastily. "I thought I saw you

just now in the reception-rooms."

"No; I was sitting there,"--she pointed to the next room,--"and I have

been the involuntary auditor of a conversation not intended for

stranger ears."

Michael bit his lip. Just as he had thought! However, he collected

himself and said, as carelessly as possible, "We certainly thought

ourselves alone, but the affair is of no consequence. I had a slight

difference with Count Steinrueck, which we discussed with some heat, but

it will doubtless be adjusted."

"Is that 'doubtless' sincere? The close of the conversation seemed to

imply the contrary."

Rodenberg avoided her glance, and replied, composedly, "Our

conversation had reached a point at which it threatened to become

stormy, and therefore we broke it off. We shall discuss the matter more

calmly to-morrow."

"Yes,--with arms in your hands,--I know it!"

"You are unnecessarily distressed. There has been no mention of

anything of the kind."

"Do you think me so inexperienced as not to understand the significance

of your last words?" said Hertha, approaching him. "A challenge was

given and accepted."

Michael was silent; he saw that subterfuge was useless. "It was a very

unfortunate chance that made you the witness of our interview," he said

at last. "It will surely be as painful for the Count as for me that you

should have been so, but there is no help for it now, any more than for

the affair itself, and I must entreat your silence in the name of each

of us. Forget what was not intended for your ears."

"Forget! when I know that to-morrow each will confront the other with

deadly intent?" Hertha exclaimed, in extreme agitation.

Rodenberg looked at her in surprise. "Each? For you there is no

question of danger save for your betrothed. It is natural that you

should tremble for him; my death must be a matter of supreme

indifference to the Countess Hertha,--nay, even desirable in this case,

for it means life for my adversary."

Hertha did not reply for a moment,--she slowly raised her eyes to his,

with a strange expression in them, somewhat like reproach, still more

like trembling anxiety. But Michael either could not or would not read

those eyes. Was the old game to begin anew? He stood stiffly erect, as

if already confronting his adversary.

The young Countess perhaps comprehended his thoughts, for her cheek

flushed; she hastily retreated a few steps, and her manner grew more

formal.

"Is no adjustment possible, then?" she asked.

"No."

"Not even if I speak to my betrothed, if I beg him----"

"It will avail nothing. The Count could scarcely be persuaded to

retract his words, which is what I insist upon. Let me beg you to give

up all thought of such a course; these matters are not to be adjusted

by a lady."

"But a lady was the cause of the quarrel, although you refuse to allow

her to attempt a reconciliation," Hertha said, with indignation. "Do

not look at me in such surprise; I know the cause of this quarrel,

whatever may be the ostensible pretext for it. You never forget an

offence, Captain Rodenberg,--never,--as I know, and this is the way in

which you avenge yourself."

Michael's face grew dark. "Do you really hold me capable of so mean a

revenge? I do not think I deserve this!"

"And yet you hate Raoul? I know why only too well----"

"You do not know why," he interposed, with emphasis. "You are entirely

mistaken. I never sought this quarrel, but I was compelled by the

Count's behaviour to call him to an account. The provocation came from

him. I admit that I reciprocate his dislike, but its justification lies

in circumstances of which you have no idea, and which have no

connection whatever with that hour at Saint Michael!"

It was the first time that he had made any allusion to the hour in

question, and as he did so there was no change either in his stern

voice or in his formal demeanour; he seemed to grow even more hard and

stern. But his eyes dwelt upon the young Countess, who did, indeed,

justify all that Hans had said of her,--she looked the heroine of a

fairy legend.

Standing beneath the hanging lamp that lighted the room but dimly, her

half-mediaeval, half-fantastic robe, a costly combination of heavy gold

brocade velvet and transparent lace-like material, glistening with gems

and embroidery, shimmered and gleamed with a strange lustre. But from

her head, crowned with a starry diadem, there waved over her shoulders

and below her waist a magnificent veil,--her unbound hair, which,

falling on each side of her face, encircled it like a halo.

Michael stood beyond the circle of light and gazed at the wondrous

vision. He had seen her thus in the tableau, throned upon a rock,--the

enchanting sorceress of the legend. In his ears had rung the sweet,

alluring song, and what had terrified him had not been the dangerous

rock or the depths beneath the billows, but the prize itself! He would

not risk life and safety to embrace, perhaps--a fiend. He had torn

himself loose from the spell with all the force of his will. And yet at

this moment the old wild longing stirred again. It seemed as if one

blissful moment would be well purchased at the price of life,

salvation, the future; as if to be dashed against the rocks to his

destruction were naught so that he might for a moment clasp his bliss

in his arms and call it his.

But, whilst such thoughts made havoc within him, he stood calm and

cold, without the quiver of an eyelash. Hertha saw only the frigid

bearing, heard only the stern words, and her words were as cold. "Since

that hour we have been foes! Do not deny it, Captain Rodenberg,--no

need for falsehood between us. Of all that you then told me in your

anger, hate alone has survived; I should have remembered this before

appealing to you. It is ill depending upon the magnanimity of an angry

foe."

Michael endured her reproach without a word in self-defence; he grew

pale,--always with him a sign of extreme emotion. "And to whom should I

display magnanimity?" he asked at last. "Should I spare the Count,

knowing that I have nothing but relentless hostility to expect from

him? I am not of the stuff of which martyrs are made! But, once more,

you do me injustice, Countess Steinrueck, when you accuse me of a mean

desire for revenge. Show me how this quarrel may be adjusted

consistently with my honour, and it shall be done. But I see no

possibility of such an arrangement; and whatever the conclusion of the

affair might be, it would leave us enemies were we not so already.

Perhaps it is best so."

He looked an instant longer towards the lovely head beneath the

lamp-light, then bowed and left the room.

Meanwhile, the festivity was still going on, although some of the

guests soon took their leave, and among them the members of the

Steinrueck family, who were always wont to make their appearance late

and to leave early. The ladies had already said farewell to Frau von

Reval, when Michael, who was passing through the hall, suddenly heard

himself addressed, "Captain Rodenberg, a word with you."

The young officer turned, surprised; it was the first time this evening

that General Steinrueck had deigned to notice him. "I am at your

Excellency's command."

The Count beckoned him to one side. "I wish to speak with you," he

said, briefly, "to-morrow morning at nine o'clock, at my house."

Michael started; he scarcely understood. "Is this a military order,

your Excellency?"

"Regard it as such. Nothing of any nature whatsoever must interpose to

prevent your appearance at the time stated."

Rodenberg bowed silently. The general approached him, and, lowering his

voice, went on: "And if by any chance you should be called upon to make

a decision, I beg you to postpone it until after our interview. I shall

see that the same course is pursued by----the other side."

