He looked up surprised. "For me?"

"Certainly. I cannot stay any more than can Henri. We know that you are

ours at heart, and that only compulsion keeps you among Germans. Break

loose from your bonds, and follow us to France!"

"What madness!" exclaimed Raoul, springing to his feet. "Now, when war

is imminent! It would be rank treachery!"

"No, it would be a bold, courageous step to take,--a fearless

confession of the truth. If you stay here you are false to yourself as

well as to others. What should you resign? A country where you always

have been, and always must be, a stranger, circumstances that have

become intolerable, and a grandfather with whom you are in open

warfare. The only one whom you have to consider--your mother--may,

indeed, grieve over the destruction of her schemes, but she never would

grieve over such a step on your part."

"My name is Steinrueck," said Raoul, gloomily. "You seem to forget that,

Heloise."

"Yes, that is your name, but you are a Montigny from head to heel. You

have often boasted to us that this was so; why deny it now? Is your

father's name to dictate to you what you must think and feel? Has not

your mother's blood an equal right? It draws you in every fibre towards

her land, to her people, and should the holiest force in nature be

outraged and denied? They would compel you to fight against us. _That_

would be 'rank treachery,'--a use to which you never can allow yourself

to be put."

Raoul had turned away; he would fain have been deaf to her words, but

yet he drank them in eagerly. These were his own thoughts as they had

besieged him day after day, refusing to be banished.

The only thing that could now be his safeguard he did not possess,--a

sense of duty. Duty had always been to him a ghastly phantom, and thus

it appeared to him now; but it possessed the power to appall.

"Hush, Heloise!" he said, hoarsely. "I must not listen,--nay, I will

not listen. Let me go."

And in fact he turned as if to leave the room, but Heloise approached

him and laid her hand upon his arm. Her voice was full of eloquent

entreaty, and there was the soft veiled look in her eyes which he knew

but too well.

"Come with us, Raoul. You will be consumed in this wretched struggle

with yourself. It will be your ruin, and I--ah, do you think I can

endure to part from you? that I shall suffer less than your mother in

knowing you in the ranks of our foes? Follow us to France."

"Heloise, spare me!" The young Count made a desperate effort to escape;

in vain. Sweeter and more alluring rang the tones from which he could

not flee. The toils of the glittering serpent were thrown more and more

closely around him.

"Ah, he will find means to bend you to his will, that inexorable old

man. Escape from him before he makes good his threat. War is not yet

declared. You are still free to act. Procure your leave from the

Foreign Office, no matter under what pretext. When you are far away,

when orders can no longer reach you----"

"Never! never!" exclaimed Raoul. He felt himself about to succumb, and

his sense of honour, all of it that was left, revolted. His

grandfather's image arose before him,--the 'inexorable old man' with

scorn in his eyes. Once more it won the victory over the threatened

loss of his love, once more it snatched him from danger.

"Never!" he repeated. "I could not live beneath such a burden, even

beside you, Heloise. Farewell!"

He hurried to the door, where he encountered Henri Clermont, who had

just returned from a walk, and who would have detained him.

"Whither so fast, Raoul? Have you not a moment to give me?"

"No!" the young Count gasped. "I must go on the instant. Farewell!"

He rushed away. Clermont looked after him, surprised, and then turned

to his sister: "What ails the fellow? why is he in such desperate

haste?"

"It is his reply to my suggestion that he should follow us to France,"

Heloise replied, in a deeply irritated tone. "You heard it. He bade me

farewell."

Henri shrugged his shoulders. "He will be here again to-morrow. I

should suppose you would be aware by this time of your power over him.

He has resigned Hertha Steinrueck and a princely fortune for your sake.

You he never will resign!"

* * * * *

The storm had burst: war was declared, and events followed one another

with such rapidity that all personal considerations, all personal

interests, were overwhelmed by them.

In the house occupied by the Marquis de Montigny everything was packed

and ready for departure. He had remained to share the last cares of the

Ambassador, and was now to leave the capital in a few hours. He seemed

still to be awaiting some one, for from time to time he went to the

window and looked out impatiently. At last the servant announced young

Count Steinrueck, who instantly appeared.

Raoul looked unusually pale, and his air was strangely disturbed, but

it passed unnoticed by his uncle; at that time every one was in a state

of feverish agitation. He held out his hand to the young man.

"Did you get my note? I am just about to start, but I cannot go without

a few words with you."

"I was coming, at all events, to bid you good-by," replied Raoul. "My

mother will be inconsolable at the idea of not having taken leave of

you."

"I must go back to Paris immediately," Montigny declared, with a shrug;

"but your mother has written to me from Steinrueck, and it is of the

contents of her letter that I wish to speak to you."

The young Count braced himself to meet what he knew was coming.

Hortense, who had not been able to see her brother before leaving town,

had poured out her heart to him by letter, and a tempest from this

quarter was to be expected. In fact, the Marquis, without any

circumlocution, went directly to the point:

"I hear that your betrothal to Hertha is annulled. It is impossible for

me to understand how you could resign her, and I fear you will only too

soon appreciate what you have lost. Still, after all, that is your own

affair. But my sister writes me that you intend to marry the lady, Frau

von Nerac, who has caused the breach, and she is in despair at the

thought. I, however, assured her, in my letter of farewell, that she

might be quite easy upon that point, that matters would never go so

far."

"And why not?" Raoul burst forth. "Am I a child in leading-strings, to

be dictated to? I am legally of age; you all seem to forget this; and

in spite of all opposition Heloise is mine, and shall not be snatched

from me."

There was more than mere obstinate determination in his words: they

were uttered with a passionate recklessness that revealed the feverish

agitation of the speaker so plainly that Montigny involuntarily

softened his voice, and, taking his nephew's hand, drew him down to a

seat beside him.

"First of all, Raoul, promise me to be more calm. If my mere hint is

met by such excitement on your part, how can you endure the whole

truth? Had I suspected that you were so deeply entangled I should have

spoken long ago. The certainty of war does away with many of the

considerations that hitherto have kept me silent. Nevertheless, I must

ask you to give me your word that no one, not even your mother, shall

learn what I am about to tell you."

His grave, calm words, in which there was a distinct tone of

compassion, did not fail of their effect, but Raoul made no reply, and

the Marquis continued:

"I threatened Clermont some months ago that if he did not withdraw from

all intimacy with you I would open your eyes, and he was prudent enough

to induce you from that time to conceal your relations with him.

Hortense and I have both been deceived, but I shall not permit my

sister's only son to fall a victim to such snares. You do not know who

and what this Clermont is----"

"Uncle Leon," Raoul interrupted him, eagerly and with intense emotion,

"do not go on, I entreat you. I do not wish to know. Spare me!"

Montigny looked at him in surprise and dismay. "You do not wish to

know? You seem to be partly aware of what I would say, and still you

could----"

"No, no, I do but suspect, and that only since yesterday. By chance--do

not ask me----"

"Do you fear to have the bandage torn from your eyes?" Montigny asked,

sternly. "Nevertheless, it must be done. You know Clermont and his

sister only as private individuals, spending their time in travelling

because their income does not suffice for a life in Paris suited to

their inclinations. The purpose of their stay here is much less

innocent. Their errand is a means of which every government must avail

itself, but to which no man of honour can ever lend himself. Only those

to whom any means for maintaining a superficial position in society is

welcome ever accept such employment. That those thus engaged in this

instance are really the scions of an ancient noble family only makes

their trade the more disgraceful. I think you understand me."

Raoul did indeed seem to understand, although he made a hasty gesture

of dissent. "You are speaking of Henri; you may be right, but Heloise

is innocent,--she has no share in her brother's acts,--she knows

nothing of them. Do not slander her; I will not believe you!"

"You must believe facts. I tell you, and I vouch for what I say, that

in the 'instructions' given the brother and sister Frau von Nerac has

the principal part to play, because as a woman she is less liable to be

suspected, and in consequence has greater freedom of action. I can give

you proofs, can tell you what amount has been paid----"

"No, no!" groaned Raoul. "For God's sake hush, or you will drive me

mad!"

"She seems to have driven you mad indeed, or you never could have

sacrificed Hertha to her," said Montigny, bitterly. "You were nothing

but a tool in the hands of the pair, a key to open to them doors that

would else have been closed against them. Through you they hoped for

admission to military circles, perhaps even for information in

diplomatic quarters. Hence Clermont forced his friendship upon you, and

his sister played a part towards you which you unfortunately took for

earnest, blindly falling into the trap thus laid. Surely you are now

cured, and will think no more of marriage with a hired spy!"

Raoul winced at the word, then sprang up and hurried to the door.

Montigny barred his way. "Where are you going?"

"In search of them!"

"Folly!" said the Marquis, detaining him. "Where would be the use?

Contempt is the only punishment for such villany."