"My decision is already made," said Michael, quietly, "but I shall

obey."

"Good! Until to-morrow, then!"

Steinrueck turned away, and the captain saw him join the Countess

Hertha, who came hastily to meet him. She had told, then; she had

invoked another authority, finding her own interference of no avail,

and that other could not lightly be set aside, although the expression

of Michael's face as he perceived all this showed no inclination to bow

to it.

In the mean time the general had offered his arm to Hertha to conduct

her to her mother; she uttered no question, but her eyes were full of

anxious inquiry.

"All right, my child," Steinrueck said in an undertone. "I have taken

the matter in hand, and you need not be afraid. Only remember that this

must be kept secret. I rely upon your discretion."

Hertha drew a long breath and forced a smile. "Thanks, Uncle Michael. I

trust you implicitly,--you will avert all misfortune."

* * * * *

It was early the next clay. The Countess Hortense was sitting at

breakfast, when the Marquis de Montigny entered.

"I am an early visitor, but I was passing the house," he said, greeting

his sister affectionately. "Are you alone? I thought all breakfasted

together here."

Hortense shrugged her shoulders. "Not at all; my father-in-law rises

with the dawn, and has usually been at work for three hours when I get

up. There is something frightful in such strong, restless natures,

which never feel the need for repose."

"They seem to me rather to be envied, especially at the general's age,"

remarked Montigny.

"Perhaps so; but he thinks others should emulate him. Our household is

regulated like a barracks; everything is done at the word of command,

and woe to the servant who is guilty of unpunctuality! It has cost me a

positive struggle to preserve my personal liberty. I carried my point

at last, but poor Raoul is absolutely forced to submit to this martinet

rule."

"I am afraid such a rule is sometimes necessary; Raoul is not easily

controlled," said Montigny, dryly. "You, as a woman, are of course

ignorant of much which I have learned since my arrival here, and of

which the general is also cognizant. It is time that your son were

married, Hortense."

"I have no doubt that he sometimes goes rather far in his youthful

exuberance," the Countess admitted. "His is a fiery, enthusiastic

nature, that rebels against rules and barriers, but marriage will put

an end to his follies, and Hertha is beautiful enough to hold him

captive always. You admire her, I am sure; she had a brilliant triumph

last evening."

"No wonder. By the way, Hortense, the Clermonts were there last night.

Are they intimate with Herr von Reval?"

"I think Raoul introduced them there. It is the fashion to frequent the

Reval house."

"Indeed? Then Raoul is intimate with young Clermont?"

"He is, and I should like to have him and his sister here, but--here

you have a proof of my father-in-law's incredible tyranny--the general

absolutely forbids my inviting them. I was once obliged to recall an

invitation which I had sent them at Raoul's request. The general is

determined to exclude the Clermonts from our circle."

The marquis suddenly grew attentive. "That is strange. What reasons

does he assign?"

"Reasons? He never condescends to give me any. He simply commands, and

I must obey."

"I think you do well to obey in this instance," the Marquis said, in so

significant a tone that his sister looked at him in surprise.

"Why? Have you heard anything against the Clermonts? They do not seem

to be very brilliantly circumstanced pecuniarily, but they brought

excellent letters of introduction, and they belong to a very ancient

French family."

"Certainly; there is no doubt of that."

"Well, then, I do not understand you, Leon."

The Marquis moved his chair a little nearer, and laid his hand upon the

Countess's arm: "Hortense, I am forced to open your eyes, for you seem

utterly blind in this matter. You are desirous that Raoul should marry

Hertha?"

"Desirous? Why, I rest all my hopes upon it. This marriage means wealth

and splendour for Raoul, and for me the freedom I have so long desired.

How can you ask such a question?"

"Then let me advise you not to encourage your son's intimacy with the

Clermonts. I hear he is there every day, and--Frau von Nerac is a

widow."

Heloise smiled incredulously. "Heloise von Nerac? She is not even

pretty."

"But she is very dangerous."

"Not as a rival of Hertha. Such a betrothed could hold any man

captive."

"If she chose; but she does not seem to choose. The young Countess

treats her betrothed very strangely; she is very reserved, while Frau

von Nerac, on the other hand, is very engaging."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Hortense, her anxiety at last aroused. "Raoul's

marriage is to take place so shortly; he never would be so insane as to

sacrifice his entire future for the sake of this Heloise."

"He would not be the first whom passion has blinded to self-interest.

But I meant only to warn, not to terrify you. I only suspect; it is for

you to discover the truth. But be cautious; a false step might ruin

everything."

The Countess changed colour; the thing thus hinted at might well

terrify her, for it meant the destruction of all her hopes. "You are

right; there may be mischief to be feared," she said. "I thank you for

your warning."

Montigny rose, quite satisfied with the result of the conversation. The

diplomat had achieved his purpose without mentioning what was not to be

mentioned. He knew that Hortense's maternal solicitude would prompt her

to use all her influence to withdraw Raoul from his intercourse with

the Clermonts, and he thought that he had amply provided for Henri de

Clermont's acquiescence in such cessation of intercourse. As to whether

the suspicion he had expressed were well founded or not the Marquis

cared little; what he desired was that his nephew should be delivered

from associations the pernicious nature of which was but too well known

to him. He once more advised his sister to be cautious, and then he

took his leave.

In the mean time another conversation, of a far more stormy character,

had been taking place above-stairs in the general's study. Steinrueck

had confined himself on the previous evening to forbidding his grandson

to take any further steps in the quarrel with Michael; but this morning

he had sent for him, and was now emptying the vials of his wrath upon

the young man's head.

"Are you dead to all reason, to all prudence whatsoever, that you must

select Michael Rodenberg with whom to pick a quarrel?" he asked. "If

you had been led in a moment of passion to insult him, I could have

understood it; but from what I hear from Hertha, your rudeness seems to

have been deliberate and intentional."

"It was by the most unfortunate chance that Hertha happened to be in

the next room," said Raoul, confronting his grandfather with an air of

defiance, "and that she should have taken it into her head to tell

you----"

"Was the wisest, the most sensible course she could have adopted," the

Count interrupted him. "Another girl would have appealed to you with

tears and entreaties, which would have availed nothing, for, as matters

stand, you alone cannot put a stop to the affair. Your betrothed

applied to me, rightly judging that I was the one to interfere here.

This duel must under no circumstances take place."

"It is an affair of honour, in which I shall permit no interference!"

exclaimed Raoul, angrily; "and it is, besides, my own personal affair."

"No, it is _not_, or I should let it take its course, for you are no

longer a boy, and are responsible for your own actions. But this

quarrel affects our family interests most painfully. Have you never

reflected that it will drag to light circumstances which should be kept

strictly private?"

The young Count looked dismayed. He certainly had not thus reflected,

and he replied, somewhat abashed, "I do not think that such a

consequence is inevitable."

"But certainly it is most probable. However the duel may terminate, it

will attract universal attention to its principals; there will be all

sorts of inquiries as to what provoked it, and the required explanation

will be found in the name of Rodenberg. Hitherto it has escaped special

notice, because it occurs several times in the army list, and because

the captain has occupied towards us the position of an entire stranger;

it will soon be discovered that he is no stranger to us, for as soon as

he is seriously questioned by his comrades or his superior officers he

must confess the truth. At first you were outraged by the bare

possibility of such a revelation, and yet you are the one wantonly to

provoke it."

The truth of this was so apparent that even Raoul could not gainsay it.

"Perhaps I did not perceive all the bearings of the matter," he said,

sullenly. "One can't always control his mood, and this Rodenberg's

arrogance irritated me. He behaves as if he were entirely my equal."

"I fear the arrogance was on your side," said Steinrueck, sternly. "I

had a sample of it when you first met Michael here; he was forced to

compel you to show him the merest courtesy, and I have no doubt this

was the case when you met him afterwards. Did you provoke a challenge

or not?"

Raoul evaded a direct reply; he said, contemptuously, "How was I to

know that the adventurer's son was so sensitive on a point of honour?

But no wonder!"

"Captain Rodenberg is one of my officers, and his honour is stainless,

you will please to remember!" The general's voice was sharp and stern.

"I beg that there may be no fresh insult to make a reconciliation

impossible. It is just nine o'clock; your antagonist may be here at any

moment."

"Here? You are expecting him?"

"Of course; the affair must be adjusted among us personally. He

received my summons coldly enough, but he will be here, and I trust you

now see clearly why this duel must be prevented. You were the one to

offend, from you must come the apology."

"Never!" Raoul burst forth. "Rather let the worst come to the worst!"

"That I will not allow!" said Steinrueck. "Is Captain Rodenberg there?

Admit him."

The last words were addressed to a servant who appeared at the door,

and in a moment Michael presented himself.

He saluted the general, but seemed not to observe the presence of the

young Count, who, standing aside, cast at him an angry glance.

"I have summoned you hither to adjust the affair between you and my

grandson," the general began. "First of all, it is necessary that you

should take notice of each other. I beg you to do so."

The request sounded like a command, and as such was obeyed; the young

men bowed to each other, very formally indeed, and the general

continued: "Captain Rodenberg, I have learned--from whom, is of no

consequence--that you consider yourself as having been insulted by

young Count Steinrueck, and that you purpose demanding satisfaction of

him. Is this so?"

"It is, your Excellency," was the calm reply.

"The Count is, of course, ready at any moment to grant you

satisfaction, but this duel I neither can nor will permit. In any other

affair of the kind I should leave the arrangement to those principally

concerned, but this cannot be here, in view of the peculiar relations

in which you stand to our family. You must be aware of this."

"Not at all. Those relations have been so entirely ignored hitherto

that there is no reason for regarding them now, and strangers are

ignorant of them."

"They will be so no longer if matters are pushed to a bloody issue. The

public and the press are wont on such occasions to investigate

curiously the personal connections of those concerned, and the truth

would be speedily discovered."

Michael shrugged his shoulders. "Count Steinrueck should have remembered

this before provoking such an issue. It is now too late for such

considerations."

"It is not too late. Some means of adjustment must be devised. I repeat

to you what I have just declared to my grandson, that under no

consideration can this duel take place."

The words were uttered emphatically, but they produced no effect;

Michael's reply was still more emphatic. "Upon a point of honour, your

Excellency, I can permit no control. If the Count can bow to a command

in such a case, I cannot!"

Raoul looked at him half indignantly, half in surprise. He, the son and

heir of the house, had never ventured so to confront his grandfather,

neither would the general have suffered such open rebellion against his

authority; but from Rodenberg he did not resent it. He frowned, indeed,

ominously, but he condescended to a kind of explanation.

"I am a soldier like yourself, and would not ask of you what is

inconsistent with your honour. You believe yourself to have in no wise

provoked this quarrel?"

"I do."

Steinrueck turned to his grandson: "Raoul, I now desire to hear from you

whether what Captain Rodenberg regarded as insulting on your part was

accidental or intentional. In the first case the affair is arranged."

Raoul was sufficiently familiar with this tone, but he had no intention

of embracing the means of adjustment thus afforded him. He had meant to

insult, and was only restrained from frankly declaring the fact by fear

of his grandfather; he took refuge in a sullen silence.

"It was intentional, then!" said the general, with slow emphasis. "You

will, then, retract this insult, this wanton insult, here in my

presence."

"Never!" exclaimed Raoul. "Grandfather, do not drive me to extremes.

The limit of my submission to you is reached when I allow such words to

be used to me before my antagonist. I refuse to be humiliated further.

Captain Rodenberg, I am at your service; appoint the time and the

place."

"It shall be done to-day," Michael replied. "Will your Excellency

permit me to take my leave?"

"No, not yet!" exclaimed Steinrueck, suddenly dropping his formal tone

and stepping between the young men. "I must remind you both of what you

seem to have forgotten. You are blood relations, and this tie of blood

I will have respected. Strangers may have recourse to pistols in such

cases; the sons of my children must settle their quarrel by other

means."

"Grandfather!" "Your Excellency!" There was the same tone of defiance

in each voice, but the general went on, imperiously:

"Hush, and listen to me! This is a family matter, in which the public

should have no share: it is for the head of the family alone to adjust

it. I am the authority here, I alone have the right to interfere, and I

forbid you to have recourse to weapons. The blood flowing in the veins

of each of you is mine, and I will not have it thus spilled. As head of

the family, as your grandfather, I demand implicit obedience from my

grandsons."

His tone and manner were so commanding that rebellion seemed

impossible,--the old chief of the Steinruecks compelled obedience. In

fact, neither of the young men gainsaid him. Raoul stood still in sheer

bewilderment at what he had just heard. 'My grandsons,' and 'the blood

flowing in the veins of each of you is mine!' Why, it amounted to a

formal recognition.

Michael too felt this; his eyes gleamed, but not with delight, and his

bearing was still more haughty than before, although he did not speak.

"Raoul is the offender, as he himself admits," Steinrueck began again.

"In his name I declare to you, Michael, that he retracts everything

that could bear an insulting construction; and you, on your part, will

relinquish your haughty bearing, which is a kind of provocation. Does

this content you?"