Raoul made no reply, but the pallid face which he turned towards his

uncle wore an expression that startled the elder man. "What is the

matter? This is not merely the anguish of betrayed affection; you are

in mortal dread--of what? Tell me----"

"I cannot! Do not keep me here!" cried the young Count, releasing

himself violently from his uncle's detaining hand and rushing from the

room without a word of farewell.

Montigny looked after him with a dark frown. "What can this mean? I

wish I had spoken before."

* * * * *

All was made ready for departure in the Steinrueck abode. The general

was to join his corps on this very evening, while the young Count was

to remain behind for a few days. He had on the previous day received

orders to report to the military authorities. His grandfather, in this

instance as always, had carried out his determination in spite of

Raoul's opposition.

For the last few days the general had been so incessantly occupied that

he had scarcely seen his grandson. On the previous evening he had

attended a military council held for the last time before the departure

of the army, and lasting far into the night. He reached home towards

morning, and when, after a couple of hours of sleep, he again entered

his study, all kinds of despatches and messages were awaiting him

there, and through the forenoon one matter after another engaged his

time and attention in addition to the arrangements for departure. It

needed the old Count's iron strength of physical and mental

constitution to meet the requirements of the hour.

It was noon when Captain Rodenberg made his appearance. He had been

here on the previous day upon some military errand to the general, on

which occasion another of his superior officers had been present, and

the interview had been of an entirely formal nature. To-day also

Michael's demeanour was in strict accordance with military rule, but

instead of the message which the general expected to receive by him he

said, "I have no message to deliver to your Excellency to-day, but the

business that brings me here is of such importance that I must beg for

an immediate hearing. Will you allow me to close the door, that we may

not be interrupted?"

Steinrueck looked surprised at this strange prelude, and asked, "Is the

affair in question connected with the service?"

"It is."

"Then close the door."

Michael complied, and then returned to his place. There was an

agitation in his air which it evidently needed all his self-command to

control, and which his voice betrayed as he said, "I delivered to your

Excellency yesterday a document that was of the greatest importance. My

orders were strict to give it to no one save yourself, and not to let

it leave my hands except to place it in your Excellency's."

"Certainly, I received it from you. Were you aware of its contents?"

"I was, your Excellency. The paper was in my handwriting, as I acted as

secretary during its composition. It concerns the initiative movements

of the Steinrueck corps; of course my orders were strict as to its

delivery."

"And I confirm that delivery; the paper is in my desk."

"Is it really there?"

"To what can this lead?" asked the general, sharply. "I tell you that I

locked it up there with my own hands."

"And I pray your Excellency to convince yourself that it is still where

you placed it. The immense importance of the matter must excuse my

audacity. I willingly incur the reproach of presumption to be assured

of the safety of this document."

Steinrueck shrugged his shoulders impatiently, but he took the key which

he always carried about him and went to his writing-desk. The lock was

a complicated one, and usually yielded with reluctance to the key.

To-day the lid of the desk sprang open at a slight touch. The general

changed colour.

"The desk has been broken into," Michael said, in a low voice, pointing

to the key-hole, which showed evident signs of having been tampered

with. "I thought so."

Steinrueck said not a word, nor did he waste an instant upon an

examination of the papers that lay before him, and which were

probably of little importance. He hurriedly pressed a spot in the

wooden side of the desk, to all appearance identical with the rest of

the partition, but which instantly slipped aside, revealing an

ingeniously--constructed secret drawer, now, to Steinrueck's dismay,

entirely empty.

"This is the work of a traitor!" the Count exclaimed, angrily. "No one

except myself is aware of this secret drawer, or how to open it.

Captain Rodenberg, what do you know of this robbery? You have some

suspicion, some trace. Tell me!"

Michael was wont, in speaking to his superior officers, to be brief and

to the point; to-day he departed from his rule and went into detail, as

if to prepare his hearer for what was to come before it should be

uttered.

"Late last evening I was sent, with a despatch that had just arrived,

to the conference at which your Excellency was assisting. On my return

I was obliged to pass by your house upon the garden side. As I turned

the corner--it was about midnight--I saw a man disappear through the

small door in the wall beside the grated iron gate. I should hardly

have noticed his doing so--the servants probably had a right to use

this entrance--had I not thought that I recognized the figure, although

I saw it but for a moment beneath the light of the street-lamp."

"And who did you think it was?" the general asked, with intense

eagerness.

"The brother of Frau von Nerac,--Henri Clermont."

"Clermont? I always have considered him as an adventurer, and have

closed my doors against him. You are right: his appearance on that spot

at that hour was more than suspicious. Did you not follow up the clue?"

"I did, your Excellency, but it ended where all was above

suspicion--or, at least, seemed to be so."

He laid significant emphasis upon the last words, but Steinrueck paid no

heed; he insisted, impatiently, "Go on! go on!"

"' I tried to persuade myself that I had been mistaken, and walked on,

but the matter left me no rest. I turned after a while, and as I walked

around the house I noticed a strange light in your Excellency's study;

it was not the light of a lamp, but like that of a solitary candle

burning at the farther end of the room. It might well be accident, but,

my suspicions roused by the sight of Clermont, I determined to have the

matter explained at all hazards. I rang the bell, and told the servant

that in passing I had observed a singular light in the study, which

might possibly proceed from the beginning of a fire, and advised his

seeing to it immediately. The man was startled, and hurried away,

returning after a few moments, however, to inform me that I was

mistaken; he begged pardon, but there was only a single candle burning

in the room, and there was no one there except----"

"Well? Why hesitate? Go on! Who was there?"

"Count Raoul Steinrueck."

The general's face was ghastly pale, and his breath came short and

quick as he said, "My grandson--here?"

"Yes, your Excellency."

"At midnight?"

"At midnight."

A long pause ensued; neither man spoke. The eyes of the old Count

looked strangely fixed; the dim, dark foreboding that had once before

assailed him again emerged from the gloom and took on shape and form.

But this dark presage faded; he collected himself and repelled the

horrible thought.

"Then we must apply to Raoul," he said, regaining his composure. "I

will send for him."

"The Count is not at home," interposed Michael.

"Then he is at the Foreign Office; I will send there instantly. This

matter must be cleared up; there is not a minute to lose."

He stretched out his hand towards the bell, but suddenly paused,

encountering Rodenberg's glance. There must have been something

terrible in the young man's eyes, for the general slowly withdrew his

outstretched hand and said, in a low tone, "What is it? Out with it!"

"I have bad news for you, Count Steinrueck,--news hard to bear; you must

prepare for the worst."

The general passed his hand across his forehead and gazed as if

spell-bound at the speaker. "The worst? Where is Raoul?"

"Gone!--to France!"

Steinrueck did not start, did not even exclaim. He put his hand to his

heart without a word, and would have fallen if Michael had not

supported him as he sank into a seat.

Several minutes passed thus. Michael stood silent beside the arm-chair,

where the Count leaned back half unconscious. The young officer felt

that any word, any offer of help, would be useless. At last he stooped

over him.

"Your Excellency!"

There was no reply. The general seemed to know nothing of what was

around him.

"Count Steinrueck!"

Still the same distressing silence. The Count leaned back motionless,

his eyes gazing into vacancy, his labouring breath the only sign that

he still lived.

"Grandfather!"

The word came gently and with hesitation from the lips that had

resolved never to utter it, but it was spoken, and it dissolved the old

man's icy torpor. Steinrueck started, and suddenly buried his face in

his hands.

"Grandfather, look at me!" Michael at last broke forth. "Break this

fearful silence; say at least one word to me."

Obeying as if mechanically, the general dropped his hands and looked up

at the young man. "Michael," he groaned, "you are avenged!"

It was indeed a Nemesis. Upon this very spot the son, tortured by the

disgrace of his father's memory, had declared to his pitiless

grandfather, "Your scutcheon is not so lofty and unimpeachable as the

sun in the heavens; a day may come when it will wear a stain that you

cannot efface, and then you will feel what an implacable judge you have

been." The day had come, and had felled at one stroke the mighty old

oak that had defied so many tempests.

"Courage!" said Michael. "You must not succumb now. Remember what is at

stake. We must devise some plan."

It was the right appeal to make. The thought of the peril that menaced

him roused the general from his dull despair. He arose, at first with

difficulty, but as he stood once more erect he seemed to recover his

self-possession.

"If I could but overtake the scoundrel! With my own hands I would force

him--but there is no time. The hour is fixed for my arrival at

headquarters."

"Then send me," interposed Michael. "Orders from my general in relation

to a secret and important mission will relieve me from all other duty.

Railway travel is obstructed and delayed everywhere by the

transportation of troops; it takes double time to make even a short

journey. My uniform and your orders will place every military train at

my disposal; I shall overtake Raoul this side of the border."

"Then you know which way he has gone?"

"Yes, and I have kept trace of the Clermonts also. I would not, I could

not give utterance to a suspicion founded upon mere possibilities so

long as proof was lacking, and I was upon duty from which I was

relieved only an hour ago, when I hurried to Clermont's lodgings. He

had departed with his sister, and by the South German line, as being

the swiftest. I drove directly to that station, which was thronged with

troops for transportation. The morning train had already left, the

mid-day train was just ready to depart. How far it could go and what

delays it might encounter could not be foreseen. As I was speaking with

an official I saw Raoul on the other side of the platform, alone and

hurrying along beside the carriages, in which he seemed to be searching

for some one. Suddenly the final signal was given, he tore open the

first door at hand, entered the train, and was whirled away. I could

not overtake him, the breadth of the railway-station was between us,

but I hurried to the office to learn for what point the last single

passenger had purchased his ticket, and was told for Strasburg."

The general leaned heavily upon the back of the arm-chair by which he

stood as he listened to this hasty report, but he lost not a syllable

of it; and at the last word, which might well have crushed him, he

stood erect again with much of his old vigour.

"You are right. There is still a chance of overtaking him." He did not

mention Raoul's name. "If any one can come to the rescue it is you,

Michael! This I know. Recover the papers from him, living--or dead!"

"Grandfather!" exclaimed the young officer, recoiling.

"On my head be the consequences. You shall be scathless. I once

required you to spare my blood flowing in the veins of each of

you,--now I tell you not to spare the traitor. Wrest his booty from

him,--you know what is at stake,--wrest it from him, living or dead!"

The words were terrible, and more terrible still was the expression in

the old man's eyes, gleaming with no ray of pity, but filled with the

iron resolution of the inexorable judge. It was plain that he would

have sacrificed his grandson, the heir of his name, who had once been

so dear to his heart, without the quiver of an eyelash.

"I shall do my duty," Michael said, in an undertone that, nevertheless,

had in it an echo of that other voice.

The general went to his writing-table and took up a pen; his hand

trembled and almost refused to perform its duty, but he controlled the

weakness and wrote a few lines, which he handed to the captain.

"I trust everything to you, Michael. Go! Perhaps you will succeed in

saving me from the worst. If I hear nothing from you in the course of

the next twenty-four hours I must speak, and must declare the last

Steinrueck----"

He could not finish the sentence; his voice broke, but he grasped

Michael's hand in a convulsive clasp. The repudiated son of the outcast

daughter was to be the saviour of the honour of the family; he was the

old Count's last, sole hope, and the young man answered the clasp of

his hand,--

"Rely upon me, grandfather! Have you not said that I can do all that

can be done? You shall hear from me at your head-quarters. Farewell!"

* * * * *

The confusion and bustle reigning in the South-German railway-station

at E---- had increased incredibly, for the comparatively insignificant

little town was the point of meeting of three railway lines, and lay in

the direct road to the Rhine. Trains for the transportation of troops

were running day and night, and the town itself was crowded with

soldiers.

Some hundred paces from the station there was a third-rate inn, usually

frequented by peasants only, and certainly no fit stopping-place for

the strangers who had reached it an hour previously,--a young lady,

apparently of high rank, accompanied by an elderly priest and a

servant. The apartment to which they had been shown was neither

comfortable nor clean, and yet it was the only shelter that they could

find.

The lady, who sat at a table leaning her head upon her hand, was in

mourning, and looked very grave and pale, although this in no wise

detracted from the beauty of the face beneath her crape veil. The

priest was seated opposite her at the table, and had just said, "I am

afraid we must stay here for a while; your servant has searched the

entire town: all the hotels are overcrowded, and various private

mansions are occupied by strangers. You might perhaps endure this house

for a night, but any longer stay would be impossible for you, Countess

Hertha."

"But why?" asked Hertha, calmly. "We shall have no choice to-morrow

either, and at a time like the present we must yield to necessity."

The priest of St. Michael, for it was he, looked in amazement at the

petted young Countess, now so ready to content herself with

accommodations that would under other circumstances have been

indignantly rejected by her.

"But there really was no necessity," he observed. "Michael wrote

expressly that he could not be here with his regiment until the day

after to-morrow, and that he would telegraph you beforehand. Until then

we might have stayed quietly in Berkheim."

Hertha shook her head. "Berkheim is full four leagues away. The orders

might be changed, the telegram might be delayed, and then I should be

too late. Only here on the spot can I be sure of the time of the

arrival of the regiment. Do not blame me, your reverence! I must bid

Michael farewell; when he is going perhaps to death, even the bare

possibility of missing him is terrible!"

Valentin did not look inclined to blame her, but he marvelled at the

dominion which Michael exercised over the proud, wayward girl.

"I am thankful that I was able to come with you," said he. "The pastor

of Tannberg was quite ready to send me his chaplain to take my place

for a while, and I can conduct you back to Berkheim."

Hertha gratefully held out her hand to him. "I have no one but you! My

guardian is angry with me, as I foresaw that he would be. He never even

answered my letter, and Aunt Hortense was so furious when she learned

of my betrothal to Michael, that I could not possibly remain a day

longer at Steinrueck, loath as I was to leave my mother's grave so soon.

I am grieved to have caused your reverence so much trouble and

exertion. I am afraid that your accommodations are even worse than

mine."

"For the present I have a room upon the ground-floor which certainly is

not very inviting," said Valentin, smiling, "but the host has promised

me for the night the gable-room in the upper story, since the strangers

now occupying it will leave by the evening train. The time for its

departure is at hand; I will go and attend to matters."

He left the room, and Hertha walked to the window, which she opened

wide. The day had been very hot, and the evening brought no

refreshment; the air was sultry and oppressive. Not a star was visible

in the clouded heavens, and on the distant horizon there was from time

to time a gleam of lightning, unveiling the dim mountain-range. Near at

hand sparkled the lights of the railway-station, and close to the house

the river rushed, seeming to emerge from the darkness only to be lost

in it again. The ripple and dash of its waters were the only signs of

its existence.

The young Countess leaned her glowing forehead against the

window-frame, resolving to be steadfast and brave. Michael should see

no grief that could make departure harder for him; but now that she was

alone she could weep her fill. Her sense of loss in her mother's death,

the pain occasioned by the strife with her family, all faded in her

anguish for the lover whom perhaps she had won only to lose again

forever.

Suddenly she heard voices close beneath her window. The host was

standing at the inn door with a stranger, and Hertha could hear that

they were speaking of the gable-room. The innkeeper asked civilly when

the room would be vacant, as some one was waiting to occupy it, and the

stranger replied that he had just learned at the station that the

evening train would not leave for two hours; for so long he and the

lady with him must retain the room. His voice attracted the young

Countess's attention. She knew that fluent German spoken with a slight

foreign accent, and in another moment she recognized, by the light of

the lamp just lit before the house, the speaker, Henri Clermont, who,

since he spoke of a lady with him, must be on his way back to France

with his sister.

Hertha retired from the window with a pained sensation. Until a short

time previously she had had but the merest superficial acquaintance

with these people, meeting them from time to time in society. Only

lately had she learned of Raoul's relations with Frau von Nerac. A

chance meeting was certainly to be avoided, and the young Countess

resolved not to leave her room for the next two hours.

Meanwhile, bustle and noise were on the increase at the

railway-station. Trains came and went, engines whistled, and the

platform was crowded with travellers and onlookers, making inquiries or

condemned to an involuntary delay.

This last was the fate that had befallen the passengers who had arrived

half an hour previously by a train already delayed several hours. They

were told that it could not proceed immediately, since, in addition to

the military transport which was just gliding into the station, other

troops were expected, and the passenger-trains must wait until the road

was clear again. All had patiently resigned themselves to

circumstances, with the exception of a solitary passenger, who

evidently was in great haste and found the delay hard to endure. He had

retired to a dark, secluded part of the station, where he was pacing to

and fro with signs of intense impatience, consulting his watch every

five minutes. Suddenly he paused, and then withdrew into still deeper

shadow, for an officer who had arrived with the military train came

talking with a railway official, directly towards where he stood.

"The express--train passed through with but little delay, then?" asked

the officer. "But the passenger-train that arrived at noon is still

here? Are its passengers here also?"

"Certainly, Herr Captain," replied the official. "They are still

waiting, and must wait for some time yet."

The solitary passenger seemed to recognize the officer's voice, and to

wish to avoid meeting him, for he turned hastily and walked in another

direction. His sudden movement, however, betrayed his presence to the

sharp eyes of the officer searching the gloom. He briefly thanked the

official, and in a few steps overtook the stranger, and barred his way.

"Count Raoul Steinrueck!"

The encounter was most unwelcome to the young Count, this was plain,

but he thought it purely accidental,--the captain was doubtless on his

way with his regiment to the seat of war. He stood still, and asked,

bluntly, "What do you wish, Captain Rodenberg?"

"First of all, I wish for a private interview with you."

"I regret that I am in great haste."