"If Count Raoul confirms your words--yes."

"He will do so. Raoul!"

The young Count did not reply. He stood biting his lip, his hand

clinched, as he cast a glance of hatred at his antagonist. Apparently

he was resolved to defy his grandfather's authority.

"Well?" said Steinrueck, after a pause. "I am waiting."

"No, I will not!" burst forth Raoul.

But the general stepped up to him, and, looking him full in the eye,

said, "You must, for you are in the wrong. If Michael were the offender

I should require the same from him, and he would obey; since you

insulted him, it is your part to yield. I require only a simple 'yes;'

nothing more. Will you confirm my words, or not?"

Raoul made a final attempt to maintain his defiant attitude, but his

grandfather's flashing eyes cast their wonted spell upon him,--they

forced him to obey. A few seconds passed, and then the young Count

uttered the desired 'yes,' half inaudibly indeed, but it was uttered.

Michael inclined his head. "I withdraw my challenge; the affair is

adjusted."

Steinrueck gave a sigh of relief. He was not quite so iron as he seemed.

His sigh betrayed his suffering at the thought of his two grandsons

confronting each other in mortal combat.

"And now shake hands," he went on, in a gentler tone, "and remember in

future that you are of the same race,--although it must in future, as

hitherto, be kept a secret from the world."

But Raoul's obedience would go no further: he turned away with an

expression of frank hostility; and Michael said, "Pardon me, your

Excellency, but you must allow us to do as we choose in this respect.

The Count, as I perceive, is not anxious for a reconciliation, nor am

I. I promise to give no occasion for a renewal of the quarrel. As for a

tie of relationship between us, we are alike determined to ignore

anything of the kind."

"Wherefore?-- Does my recognition not satisfy you?" Steinrueck asked,

indignantly.

"A recognition forced from you by necessity, by fear of a public

scandal, which must be kept secret because it is considered a

disgrace,--no, it does not satisfy me! Count Raoul has enjoyed his

grandfather's affection all his life, he may yield obedience to his

commands; I have always been outcast, repudiated every hour of my life;

I have been made to feel that the Steinruecks considered me beneath them

in rank, and would fain banish me from their social circle. Here, in

this very room, you declared to me that for you there was no tie of

relationship between us. I now make the same declaration to you. I do

not choose to accept privately as a favour what is mine of right before

all the world; however you may acknowledge me as your grandson, I shall

never admit that you are my grandfather, never! And now may I entreat

General Count Steinrueck to dismiss me?"

He spoke with perfect mastery of himself, but there was a sound in his

voice that made Raoul start and look at him in surprise; he seemed to

hear his grandfather speaking. In fact, the resemblance had never been

so striking as now, when the two men stood erect confronting each

other. The eyes, the carriage, everything bore witness to the

relationship just disowned; the young man's stern resolve was an

inheritance from his grandfather. He was the old Count's youthful

presentment.

"Go, then!" said the general. "You choose to see in me only your

superior officer. So be it for the future."

Rodenberg saluted, bowed to his cousin, and left the room, where for

some minutes after his departure an oppressive silence reigned, broken

at last by Raoul: "Grandfather!"

"What is it?" said Steinrueck, who was still looking towards the door

behind which Michael had disappeared.

"I think you have now had sufficient proof of the arrogance of your

'grandson.'" The word was uttered with infinite contempt. "He was quite

magnificent as he rejected the recognition that you offered him, and

actually refused to admit any tie of blood between us. And you have

forced me to humiliate myself to that man!"

"Yes, this Michael is iron," Steinrueck muttered, between his teeth.

"Nothing avails with him, neither kindness nor severity."

"And, moreover, he resembles you immensely," Raoul went on, in his

indignation and in his irritation against his grandfather seizing upon

the chance to irritate him in turn. "I never noticed it before, but

just now when he stood opposite you the resemblance was almost

terrifying."

The general slowly turned his gaze from the door and riveted it upon

his grandson, with an odd expression in his eyes. "Did you perceive it

too? I knew it long ago."

Raoul did not comprehend this calm. He had looked for an angry retort,

an indignant disclaimer of any resemblance. The Count perceived his

surprise, and, suddenly adopting his old authoritative tone, he said,

"But no matter! The quarrel between you is now made up, and I do not

believe that even you have any temptation to renew it. Avoid each other

in future; it will not be difficult. And now leave me."

Raoul went, but with rage in his heart. Whereas hitherto he had felt

only a haughty dislike for Michael, he now hated him with all the

intensity of his passionate temperament. Perhaps General Steinrueck

would have done more wisely not to subject him to the humiliation he

had undergone,--it could never be forgotten by either cousin.

* * * * *

Hertha was standing alone at her window gazing out, but she saw nothing

of the surging life in the principal street of the capital. Her eyes

were persistently turned in the direction of the general's place of

abode. He had promised to send her tidings in the course of the

forenoon, and if he had really succeeded in preventing the duel his

messenger should have already arrived, but there was no sign as yet of

the Steinrueck livery, and the young Countess's impatience and anxiety

increased with each minute that passed.

All at once she leaned far forward. She had recognized the general, who

was just turning the corner; yes, it was he himself, and as he

recognized her he waved his hand to her. Thank God, he was smiling!

That could not betoken any unhappy termination.

She left the window, but did not dare to hasten to meet the Count. No

one must suspect anything unusual. Only when she heard his step in the

anteroom did she fling open the door and hurry towards him. "You come

yourself,--you bring me good news?"

The question was uttered breathlessly, and Steinrueck replied in a

soothing tone, "Certainly, my child; there is no cause for further

anxiety: the affair is arranged."

Hertha drew a long breath of intense relief: "Thank God! I hardly dared

to hope."

The general cast a searching glance at her pale, weary face; then,

taking her by the arm, he led her back into the room and closed the

door. "I certainly have had a hard time with the obstinate fellows," he

began. "Neither would yield, neither would make the slightest advance.

At last I had to exert all my authority to bring them to reason.

Nevertheless the affair was not so grave as you supposed; a couple of

thoughtless words of Raoul's, a sharp reply from Rodenberg,--it was

quite enough to send such a couple of Hotspurs to mortal combat. They

would fain have sprung at each other's throats there and then.

Fortunately, I heard of the matter in time to prevent mischief."

He spoke in a half-jesting tone, but Hertha perceived that his smile,

as well as his gayety, was forced. She was not deceived: she knew the

gravity of what he seemed to esteem so lightly.

"And they have given you a sleepless night, too; you show that," he

continued. "Our coy little betrothed repents her treatment of poor

Raoul yesterday, eh? Let it be a warning to you, Hertha. No man can

endure such treatment, even at the hands of the woman he loves the

best."

"Least of all, perhaps, at her hands. But do you imagine that Raoul

really loves me?"

The general was startled by the tone of bitterness in which she spoke.

"Has he not wooed and won you?"

"According to a family arrangement, in compliance with your express

desire. I know the value of this love 'to order.'"

"Surely this is nothing new to you," said Steinrueck, gravely. "You knew

it all from the first. You both yielded to considerations deemed very

important by those of our rank. There is no great amount of romance

about such unions; but, so far as I know, you have never missed it. Why

should you suddenly adopt this bitter tone with regard to Raoul, who

might with justice accuse you in return?"

The young Countess was silent; she had no answer for this question.

"The old evil spirit is stirring again; it must be conjured and

banished," the general said, with a fleeting smile. "I have had to do

it once before, in the early days of my guardianship. Then I was

obliged to discipline a spoiled and idolized child, who had known no

will save her own. You rebelled passionately, and your mother shed

tears because I was so stern, and prevented her also from yielding. We

had a stormy scene, but when the child's passion was exhausted she

carne to me of her own accord, put her little arms around my neck, and

said---- Do you remember, Hertha?"

She smiled, and, laying her head upon his shoulder, completed the

sentence: "'I love you dearly, Uncle Michael. Very dearly!'"

He inclined his head and kissed her forehead. "Because I knew how to

control you. Ever since I have been secure of your affection; but Raoul

does not understand yet. I could wellnigh believe that the knight who

is the ideal of the dreams of this proud, wayward girl must have

something in him of the dragon-slayer, or he can never rule her."

"He must be like you!" exclaimed Hertha, eagerly,--"like you, Uncle

Michael, with your iron force of character, your invincible will, even

your sternness. I could have fallen in love with you if I had known you

in your youth."

Steinrueck shook his head, smiling. "What! Flattering your old uncle?

But in truth your nature craves to be striven for, to be won by storm.

My child, fate seldom gives us our choice in these matters: we must

yield to destiny, as you are now learning. Believe me, in the eyes of a

hundred other women Raoul is the ideal of manliness and chivalry; since

I have learned that you love him in spite of his not being the hero of

your dreams, I am not disturbed. And, to be frank with you, Hertha, I

did not know this before yesterday. Until then I had grave doubts of

your sentiments, but the mortal anxiety that you betrayed last evening

when you entreated my interference, and the way in which you received

me this morning, have shown me how you trembled for Raoul."

A crimson flush slowly mounted to the cheek of the girl, and she hung

her head without a word in reply.

"Was it necessary that some danger should threaten your betrothed to

wring from you such an avowal?" the general went on, reproachfully.

"Hitherto you have played but a cold, formal part towards Raoul, and it

has estranged him from you. Only show him the trembling anxiety for his

life that you showed me, and you can do with him what you will; he will

be a willing captive."

Hertha's blush deepened, and hurriedly, as if eager at all hazards to

change the subject, she said, "You really think all danger over?"

"Yes; the insult as well as the challenge has been retracted in due

form. The quarrel is at an end."

"But not the enmity! I could only give you a faint idea last evening of

what really passed between them. You do not know what words Raoul made

use of,--not concerning the captain himself, but concerning his

parents."

"Ah, it was that, then!" muttered Steinrueck.

"Do you know anything about them?" the Countess asked, hastily.

"I only know that there is not the slightest stain upon Rodenberg's

honour, and that suffices me. How did he receive Raoul's words?"

"Like a wounded lion. He was absolutely terrible: if Raoul had said

another word I believe he would have struck him down."

The general's attention was roused by the girl's passionate tone, and

he gazed at her with a dawning suspicion in his look, while Hertha, all

unconscious of his glance, went on, with flashing eyes and glowing

cheeks: "Rodenberg was indignant to the last degree; he silenced Raoul

with a look and a tone such as I have never seen and heard before, save

once; in you, Uncle Michael, that time at Berkheim, when they brought

before you the poacher who had shot our forester; it brought you

directly to my mind as you were then."

Steinrueck made no reply to these last remarks; he still gazed fixedly

at the young Countess, as if trying to decipher something in her

features. "Perhaps Raoul's words were not unfounded," he said at last,

very slowly. "Who can tell what he may know of Rodenberg's origin?"

"He was all the more inexcusable for touching upon the matter," Hertha

persisted, with a vehemence of which she herself was unconscious. "You

yourself say that the captain's honour is stainless, and Raoul surely

knows it as well as you; and therefore he attacked the parents. It was

cowardly and malicious; it was base and----"

"Hertha, you are speaking of your betrothed!" the general sternly

interrupted her.

Hertha paused, and her colour faded. Steinrueck laid his hand heavily

upon her own, and said in an undertone, but with severity, "For whose

life did you tremble? For whom were you anxious?"

She was silent, although she knew but too well,--the sleepless hours of

the past night had revealed the truth to her,--but no sound escaped her

lips. The Count gazed steadily at her. "Hertha, I demand an answer.

Will you not, or can you not, give me one? Surely the betrothed of

Count Steinrueck knows what she owes to him and to herself."

"Yes, she knows well," said Hertha, gravely and firmly. "Have no fear;

I shall redeem my word."

"I look for no less from you!" He clasped her hand tightly in his own

for a moment, then dropped it and arose. "What time is appointed for

your departure?" he asked, after a pause.

"The beginning of next week."

"That is well. I thought of persuading your mother to remain here; but

I now think you had best go as soon as possible. You need--change of

air. And one word more, Hertha. Could Raoul have seen and heard you

just now, when you spoke of his antagonist, he never would have receded

from the duel, and I could not have blamed him for refusing to do so.

Farewell!"

He spoke coldly and sternly, leaving the room as proudly erect as ever;

but in the hall outside he stayed his steps for a moment and covered

his eyes with his hand. Was it tottering to its fall, the structure

that he had reared so proudly upon what he had deemed so sure a

foundation?

'He must be like you, with your iron force of character, your

invincible will, even your sternness.' Those words had roused the

Count's suspicion. Yes, there was one who resembled him trait for

trait, and who could understand how to control the wayward child if he

were but allowed free play. This must be put a stop to at all hazards.

Hertha must go,--must be removed from so perilous a proximity. Her

whim--it could be nothing further--would change when deprived of the

object that had gratified it. It was not to be supposed serious in any

way. But it was hard for the general that the peril should come from

such a quarter, that it should be just this man that threatened

destruction to his plans. He could not have thought it possible.