"So am I. But I trust that the matter I have to settle can be disposed

of briefly."

Raoul hesitated an instant, and then called out to the official, who

still stood near, "How long will the passenger-train be delayed?"

"For an hour at least," the man replied, shrugging his shoulders and

walking away. Raoul turned to Rodenberg.

"Well, then, I am ready; but here at the station, where every word can

be overheard, we cannot----"

"No, but over there I see a small inn. We can go there; it is close at

hand."

"As you please, since the matter admits of no delay. I beg you to be

very brief, however, since, as you see, I am on my way elsewhere," the

young Count said, haughtily, turning in the desired direction. Michael

followed him closely, never taking his eyes from him, and evidently

surprised by his ready compliance.

They reached the house, and entered the gloomy, dim inn-parlour, at

present deserted. The host showed them into a small adjoining room,

which seemed appropriated to the use of the better sort of guests. Ho

brought a light, and then, finding they had no further orders to give,

vanished. They were left alone.

Raoul stood in the centre of the room. He was ghastly pale; there was a

feverish gleam in his eyes, and with all his effort at self-control he

could not conceal his intense agitation.

"Time and place seem to me but ill chosen for an explanation," he

began. "I should certainly have called you to an account later with

regard to the disclosures made by you to my grandfather in the name of

the Countess Hertha."

"No need to refer to that now," Michael interrupted him. "I have a

question to put to you. You are on your way to Strasburg; what do you

want there?"

"What does this mean?" exclaimed Raoul, indignantly. "You forget that

you are speaking to Count Steinrueck."

"I speak in the name of General Steinrueck, who has sent me to recover

the papers which you have with you, and the value of which you know as

well as I do."

The young Count started as if he had received a blow. "The papers? My

grandfather believes----?"

"He and I believe! And I think we are justified in so doing. Pray let

us have no circumlocution. I have but little time to lose, and am

resolved to use force if necessary. Will you compel me to do so?"

Raoul gazed at him as if dazed; suddenly he covered his face with his

hands and groaned, "Ah, this is terrible!"

"Spare me this farce!" said Rodenberg, harshly. "It can avail nothing.

The general's desk has been broken open, the document stolen, and the

servant who unexpectedly entered the room found the thief----"

A savage exclamation from Raoul interrupted him; the young Count seemed

about to throw himself upon him. Michael raised his hand. "Control

yourself, Count Steinrueck; you have lost the right to be treated with

any consideration."

"But it is a lie!" Raoul burst forth, violently. "Not I--but Henri

Clermont----"

"I have no doubt that Clermont was the instigator. I myself saw him

lurking in the garden at midnight. But another must have lent his hand

to the shameful work. A stranger, a Frenchman, could hardly have gained

access to the general's rooms."

"But he could to mine. He had the key of the garden gate and of my

bedroom. My grandfather always disliked him, as did my mother also of

late: we chose to escape the perpetual reproach that was sure to follow

Henri's visits. I did not dream of his vile purpose in asking me to

give him the keys."

Michael leaned against the table with folded arms, gazing steadily at

the speaker; it was plain that he did not believe him.

"The son of the house then opened its doors to the spy? And how did he

find the secret drawer, so well concealed in the desk? How did he find

the spring that alone could open it?"

"My own desk, which he knew well, is similarly arranged. It was given

me by my grandfather, who had it made for me after the model of his."

"Ah, indeed! Go on."

Raoul clinched his hands convulsively. "Rodenberg, do not goad me too

far. You see in me a desperate man. You must believe me, you must

disabuse my grandfather of his terrible suspicion, or I never would

answer questions put in such a tone and with such an air. I came home

last night late and found the doors, which are always locked between my

rooms and the general's, open. Since we alone have the keys opening

them, my suspicions were awakened. I went to the study, and found the

man whom I had called my friend----"

"At his work," Michael concluded the sentence. "Apparently you did not

interrupt it, since he found time to complete the robbery."

"He had already completed it. As I stood in utter dismay, crushed by

the frightful discovery, we heard the door of the antechamber open, and

approaching footsteps. In mortal terror Henri clasped my arm and

conjured me to save him. Discovery would be his ruin, as I knew, and I

hurried to the door and prevented the servant's entrance by telling him

of my presence. When the man had gone and I turned round, Clermont had

escaped."

"And you did not pursue him and wrest his booty from him? You did not

tell the general what had happened?"

Raoul's eyes were downcast, and he replied, scarcely audibly, "He was

my nearest friend, the brother of the woman whom I loved to madness,

and whom I then believed guiltless. The next morning I hurried to them;

they were gone, and an hour afterwards I made a terrible discovery;

then, reckless of all other considerations, I set out to pursue them."

He paused as if exhausted. Michael had listened with apparent

composure, except for a slight contemptuous quiver of the lip. Now he

stood erect. "Have you finished? My patience is at an end; I did not

come here to listen to fanciful tales. Give me the papers, or I shall

be forced to resort to violence."

"You do not believe me?" exclaimed Raoul. "You still do not believe

me?"

"No, I do not believe one word of this tissue of falsehood. For the

last time, then, give me the papers, or by the eternal God I will obey

the order which my grandfather gave me when I left him,--'Wrest the

papers from him, living or--dead!'"

A shiver ran through Raoul's frame. Here it was again,--the strange

resemblance. He knew those flashing eyes, that iron tone; he seemed to

see his grandfather's self before him pronouncing upon him sentence of

death.

"Fulfil your orders, then!" he said, dully; "and then you will know

that the dead did not lie."

There was something in this dull submission that had a more powerful

effect than could have been produced by the most passionate

asseverations. Michael was impressed by it. He knew that Raoul

possessed sufficient physical courage to defend to the death what he

did not choose to resign, had it been in his possession; and, stepping

up close to him, he laid his hand upon his arm.

"Count Raoul Steinrueck, in the name of the man from whom we both are

sprung I demand of you the truth. The papers upon which the safety of

our army depends are not in your possession?"

"No!" said Raoul, firmly; and once more his down cast eyes were lifted

to meet his questioner's gaze.

"And Clermont has them?"

"Doubtless they are in his hands."

"Then I am losing time here; he must be pursued and overtaken. The

train that brought me here leaves in half an hour. I must go to the

station."

He turned to go, but the young Count detained him. "Take me with you!

Give me a place in the military train. Our paths are the same----"

"No, they are not!" Michael interrupted him, coldly. "Stay behind,

Count Steinrueck. I may perhaps be compelled to demand the papers of

Herr von Clermont pistol in hand, and at the decisive moment you might

possibly remember again that he is your 'nearest friend,' and the

brother of the woman whom you 'love to madness.'"

"Rodenberg, I give you my word of honour----"

"_Your word of honour?_"

The emphasis that Michael gave to these words was so crushing that

Raoul stood mute, as the captain went on in the same pitiless tone,--

"If you have not been guilty of the worst of crimes you have permitted

it, and even shielded it from discovery. Either act is high treason;

the accomplice is as bad as the thief."

He went without a backward glance. As he passed through the hall a door

opened, and Valentin appeared, stood for a moment mute with

astonishment, and then advanced hastily. "Michael! Is this you?"

"Your reverence!" was the rejoinder, in the same tone of astonishment.

"You here?"

"That I ask you. You appointed the day after tomorrow, and if Hertha

had not in her anxiety hastened her journey----"

"Hertha here? With you? Where is she?" Michael eagerly interrupted him;

and when the priest pointed to the door in the upper story opening upon

the staircase, the young officer heard no more, but rushed up the

steps, tore open the door, and in another instant clasped Hertha in his

arms.

But this interview had to be as brief as it was passionately tender.

Rodenberg clasped his betrothed to his heart, but his first word to her

was one of farewell.

"I cannot stay. I only wanted to see you, to snatch one moment of

bliss. I must go."

"Go?" Hertha repeated, clinging to him, half dazed with sudden joy and

dread. "Now, in this first moment of reunion? You cannot."

"I must," he insisted. "Perhaps we may see each other again the day

after to-morrow."

"Only perhaps! And if we do not? Can you not spare me a moment for

farewell?"

"My darling, you cannot dream what it costs me to leave you now; but

duty claims me. I must obey."

Duty! Hertha had heard the word often enough from the general's lips,

and she comprehended its significance. Her eyes filled with tears, but

she made no further effort to detain her lover. Once more he pressed

his lips to hers.

"Farewell! One thing more,--Raoul is here. Possibly he may attempt to

see you if he should hear of your presence in the house. Promise me

neither to see him nor to speak with him."

A contemptuous expression flitted across the young girl's face. "_Her_

presence would forbid on his part any such attempt as you fear."

"Whose presence? Whom do you mean?" asked Michael, with intense

eagerness.

"Heloise von Nerac!"

"What? here? And Clermont----"

"He is with her."

"Thank God! Where--where are they?"