Upon this same forenoon Professor Wehlau was sitting at his

writing-table in his study, where, for a wonder, he was not at work,

but was poring over a newspaper which seemed to contain something that

annoyed him greatly; there was a black cloud upon his brow.

The newspaper, the best and most brilliantly conducted in the capital,

did, in fact, contain a long article concerning 'Saint Michael,' the

first important work of a young artist, a pupil of Professor Walter,

which was to be publicly exhibited in a few days. The critic, who had

seen it on the easel, spoke of it with enthusiastic admiration, and did

not fail to inform the public that the picture was already sold. It was

destined for the pilgrimage church of Saint Michael, where it was to be

installed the ensuing week with due solemnity. This last announcement

was too much for the Professor's equanimity,--he fairly gnashed his

teeth.

"Why, this is better and better!" he growled. "If they are already

beginning to turn the lad's head in this fashion, there will be no

doing anything with him. 'Magnificent composition, brilliant execution,

talent of the highest order justifying the most extravagant

expectations'! Oh, yes, here it comes again; I know the jargon! 'The

talented son of a distinguished father.' The deuce take these admirers,

and Hans too, and Michael into the bargain!"

He threw the sheet aside and began to pace to and fro. Wehlau was one

of those who cannot endure to be in the wrong. He would rather have

maintained that white was black than have confessed that his eye, which

was wont to see so clearly in scientific affairs, had been utterly

deceived with regard to his own son. Hans was and must remain a

good-for-naught, who, since he had declined to become his father's

pupil and successor, was fit for no grave pursuit in life. He was

wedded to this opinion, and he clung to it with all the obstinacy of

his character. Had the article denounced his son as a dauber he would

have triumphed. But it called him a genius, and this he looked upon as

an insult, since it proved himself in the wrong.

"Does the man hope to persuade me that the boy is good for something?"

he soliloquized, angrily. "I say it is false! The lad is a fool,--a

booby, who with his face and his amiability has bribed the critic as he

bribes everybody. _He_ do anything of any consequence! He'll not impose

upon me; I'll never set foot in his studio, nor look at one of his

pictures, although ten critics should praise them and twenty countesses

buy them!"

He raised his hand as if to make a solemn vow, when suddenly the door

was opened, and the old gardener, who likewise did duty in the studio

as Hans's servant, of course without any permission from the Professor,

made his appearance.

"What is the matter?" snarled Wehlau, in the worst of humours. "You

know, Anton, that I am not to be disturbed in my study. What do you

want?"

"Excuse me, Herr Professor," said the old man in evident distress. "I

have just come from the studio,--from the young master."

"That's no excuse; I'll have no such interruptions in future. Do you

hear?"

"But, Herr Professor, the young master is so ill,--so very ill,--I

thought he would die in my arms!"

"What!" Wehlau exclaimed. "What is the matter with my son?"

"I do not know. I was working in the garden, when he opened the window

and called me, and when I went to him he was lying on the floor half

dead. He had been taken suddenly ill,--mortally ill, and had only

strength enough to say 'Call my father!' And I came running to find

you."

"Good God! the boy has been in perfect health hitherto!" cried Wehlau,

hurrying out of the room. All his vexation and annoyance were

forgotten, as well as the vow he had made, as he ran through the garden

towards the studio, followed by Anton.

Upon opening the door of the atelier he was shocked to find the

young artist lying back in an arm-chair with closed eyes; his

hand was pressed upon his heart, whence the breath came in short,

laboured gasps. His face could not be clearly seen, since the heavy

window-curtain was drawn closely, and there was but a dim light in

the part of the room where he lay.

The Professor was at his son's side in an instant, bending over him.

"Hans, what is the matter with you? You cannot be ill? It is the only

folly in which you have not indulged hitherto, and I positively forbid

it. Speak to me, at least."

Hans opened his eyes, and said, in a broken voice, "Is that you, papa?

Forgive me for sending for you. I thought----"

"But what is the matter with you?" The Professor would have felt his

son's pulse, but the young man withdrew his hand, as if unconsciously,

to put it beneath his head.

"I do not know. I suddenly grew fearfully dizzy; everything was dark

before my eyes; it was terrible."

"It all comes from this confounded paint,--your cursed daubing," Wehlau

exclaimed, in despair. "Anton, open the window, let in the fresh air,

and bring some water instantly."

He seized the left arm of the sick man, who tried to repeat the

man[oe]uvre previously executed by the right one. This time, however,

his father was too quick for him, and clasped the wrist firmly. "Why,

how is this? Your pulse is perfectly normal." There was suspicion in

his tone, and he turned hastily and dashed aside the window-curtain.

The daylight streamed into the room and showed the young man's face as

fresh and rosy in colour as ever. Its expression of suffering did not

for an instant deceive the experienced physician.

"This is another of your infernal tricks," he burst forth. "Heaven have

mercy on you if you have played this farce with me just to get me

inside your studio."

"But, at all events, here you are, papa," cried Hans, who, seeing that

any further attempt to feign illness would be useless, sprang to his

feet. "And you certainly will not go away without a glance at least at

my 'Saint Michael.' There it stands against the wall; you have only to

turn round."

The entreaty sounded very fervent, but Wehlau marched straight towards

the door. "Do you suppose you can force me in this way? I shall have a

word to say to you hereafter about your base deceit. Now let me out."

Instead of obeying, Hans closed the door in the face of old Anton, who

was bringing the water ordered by the Professor, and turned the key.

"No use to try to get out, papa. There is no help for you. This is my

kingdom; I have duly captured you, and shall not release you. Look at

the picture."

This was more than the Professor could bear. The tempest that had been

gathering strength during the last few minutes broke forth with fury,

but it failed to affect Hans, who showed an amount of strategic

capacity that would have done honour to his friend Michael. He talked

fast and loud, edging his father, meanwhile, towards the opposite wall,

and, when he thought him near enough, he suddenly seized him by the

shoulders and turned him round.

"Hans, I tell you if you dare to----" Wehlau suddenly paused, for

involuntarily he had glanced at the picture. He looked at it again, and

then slowly approached it.

The young artist's eyes sparkled triumphantly. He was sure of his cause

now, but he stationed himself behind his father to cut off retreat,

which, however, the Professor had ceased to contemplate. He stood as if

spell-bound, staring at the picture.

"It is my first work of any importance, papa," Hans began in his most

caressing voice. "I could not possibly send it out into the world

without showing it to you. You must not be vexed with me for the

stratagem I had to employ to get you here; it was the only way to

induce you to enter my studio."

"Hold your tongue, and let me look at the thing in peace and quiet,"

Wehlau growled, moving to get the best point of view.

Thus several minutes passed, and then the Professor began to mutter to

himself in a way that sounded half angry, half approving. At last he

turned to his son and asked in a low tone, "And you mean to tell me

that you did this thing all yourself?"

"Certainly, papa."

"I don't believe it."

"You will surely not refuse me credit for my own work? How do you like

it?"

The Professor began to mutter again, but this time it sounded more

promising. "Hm! the thing is not so bad; there is force and life in it.

Where did you get the idea?"

"Out of my head, papa."

Wehlau looked from the picture to his son, in whose head he had

declared there was no room for anything save folly: the matter seemed

to him inconceivable.

"Michael deserves the principal credit in the affair," the young artist

said, laughing. "He has been an incomparable model. Of course I had no

end of trouble in getting him into the right mood, but on one occasion

I succeeded in irritating him so that he burst into a furious passion,

and then I caught the expression and fixed it on the canvas. But you

don't tell me what you think of my daubing."

The Professor's features twitched oddly; apparently he would fain

have scolded and fumed afresh, but it was impossible, and at

last he said, very gently, "But in future you will paint no more

altar-pieces,--promise me that."

"No, papa; my next picture will portray natural science in the person

of 'our distinguished investigator.' When will you sit to me?"

"Let me alone!"

"That is only half a promise, and I want a whole one. Shall we begin

to-morrow?"

"Deuce take it! yes,--since there's no help for it."

"Victory!" shouted Hans, throwing his arms around his father, who no

longer resisted; on the contrary, he clasped his son close, and looking

into the young man's sunny blue eyes, he said, in a burst of

tenderness, "You'll never make a scholar, my boy, of that I am now

convinced, but, nevertheless, you may be good for something after all!"

* * * * *

At Saint Michael preparations were making for the festival of the

saint; a very great occasion this year, since the new altar-picture was

to be consecrated in its place with all due solemnity. The pilgrimage

church was in festal array, and the Alpine hamlet, usually so quiet,

was filled with the bustle of joyous excitement; preparations were

making to receive the thousands of pilgrims who would arrive on the

morrow from all parts of the mountains to pay their devotions in the

sanctuary of the archangel: all was not yet ready, and it was the eve

of the holiday.

On this afternoon the pastor had been as much pleased as surprised by

the sudden and unexpected appearance of his former pupil, Captain

Rodenberg. There was something pathetic in the old priest's delight.

"Such a surprise!" he said, detaining the young man's hand in his

clasp. "The last thing that I dreamed of was seeing you just at this

time."

"I have only a single day at my disposal," replied Michael. "I must be

in M---- the day after tomorrow again to join Colonel Fernau, whom I

accompanied thither. I managed to get a three days' leave, and I made

this little excursion to see your reverence."

Valentin smiled and shook his head. "Do you call it a little excursion?

Why, it is almost a day's journey from here to M----; you have to drive

alone through the mountains for five hours. But I am glad you think

your old teacher worth the trouble; I shall at least have you on St.

Michael's day; my faint hope that Hans might come has been

disappointed."

"He wished to come, but he thought he owed it to his father to stay

away. The Professor takes it to heart that the name of Hans Wehlau

should be in such close connection with a festival of the church. You

know----"

"Yes, I am perfectly aware of my brother's attitude with regard to the

church," said Valentin, with a half-smothered sigh. "I made an abject

apology to Hans when his 'Saint Michael' arrived, for I had never given

our madcap credit for the earnestness and depth of character shown in

this work of his."

"You all did him injustice; his own father especially underrated him,"

Michael warmly declared. "I alone, seeing the picture from the first

sketch, was aware of what it promised. Hans has had a great triumph

during its exhibition. It was instantly appreciated by the public, and

elicited a burst of admiration; the critics praised it with rare

unanimity, and everything has been done to spoil the artist with

flattery. Fortunately, he is one of those who cannot be spoiled. Is the

picture in its place yet?"

"It has been hung since the day before yesterday,--a costly and

beautiful gift from the Countess to our church. She meant to be present

at its consecration, and came from Berkheim to Castle Steinrueck for the

purpose."

"She will be here to-morrow, then?" Michael asked.

"No; unfortunately, she has been taken ill; she caught cold on the

journey, and is seriously indisposed, so she sent me----"

Here they were interrupted by the sacristan, very hurried, very

worried, with a number of questions to ask and communications to make

with regard to the festival. His reverence had to arrange, decide, and

oversee; there was a deal to be done.

"I think I ought not to monopolize you any longer," said Rodenberg.

"The Herr Pastor appears to be in constant requisition. I will go up to

the church for a while, to see how Saint Michael looks in his present

surroundings. We shall have some quiet hours together this evening."

"I am afraid that can hardly be. You do not yet know,--I was just going

to tell you, but----"

His reverence did not finish his sentence, for old Katrin came in at

that moment with her arms filled with evergreens and garlands, and

wanted to know where they were to be put, and the sacristan too stood

waiting. Valentin was at his wits' end.

Michael left him and took the familiar road to the pilgrimage church.

It was early in May, and the mountains were beginning to show the

presence of spring, always so late to arrive among them.

The Eagle ridge was still girdled with ice, in dazzling crystal

splendour, but the brooks from the glaciers, their chains broken by the

sun, were dashing foaming down to the valleys, and the dark hemlock

forest nestling against the rocky wall had already shaken the burden of

snow from its boughs. From the alps and meadows surrounding Saint

Michael the snow had also disappeared; they were laughing in fresh

sunny green, while through them here and there trickled tiny rivulets

from the heights; it was as if the whole mountain world had awaked to

life. Still, however, above the heights and depths, above forest and

meadow, the wild spring blasts were careering, sounding their note of

promise and of victory.

Michael entered the church, quite empty at this hour of the afternoon,

but having donned its modest festal garment. Here upon these lonely

heights there were no fragrant blossoms of the spring,--column and

portal were wreathed about with dark evergreen, and little nosegays of

Alpine flowers were the sole decoration of the altar. There was,

nevertheless, a breath of spring in the solemnity reigning in the

quiet, spacious structure, now filled with the golden light of the

declining sun. The church might wear a more festal aspect when thronged

with a devout crowd, but it was much more beautiful in the profound

consecrated repose in which it awaited its festival, still untouched,

as it were, by all the aspirations, prayers, and laments which would

arise from within its walls on the morrow. No inharmonious sound

disturbed its quiet; even the roaring of the wind outside, dying away

in long-drawn notes, sounded like the tones of a distant organ.