"Just above us, in the gable-room. But tell me----"

"I cannot! Do not ask me, do not follow me. _Everything_ depends upon

my finding them, and then--then I can stay with you."

He hurried from the room, past the priest, who looked after him in

dismayed surprise; nor could Hertha in the least understand this scene,

although she clung for comfort to Michael's last words,--'Then I can

stay with you.'

The gable-room, in which a single candle was burning, was even more

scantily furnished than were the other rooms in the house, but the

strangers occupying it, who had arrived by the noonday train, had taken

possession of it without complaint, since they needed it for only a few

hours. They were each in travelling-dress, apparently waiting

impatiently for the signal for departure. Henri Clermont was pacing the

room restlessly, whilst Heloise sat leaning back in an old arm-chair.

"What a delay this is!" she exclaimed, in despair. "It seems as if we

never should get away from here. It will be impossible for us to cross

the borders tomorrow morning as we hoped."

"And it is entirely your fault," Henri interposed, irritably. "How

could you be guilty of such imprudence as to speak French just as we

were about to change cars? You might have known that the excited crowd

at the station would insult us."

"How could I know that the German mob was so irritable? And after all

there were only two or three who were insulting; the better sort took

our part. There was no need for the police to interfere as they did."

"True, but while matters were being adjusted the train moved off, and

we, hemmed in on every side, could not get to it. We have lost half a

day, when every minute is full of peril for us. Moreover, we have

attracted attention, and may be glad that we could disappear in this

wretched inn. We must not venture to show ourselves again at the

station until just before the train starts. They may be even now upon

our track."

"Impossible! Even if the discovery has been made, Raoul will be

silent."

"Raoul behaved like a madman. In another instant he would have called

for help, and betrayed me. Had I not whispered, 'Remember Heloise. If

you betray me she is lost to you!' he would not have let me go."

"And we have left him to bear the brunt of the tempest!"

Heloise's voice trembled as she spoke the words, but Henri shrugged his

shoulders.

"That can't be helped. It was either I or he; there was no other choice

when matters had gone so far."

The conversation was carried on of course in French, but in so low a

tone that not a word could be heard beyond the walls of the room. Now

Henri's voice sank to a whisper as he went close up to his sister.

"It was not easy for you to give him up, I know, but the reward is

worth the sacrifice. What I have here assures our entire future. We may

ask what we will, and they----"

He broke off suddenly and turned to the door, which was quietly opened.

Heloise started up with an exclamation of terror; the instant she

recognized the man standing on the threshold she knew that their

schemes and calculations were fruitless. Not in vain had been her dread

of those 'cold, hard eyes:' they brought ruin to her brother and

herself.

Rodenberg closed the door and approached the pair. "Herr von Clermont,

there is no need to tell you why I am here. I trust you will spare me

all explanation, and that a few minutes will suffice for the business

between us."

Clermont had grown very pale, but he made an effort to maintain his

composure.

"What do you mean, Captain Rodenberg? I do not understand you."

"Then I must be more explicit. I demand the papers which have been

stolen from General Steinrueck's desk. No need to put your hand to your

breast; you see I, too, have a pistol here, and I am probably the

better shot. Moreover, it might be uncomfortable for you to have shots

exchanged here; the station is very near, and is crowded with troops;

escape would be impossible. You had better resign yourself to

circumstances."

Clermont in fact dropped his hand from his breast and said through his

closed teeth, "And if I refuse to do so?"

"Then you must bear the consequences. War is declared, and a spy would

have but a short shrift. I leave you to choose. One word from me, and

you are lost."

"That word, however, you will not speak," said Clermont, with a sneer;

"for then I should have something to say which might not be exactly

agreeable to one of your generals in command."

The threat touched a sore spot, but Michael with instant presence of

mind deprived it of its point, rejoining, coolly, "You are mistaken;

Count Raoul Steinrueck is here with me, upon your track. He may well be

forgiven the heedlessness of a moment. But enough of this idle talk.

Must I use force? My shot will rouse the neighbourhood."

He stood, pistol in hand, gazing steadily at his opponent, who saw

clearly that the game was lost. Clermont was no coward in the usual

sense of the word, but he knew that strife with this man would be vain,

and his weapon, Raoul's share in his treachery, had been wrenched from

his hand. In fact, he believed that Raoul himself had revealed the

theft. After a moment's delay he slowly drew forth the papers from his

breast-pocket and handed them to the captain, who took them without

altering his menacing attitude.

"Retire to the window," he said, authoritatively. "I must see that the

papers are all here and intact."

Clermont obeyed, going to the window, where Heloise had already taken

refuge. Michael tore open the envelope which bore the general's

address, and which had apparently been opened. The superscription of

the papers revealed their contents, their seals were unbroken, and,

after a brief, keen scrutiny, he was satisfied that none had been

abstracted.

Meanwhile, Henri had whispered a few words to his sister, who now

timidly approached the captain. "Captain Rodenberg--we are in your

power."

The words sounded imploring and distressed, but as she confronted the

captain and raised her eyes to his, he encountered that strange gleam

which many men had found so perilous, and which had wrought Raoul's

ruin; it was harmless here.

"The way to the station lies open for your brother and yourself,

madame," said Michael, coldly. "I shall place no further obstacle in

your path; but allow me to hope that in future you will choose some

other country--not Germany--for the scene of your operations."

Heloise recoiled; his tone of utter contempt was worse than a blow.

As Rodenberg went down the stairs his old teacher came to meet him.

"Michael, what in heaven's name has been going on up there? Countess

Hertha has been in mortal terror, and so have I; but we did not venture

to follow you."

"Reassure Hertha, I pray your reverence, and tell her I shall be with

her in five minutes."

He spoke the words hurriedly as he passed the priest and went through

the inn-parlour to the little room where he had left Raoul.

The young Count was sitting at the table, his head leaning upon his

hands, in an attitude of despair. He looked up as the captain entered,

but his eyes were dull and lifeless.

"The peril is past," said Michael. "By chance Clermont and his sister

were in this very house. I forced him to relinquish his booty, and I

think I can answer for his silence, since no plotter is anxious to tell

of disgraceful schemes frustrated. For the sake of the honour of the

Steinrueck name, we too must hold our tongues. The name is saved from

disgrace, and there is nothing to prevent your return to your home,

Count Raoul; no one will ever know that the papers have been in hands

other than those for which they were intended. I shall instantly

telegraph to my grandfather, and early to-morrow I shall leave here to

carry to him the missing packet. This is what I wished to tell you."

Raoul sat as if stunned, listening to the words that lifted such a

terrible burden from his soul; the strange rigidity of his features did

not relax. He seemed to wish to speak, perhaps a word of gratitude, but

the scorn in his cousin's look and bearing closed his lips. 'My

grandfather,'--the words sounded so natural, so exultant. Count Michael

had indeed found a grandson who was bone of his bone, flesh of his

flesh. They belonged together, and after this exploit of Michael's the

old Count's' arms would be opened wide to receive him.

When Rodenberg had gone, Raoul arose and slowly left the room and the

house. Outside, he paused as if reflecting, and then retreated into the

shadow as two figures emerged from the door-way. He recognized them as

they glided past him on their way to the station, but he betrayed his

presence by no sign, no sound. The proximity of the woman who but a

short time before had possessed such power over him scarcely made any

impression upon him. He knew that she was vanishing from him forever,

but the knowledge gave him no pain. All within him seemed empty and

dead, incapable of sensation.

From the open window just above him came the same voice that he had

heard a few moments before, but how different was its tone!

"Hertha, my darling, forgive me for leaving you as I did. I had to

fight for one hour of farewell. Now there is no duty to keep me from

you. But we will have no tears,--we are still together."

Then another voice spoke,--a voice which the listener also knew well,

and which sounded strange to him in its tenderness and sweetness.

"No, Michael, you shall not see a tear. I will think of nothing save

the joy of having you here."

Was that really Hertha? Ah, she had learned to love indeed, and he who

had once been her betrothed knew now what he had sacrificed. It drove

him far from the lovers; he walked on aimlessly in the darkness, beside

the rushing river, until a wall barred his way. It was one of the

supports of the bridge, above the arches of which the railway crossed

the river; below the current ran strong, and an old willow dipped its

boughs deep into the water.

The air was close and sultry, but a storm was at hand, and the

lightning flashed sharply and incessantly. Raoul leaned against the

trunk of the willow and gazed down into the dark whirling water; it

cost him an effort to think clearly.

What should he do now? Go home? He could be there on the morrow, and

some pretext for his absence could easily be invented.

No one knew what had happened, with the exception of the two who would

keep silence for the sake of the honour of the Steinruecks, but the last

of the name felt utterly unable to confront his grandfather again.

The stern old man had pronounced sentence upon the traitor to his

country,--the look of cool contempt beneath which Raoul had winced half

an hour ago would fall upon him day after day from his grandfather's

eyes,--death were indeed preferable to such a fate!

Loud hurrahs resounded from the railway-station, where the crowd were

cheering the troops who were about to take their departure, and behind

those dimly-lighted windows a young soldier was bidding farewell to his

betrothed whom he might never see again. But here, beneath this willow,

stood one for whom all was lost,--betrothed, honour, even a country.

The military train came rushing along, and just as it reached the

bridge there was a flash of lightning. For an instant everything stood

revealed in the dazzling light, the heavy threatening clouds, the dim

distant mountains, and the whirling river, but the spot beneath the

willow was vacant, and there was a plash in the foaming waters. In a

moment the night swallowed all up again, the train thundered across the

bridge, and in the west there was a zigzag gleam,--Saint Michael's

sword of flame.

* * * * *

Two days later at General Steinrueck's head-quarters various officers

were assembled waiting for orders, but with unusually grave faces, and

conversing in undertones. They had learned the sad misfortune that had

befallen their chief. His grandson, the handsome, gallant, and gay

Count Raoul, was dead; he had been walking at night on the river-bank,

a false step had precipitated him from it into the river at a spot

where the current was unusually strong, and he had been drowned.

It was terrible for the old man thus in the evening of his days to see

the last of his name and race vanish in the bloom of youth, while he

could not even stand beside his coffin or follow it to his ancestral

tomb. Duty detained him at the head of his corps; indeed, in the two

days that had elapsed since he had heard the sad news no duty of his

position had been neglected; he was now giving audience to Captain

Rodenberg, a bearer of important despatches. Not one of the officers

suspected the nature of the scene--the closing scene of a family

drama--that was enacting behind those closed doors. Michael was

standing there beside the general, saying,--

"They found him at daybreak, quite near the house where we were

staying. I had time to make the necessary arrangements, and then I was

obliged to leave, intrusting everything else to the care of my dear old

teacher, who also undertook the sad duty of carrying the news to

Countess Hortense of her son's death and of having the body taken to

Steinrueck."

The general had listened in silence; now he asked, "And does no one

know----?"

"No one save ourselves. Clermont and his sister will be silent,--must

be silent for their own sakes. Were anything known of what has

occurred, existence would be impossible for them anywhere. Here are the

papers. I deliver them into the hands of my general, and the honour of

the Steinrueck name is intact."

Steinrueck received the papers, and held out his hand to his grandson:

"I thank you, Michael."

The young officer looked at him anxiously, not deceived by the rigid

composure of his manner; he knew what lay behind it.

"Grandfather," he said, gently, "now you can mourn for him."

The general shook his head. "I have no time for tears, and they belong

only to the beloved dead. That he could so wound me---- But enough; let

him rest in peace."

He turned away and went into the antechamber, where the officers were

assembled, and where he was received with the silent respect accorded

to affliction. One of the group then stepped forward, and, in the name

of all present, expressed to their leader the sympathy felt for him in

the heavy loss which he had sustained. Steinrueck listened calmly,

apparently unmoved; he merely bowed in acknowledgment.

"I thank you, gentlemen. The blow which soon must strike thousands

has fallen first upon me, but heaven has already sent me consolation,

for here,"--and with the words a flash of his former energy broke

through his forced composure, and the old soldier stood erect and

vigorous,--"here beside me stands the son of my dead daughter, _my

grandson_, Michael Rodenberg!"

* * * * *

A year had passed, a year full of terrible conflict and of tremendous

results, full of shouts of victory and of wailing for the dead, and

when summer again greeted the earth it greeted a newly-arisen kingdom.

Upon the mountain road leading from Tannberg to Castle Steinrueck was

rolling an open carriage in which were two officers. The captain, who

sat on the right, would easily have been recognized as a soldier, even

in civilian's dress; but his companion, who wore the uniform of a

lieutenant of reserves, had an artistic rather than a military air, in

spite of being tanned very brown by exposure to the sun and wind.

"The luck is all yours, Michael," he said, with all his old gayety.

"You are returning crowned with laurels to your betrothed, while I

still have a hard battle to fight. My little Dornroeschen has indeed

been faithful and brave, but the tall thorny hedge still confronts me

in all the toughness of the tenth century. This uniform of mine is very

uncomfortable in travelling, but I hope to impress my father-in-law

with it. Perhaps it may move him to be confronted by the nineteenth

century in all its warlike pomp."

"As usual, you regard the matter in its ludicrous aspect," rejoined

Michael; "but indeed you ought to reflect that not only the old

Freiherr, but your father also, refuses his consent."

"Yes, fathers are undoubtedly very difficult to deal with," Hans

assented. "By dint of reading Gerlinda's letters to my father I have at

last convinced him that she is sane, but he obstinately insists that

lunacy is hereditary in the Eberstein family, and admonishes me to have

regard for future generations. The Freiherr, on the other hand,

maintains that godless irreverence is hereditary. Moreover, he must

have an inkling that since the troops are dismissed I shall shortly

come to the surface, for he has forbidden Gerlinda to drive to

Steinrueck. As if there were any use in that! I shall as the Knight of

Forschungstein attack the Ebersburg, and as a preliminary climb the

castle wall, and find my Dornroeschen waiting for me on the terrace."

Michael listened rather absently, gazing the while towards Castle

Steinrueck, which had been visible for some time and was now close at

hand. He remarked, casually, "You seem to be in constant correspondence

with her,--was not an interchange of letters forbidden?"

"Of course it was, by both fathers. That is why we wrote so constantly

to each other during the war. The archives of the family will be

wonderfully enriched by the letters recounting the story of our love

and misfortunes. But these last have gone on long enough, and if the

old Freiherr will not listen to reason he must be clapped into the

castle dungeon, and be kept there, as was Balduin of blessed memory six

hundred years ago, until he consented to the marriage of Kunrad von

Eberstein and Hildegard von Ortenau. Oh, I am well up now in the family

chronicles. I make no more mistakes in the names."

Michael made no answer; as the carriage was driving up the hill he

gazed eagerly towards the castle windows. Hans followed the direction

of his eyes.

"And your grandfather is there too?"

"Yes, he came a week ago, and he has been obliged to ask for a long

leave; the fatigue he has undergone has told terribly upon his health.

But I hope everything from this mountain air."

The young artist shook his head, and said with sudden seriousness, "The

general is very much altered. I was shocked when I saw him again. True,

a campaign at his age, and then the sudden death of his grandson,--it

is but natural. I think, however, that he is much fonder of you than he

ever was of Count Raoul."

"Perhaps so. But at his time of life the effect of such shocks is never

quite overcome," said Michael, evasively. He knew well what his

grandfather could not overcome, but it was a secret between them.

Hans talked on, receiving ever briefer and more absent replies; his

friend seemed scarcely to hear him, as he sat gazing towards the

castle. Suddenly he drew forth his handkerchief and waved it in the

air.

"What are you about?" asked Hans. "Ah, I see; there waves another

handkerchief, and--yes, there stands the Countess Hertha on the

balcony. She is beautiful indeed, your golden-haired fairy princess up

there in the brilliant sunshine! My Dornroeschen cannot vie with her,

and my betrothed, instead of millions by way of dowry, has only an

obstinate old papa. But then her family is full two hundred years older

than the Steinruecks. Don't forget that, Michael! In the Middle Ages my

future wife would decidedly have taken precedence of yours."

At last the carriage drove into the court-yard, far too slowly for the

impatience of the young officer, who tore open the door, alighted, and

ran up the steps to the hall, and, in spite of the servants there

assembled, clasped in his arms Hertha, who had come to meet him. It was

the first public acknowledgment of their betrothal.

"And I must look on, and cannot do likewise, just because I have a

foolish papa and papa-in-law," grumbled Hans. "But only wait, my

gentlemen, hardhearted parents as you are, and I will bring you to your

knees."

* * * * *

In the wainscoted room with the large bow-window, where the ancestral

portraits looked down from the walls, and the escutcheon of the

Steinruecks was carved above the fireplace, Count Michael now sat with

his grandson, whom he had seen for the first time in this very room,

where the boy had suffered under so false an accusation. Fate had

devised a terrible requital, and the general evidently suffered

severely from it.

In fact, he was greatly altered, and in twelve months had grown older

by as many years. While the campaign lasted, the responsibilities of

his position, his military duties, nerved his arm, and his will forced

mind and body to do his bidding. But his strength failed him when his

duties were ended. The features of the handsome old face looked pinched

and hollow, the eyes had lost their fire, even the carriage was bowed

and weary. At this moment, however, his eyes rested with intense

satisfaction upon his grandson, whose hand he held in his own.

"I should think you might well be content," said he. "It is seldom that

so young an officer receives such distinguished honours as have been

heaped upon you, and I can bear witness that you deserve them. Your

conduct in the field surpassed my expectations, and I expected a great

deal from you, Michael."