Saint Michael was enthroned above the high altar; not the dim picture

of the saint which time had half destroyed, and which had been but the

crude outcome of mediaeval piety,--that had been respectfully

transferred to the church vestibule,--but the work of the young artist

who was making a name and fame for himself. Michael had been familiar

with it from its first conception, he had seen it repeatedly; but it

had been for him, as for the public, and even for the painter himself,

only a picture, a scene of conflict, accidentally illustrating a legend

of the church. He was surprised to the last degree by the impression

produced by the picture in its present place. In the twilight of the

chancel, between the tall Gothic windows with their glowing colours, it

took on quite another appearance; it seemed freed from all earthly

taint, the embodiment of the ancient sacred legend, repeated in all

religions and among all races of mankind, of the victory of light over

darkness.

Rodenberg slowly approached the high altar, and as he did so he became

aware of a kneeling female figure, hitherto concealed by a column from

his observation. It was no peasant: a gown of dark silk fell in folds

upon the ground, and beneath the veil of black lace that had been

thrown over the head there was a gleam as of red gold which Michael

knew only too well. He paused as if stayed by a spell. Was this a freak

of his fancy which was always bringing up before him the same image?

Just then the lady, roused by the sound of his footstep, turned her

head; an exclamation of surprise that was almost terror escaped her

lips. Those were Hertha's eyes gazing at him.

It was surely a fate that had brought these two together for the second

time in a lonely Alpine village, at an hour when each had believed the

other miles away,--at least thus this unexpected meeting seemed to

them. Both so lost their self-possession that neither observed the

other's embarrassment; there was a pause, which Michael was the first

to break. "I am sorry to have disturbed you, Countess Steinrueck; I

thought the church was empty, and did not perceive you until this

moment."

Hertha slowly arose from her knees, conscious that her exclamation, her

apparent dismay, called for some explanation. She had been lost in

contemplation of the picture; she could not have told how long she had

been gazing at Saint Michael, when suddenly he whom the saint suggested

stood before her. There was a tremor in her voice as she rejoined, "I

was, indeed, surprised. His reverence had not told me that you also

were to be his guest."

"I arrived unexpectedly only half an hour ago, and had not heard of

your being here, having been told only that you, with the Countess your

mother, were at Steinrueck."

"We both meant to come to Saint Michael," said Hertha, who by this time

had regained her self-possession, "but my mother was taken ill,--not

seriously, however,--yet I came with some anxiety. It was her express

wish that at least one member of our family should be present at the

festival and at the consecration of her gift, and so I yielded to her

desire."

Michael uttered a few words of condolence and sympathy, mere phrases,

which fell mechanically from his lips and were scarcely heeded. He did

not look at Hertha as he spoke, and she avoided glancing at him.

Instinctively their looks refused to encounter each other; they dwelt

upon the picture, now fully illumined by the setting sun, which,

streaming through the side windows into the nave of the church, cast a

broad band of golden light upon the high altar.

The picture had none of the traditional setting of its predecessor: no

circle of angelic heads looked down from above; no flames flickered up

from the abyss; the two life-size figures were alone within the frame,

each powerful and effective in its way. Above them arched the clear

shining heavens; beneath them yawned a rocky gulf, the abode of eternal

night.

Dashed from on high, on the very edge of the abyss, Satan was writhing

upwards with the last desperate effort of a conquered foe not in the

guise of the horned dragon-like monster of the legend, but in a human

form of strange demoniac beauty, with dark wings like those of a bird

of night. The face expressed agony, rage, and at the same time horror

of the power that had hurled him to destruction; while in the upturned

eyes there was the hopeless despair of a lost soul conscious of the

light that had been radiant about it, but to be henceforth quenched in

eternal night. It was Lucifer, once the Son of the Morning, and now

showing in his ruin a gleam of his former splendour.

Above him, in the clear heavens, Saint Michael, in glittering mail, was

sustained by two mighty wings, like those of an eagle, and like an

eagle he was swooping down upon the foe. In his right hand flashed the

sword of flame, and flame also flashed from his large blue eyes, while

his hair, loosened by his impetuous flight, waved above his brow. His

look, his bearing, bore witness to the battle that had been fought, and

yet the entire figure of the archangel was as if bathed in the halo of

glory that beamed about the strong, victorious champion of light.

"The picture produces a totally different effect in these

surroundings," said Hertha, her gaze still fixed upon it. "Much more

solemn, and much more powerful! The archangel has something terrible in

his aspect; one can almost feel the fiery breath of annihilation

proceeding from him. I am only afraid that the peasants will not

comprehend this conception; they may perhaps regret the solemn

indifference of the old picture."

"Ah, you do not know our mountaineers," rejoined Rodenberg. "This is

just the picture that they will comprehend, as they could no other, for

this is their Saint Michael, who sweeps in wind and storm above their

mountains and valleys, and whose lightnings flash destruction. This is

not the heavenly champion of the ecclesiastical legend, but the

archangel of the popular faith in his original form. You thought me

heretical once because I saw in the story the old Pagan worship of

light and the ancient German god of thunder. You see now that my

friend's conception coincided with my own: he has given something of

the aspect of Wotan to his saint."

"And Professor Wehlau inoculated you both with these ideas," Hertha

interposed, reproachfully. "He cannot endure the thought that his son

has painted a genuinely sacred picture; something Pagan and old German

must be discovered in it. As if the people would see in Saint Michael

only the avenger! Tomorrow, on the anniversary of his appearance, he

will be in their minds all beneficence, as he sweeps down from the

Eagle ridge; his sword of flame only ploughs the soil, and the sparks

of light that stream from it bestow the vigour and life of spring upon

the earth. I have been hearing the beautiful legend again today."

"Well, this year he seems to have determined to descend in storm," said

Michael. "The wind is rising on the heights, and in all probability the

Eagle ridge will send down to us in the night one of those spring

storms which are dreaded in all the country round. I know the signs."

As if in confirmation of his words, the wind outside grew louder and

fiercer. It sounded no longer like the tone of an organ, but like the

dull roar of distant breakers, now rising, now falling. The sun sank,

attended by a few light clouds, in a sea of flame, the splendour of

which filled the entire church. The faded old pictures on the walls,

the statues of saints on pillar and column, the crosses and church

banners, all looked instinct with a strange, ghostly life in the red

light. The carved angels upon the altar steps seemed to stir their

wings gently, and the broad band of gold which streamed across the

picture turned to crimson and grew deeper as it mounted higher.

Gradually the rocky abyss and Lucifer faded into shadow and darkness,

while Saint Michael's mighty form, with its eagle-wings, was still

surrounded by a halo of light.

There was a long silence. Hertha broke it, and there was an uncertain

sound, a hesitation in her voice as she began: "Captain Rodenberg, I

have a request to make of you."