"Perhaps the recognition of my services would not have been so

flattering if it had not been accorded to the grandson of the general

in command," rejoined Michael, with a smile. "From the moment when you

introduced me as your near of kin I was but too well aware of the

especial attention paid me."

"At all events, the recognition you have received was your due, and

Hertha may well be proud of her hero. Have you settled upon the time

for your marriage?"

"Not yet. Hertha takes various considerations into account, and, hard

though it be, I must submit. Her betrothal to Raoul has never been

publicly annulled, and the year of mourning is just ended. We meant,

however, to leave the decision to you, grandfather. If you think we

ought to wait----"

"No!" Steinrueck declared. "You have agreed to have the marriage

celebrated very quietly, and I should like to give you to each other

myself. In a few months--it may be too late."

"Grandfather!" said Michael, half in remonstrance, half in reproach.

"Why should I not speak of it to you? You must confront the

inevitable."

"But it is not inevitable. Why will you not rouse yourself from the

melancholy that is sapping your physical strength? Has every pleasure

in life vanished in Raoul's grave? Hertha and I are still with you to

help you to forget the past."

The general slowly shook his head. "You best know what you are to me,

Michael, but my vigour has departed, and you know, too, when it left

me. That blow struck at the very root of the old tree; it cannot

recover."

Michael made no reply; he knew that, although his grandfather had been

spared the worst, enough had occurred to wound to the quick the pride

and the sense of honour of the old Count, who had always been devoted

heart and soul to his country.

"The Countess Hortense is, I hear, with her brother again--with your

consent?" asked Rodenberg.

"Yes; while the war lasted I neither could nor would permit my son's

widow to remain in France. Now, however, she has gone back to Montigny.

She has never felt at home here, and Raoul's death has severed the only

tie that united us. I have assured her an independence as far as it lay

in my power. You know the disposition that I have made of my property.

Castle Steinrueck falls to you as my sole heir, and with Hertha's hand

you come into possession of all the family estates, which I was so

anxious to assure to my grandson. My plans are fulfilled, but not as I

had devised them, and it is better thus. You will fill your position

well, and will guard and protect Hertha with a strong arm. God bless

you both!"

* * * * *

It was by no mere chance that Hans Wehlau accompanied his friend. He

hoped to enlist Michael's betrothed as an ally in his last decisive

attack upon the prejudices of his father and of his father-in-law _in

spe_. This attack could take place only at Steinrueck, for it was there

only that Gerlinda's father was to be met, and it was there only that

he could be brought into contact with Professor Wehlau, who was at

present paying a visit to his relatives in Tannberg.

Hertha had already done all that she could to encourage her little

friend, and to prevail with the old Freiherr, but to no more purpose

than was Hans's second presentation of his suit a few days after his

arrival at Steinrueck. In vain had he donned his uniform; the warlike

pomp of the nineteenth century made no impression whatever upon the

tenth. Udo von Eberstein was determined to adhere to the traditions of

his house, and threatened to shut his daughter up in a convent rather

than allow her to marry a man of no rank. He was inexorable, and

neither the lover's insistence nor Gerlinda's tears availed to soften

his heart.

It was not very difficult to entice Professor Wehlau to Steinrueck. He

willingly accepted an invitation from Michael, but one which Hertha

extended to the inmates of the Ebersburg, 'by chance' for the same day,

was only half successful. The Freiherr made his appearance, but he

prudently left his daughter at home, moved to this precautionary

measure by the possibility of meeting at Steinrueck the man who

persisted in wanting to be his son-in-law, and who was upheld by

Gerlinda in his irreverent presumption. The visit, however, appeared

about to pass without any disturbance; the enemy who threatened the

race of Eberstein with a plebeian name was nowhere to be seen, and the

Freiherr, who had had a long talk with the general of the times when

they were brothers-in-arms, was in the best of spirits.

Count Steinrueck having been called away for a few minutes, the Freiherr

was left alone in the bow-windowed room. He turned as the door opened,

expecting to see the general again, but started violently upon

confronting Professor Wehlau.

The Professor was startled in his turn; he knew nothing of his

opponent's presence here, and was for an instant undecided what manner

to adopt towards him. A gentler disposition gained the upper hand,

however, and he muttered, "Good-day, Herr von Eberstein."

"Herr Professor Wehlau, are you here?" asked Eberstein, returning his

salutation with a very stiff inclination. "I hope you have not brought

your son with you."

"No; he is in Tannberg."

"I rejoice to hear it. My daughter is at the Ebersburg."

Wehlau shrugged his shoulders. "Not much cause for rejoicing. I'll

wager that the pair are together the instant our backs are turned."

"I beg your pardon," said Eberstein, with dignity. "I have strictly

forbidden Gerlinda either to see or to speak to Herr Wehlau."

"Of course, and you forbade her to write to him, but my Hans brought

home a whole wagon-load of her letters. Fraeulein Gerlinda possesses a

like number, I suppose."

"This is disgraceful!" exclaimed the old Freiherr, informed thus for

the first time of his child's disobedience. "Why do you not employ your

paternal authority? Why have you permitted your son to come hither?"

"Because he is twenty-six years old, and a child no longer," replied

Wehlau, dryly. "You, indeed, keep your daughter under lock and key. I

wish I could do the same with my madcap; but it would not help matters:

he would scramble out of the window and into the Ebersburg, if he had

to do it by the chimney. The affair cannot be allowed to go on thus; we

must have recourse to serious measures."

"Yes, we must!" Eberstein agreed, with an energetic thump of his cane

on the floor. "I shall shut Gerlinda up in a convent for the present as

a boarder. Then we'll see whether my gentleman can visit her by way of

the chimney."

"A very sensible idea!" exclaimed the Professor, almost tempted to

shake his opponent by the hand. "Stick to it, Herr von Eberstein. I am

really glad to see you, in your condition, capable of such energy."

The old Freiherr, who had no idea of the insulting nature of the

Professor's diagnosis of his case, and who thought he alluded to his

gout, sighed heavily. "Yea, my condition grows worse every day."

"Are you aware of it yourself?" asked Wehlau, drawing up a chair and

seating himself. "Of what did your father die, Herr Baron?"

"My father, Colonel Kuno von Eberstein-Ortenau, fell in the battle of

Leipsic at the head of his regiment," was the reply, given with much

conscious dignity.

Wehlau looked surprised; he seemed to have expected a different answer,

and he forthwith began a regular cross-examination. He asked about the

Freiherr's grandfather and great-grandfather, about his first and

second wife, about his aunts, uncles, and cousins. Any other man would

have been irritated by such inquiries, but Eberstein thought only that

the Professor was greatly changed for the better; it did him good to be

questioned thus with such interest about all the Udos, Kunos, and

Kunrads, to whom this very man had formerly alluded in such

disrespectful terms. He paraded his pedigree to the best advantage, and

willingly answered all questions.

"Extraordinary!" said Wehlau at last, shaking his head. "Not a single

case of mental disease, then, in your entire family?"

"Mental disease?" Eberstein repeated, in some dudgeon. "What can you be

thinking of? I suppose that is your specialty, however. No, the

Ebersteins have died of all sorts of diseases, but their minds have

never been affected."

"That really seems to have been the case---- Is it possible that I have

been mistaken?" murmured the Professor. He turned the conversation to

the family chronicles, to the origin of the Ebersteins in the tenth

century, but the Freiherr's replies were perfectly clear and sensible,

and at last he clasped his hands and said, in a tone of deep emotion,

"Yes, yes, my ancient noble line, known and honoured in history for

nine centuries, goes to the grave with me! Whether Gerlinda marries or

not, the name must die with me, and that soon, as my old Ebersburg will

ere long be but a heap of ruins. The present generation knows nothing,

wishes to know nothing, of the splendour and glory of ancient times,

and I have no son to preserve their memory. The scutcheon of my race

will be broken above my coffin and thrown into the grave with me, with

the last sad words, 'Freiherr von Eberstein-Ortenau, known to-day, but

never more.'"

There was such bitter pain in the tone in which these words were

uttered that Wehlau suddenly grew very grave, and looked with genuine

emotion at the old man, down whose withered cheeks two tears rolled

slowly. The man of science and of the present had never appreciated the

pride of the noble in his ancestors; but he understood the suffering of

the old man bewailing the downfall of his race, conscious, in spite of

every effort to the contrary, of the iron heel of modern times crushing

and obliterating the traces of centuries. At the moment all that was

ridiculous fell away from Udo von Eberstein, extinguished by the tragic

melancholy of a fading world, over which sentence was pronounced in the

words, 'Known to-day, but never more!'

There was silence for a few moments, and then the Professor suddenly

offered his hand to his former antagonist. "Herr von Eberstein, I have

done you injustice. We are liable to err, and there really was much

that was strange in your---- Enough, I beg to apologize."

The old Freiherr was far from guessing the reason tor this apology; he

thought it referred to the want of respect formerly shown for the

Eberstein pedigree, and it pleased him greatly that the irreverent man

of science should be so thoroughly converted. He took the offered hand

and pressed it cordially.

At this point Michael made his appearance in some dismay, having just

learned that the two men, whose meeting was to be arranged with such

caution, were alone together in the general's room. They were probably

by this time flying at each other's throats, and Captain Rodenberg came

instantly in hopes of averting a misfortune. To his astonishment, he

found the pair engaged in peaceful converse, in fact with clasped

hands.

"I am sorry to disturb you," said Michael, scarcely believing his eyes.

"The Countess Hertha is very desirous of seeing you, but if you are

engaged in conversation----"

"No, we have finished," said Wehlau, assisting the old Freiherr, who

was very infirm, to rise. Thus they proceeded to the drawing-room,

where Hertha received them, but beside her stood a man at sight of whom

the Freiherr's melancholy gave place to anger.

"Herr Hans Wehlau! I thought you were in Tannberg!" he exclaimed.

"And he was there when I left," interposed the Professor. "How did you

get here, you rascal? through the air?"

"No, papa, I only drove after you. I wanted especially to speak with

Herr von Eberstein upon a most important matter----"

"I will not listen to anything," protested the Freiherr; "I know all

about your important matter, but I have just agreed with your father

that we must have recourse to serious measures, very serious measures,

to frustrate your matrimonial schemes."

"Yes, very serious measures," the Professor reiterated. "We certainly

agreed upon this,--but, after all, why do you refuse to let your

daughter marry my son?"

Eberstein looked at him completely puzzled. The question was

extraordinary, just when an alliance had been formed against this

marriage, but he was spared the trouble of replying, for Hertha

demanded his attention at the moment, and Wehlau availed himself of the

opportunity to draw his son aside.

"I was mistaken," he said, bluntly. "This time you were right. The old

Freiherr is quite rational, with the exception of a few abnormal ideas

which must be laid to the charge of the tenth century; such a pedigree

is not normal. Such whims, however, are not hereditary, and so, if

there is no help for it, marry your Gerlinda if you choose."

"Thank heaven, papa!" said Hans, with a sigh of relief. "You have

caused me worry enough with your anxieties about generations not yet in

existence."

"It was my duty. But, as I told you, my mind is now easy with regard to

your posterity. Let us see how you will manage the old Baron and his

pedigree."

"I shall carry them both by storm," exclaimed the young artist,

triumphantly, "and win my Dornroeschen in spite of them."

Meanwhile, Hertha was assisting the young lover's plans. She led the

conversation with the Freiherr to the subject of her own betrothal,

reminding the old man that she, like Gerlinda, was the last of her

race, and that her name too was to be merged in one without a title;

but Eberstein opposed her angrily.

"That is quite a different thing. Your betrothed is the Count's

grandson, the son of a Steinrueck; on the mother's side he belongs to

your family. Moreover,"--he turned courteously to Michael, whose manly

form and carriage were greatly to his taste,--"moreover, Captain

Rodenberg has served with distinction during the war. Even in the times

of our glorious ancestors brave deeds were worth a patent of nobility

and won the accolade. But a son-in-law with a paint-brush for a sword

and a palette for a shield,--oh, never, never!"

"At all events, he can perpetuate brave deeds," said Michael, smiling.

"Perhaps you are not aware that my friend has just gained the victory

in a trial of artistic skill. His name is lauded throughout the public

press, and is unanimously----"

"Don't talk to me of the 'public press!'" exclaimed Eberstein, in high

dudgeon. "It, too, is an invention of to-day, and worse than all the

rest. Reckless, indiscreet, slanderous, it tramples everything in the

dust, holds nothing sacred, and is the devil's own work."

"You are quite right, Herr Baron; the press is terrible," assented

Hans, who had approached in time to hear the Freiherr's last words.

"But I pray you to permit me to tell you what I ask. Do not put your

fingers in your ears; it really has nothing to do with Gerlinda and me,

but only with the contest of which Michael has just told you. I engaged

in it before the war, and during the campaign received intelligence

that my sketch had taken the prize and that the picture had been

ordered. To carry out this order your permission is necessary."

"My permission?" asked Eberstein. "What have I to do with your

pictures?"

"That you can understand if you will kindly condescend to glance at the

sketch. It is an historical picture to hang in the principal hall of

the new Rathhaus in B., and, of course, in such a place it will be very

conspicuous, which is why I must ask your permission to paint it.

Should you refuse me I must make another sketch. Here it is."

He opened the door of the adjoining room. Fortunately, the old Freiherr

was not so obstinate as Professor Wehlau had been with regard to the

picture of Saint Michael, and, half curiously, half mistrustfully, he

entered the room, followed by the others.

The picture referred to was in fact then leaning against the wall, only

a cartoon as yet, done in charcoal, but a faithful presentment of the

future picture. The artist had succeeded in rendering with vivid effect

a scene from the mediaeval wars under the Hohenstauffen. On the right of

the picture was the Emperor, a majestic, powerful figure, surrounded by

princes and prelates; on the left the people were crowding, while the

centre of the canvas was occupied by the victorious warriors returning

home to lay at the feet of their sovereign the trophies of their

prowess. The composition was stirring and characteristic; the interest

centred upon one man, evidently the hero of the hour, the leader of the

victors; a splendid figure, with dark hair and eyes, and noble regular

features, mail-clad, and full of manly vigour. Erect, pointing towards

the trophies heaped upon the ground, he seemed to be recounting to the

Emperor his tale of victory. This single warrior was the central point

of the composition; upon him was concentrated the interest of the

spectators; and his helm and breastplate bore the insignia of the

Ebersteins, while upon his shield was the scutcheon now crumbling to

decay above the gates of the Ebersburg. Here was its resurrection.

The old Freiherr had approached the picture to examine it; suddenly he

started, his sad eyes brightened, his bowed form stood erect, and, with

a gesture that was almost youthful, he turned to the young artist

standing behind him. "Did you do this? And that is----"

"The reproduction of a portrait which I saw upon my first visit to the

Ebersburg," Hans completed the sentence. "You, perhaps, remember our

conversation upon that occasion, and can now understand why I ask your

permission to paint this picture."

Eberstein made no reply; he stood gazing fixedly at the picture, at the

image of himself when he was still young and happy, and fit to bear

arms. His eyes grew moist at the memory of that time.

"What does all this mean?" asked the Professor, who knew the picture,

but had not been informed of its secret significance. The old Baron

turned to him and said, in a tone half of melancholy, half of conscious

pride,--

"Those are my features. Thus looked Udo von Eberstein forty years ago."

"You are very much changed since then," said Wehlau, in his blunt

fashion; but Hans hastily interposed.

"No, no, papa! Look closely at the Freiherr and you will recognize the

features. The picture is to be painted in fresco, Herr Baron, and will

probably last as long as the Rathhaus is in existence, for some

hundreds of years at least."

"Some hundreds of years," murmured Eberstein, ecstatically. "But no one

will know that scutcheon."

Hans stepped close to his side. "Unfortunately, it is known already.

That terrible press--you know I share your horror of it--has mastered

the whole matter, and has printed the names in full. An article in the

principal newspaper of our imperial capital--permit me to read you the

close of it."

He produced a newspaper and read aloud: "'After this detailed

description we cannot withhold from our readers the information

that the central figure of the picture,--the knight with the

fine characteristic head,'--here it is in black and white, Herr

Baron,--'the fine characteristic head, is an only slightly idealized

portrait,--the portrait of the Freiherr Udo von Eberstein-Ortenau of

the Ebersburg, the last scion of a once famous race, which traces its

pedigree back to the tenth century; the scutcheon of the Ebersteins,

seen upon the helmet and shield of the knight, is thus immortalized.'

Indeed I could not help this, Herr Baron,--a couple of innocent remarks

of mine to acquaintances,--shall I have the article contradicted?--it

will else go the entire round of Germany, in all the newspapers."

"No, my young friend," replied Eberstein, with dignity. "I forbid you

to contradict it; on the contrary, the press seems to me to have been

in this instance neither reckless nor indiscreet. It does but fulfil a

duty in bringing to light facts that have escaped the memory of

thousands of our contemporaries. Let the article go the entire round of

Germany!"

"The fellow has a terrific talent for intrigue," muttered the

Professor. "The old Baron has actually swallowed the hook."

Hans twisted the paper to and fro in his hands with well-feigned

embarrassment. "Yes, Herr Baron, but there is a concluding sentence

which you ought also to hear----"

"Read it," said Eberstein, with solemn condescension, and Hans read on:

"'And now for a final communication which will interest especially our

fair readers of the other sex. The young artist worked _con amore_ when

he painted the knight of the Eberstein arms, with the Eberstein

features also, since he is about to be united to the only daughter of

the Freiherr in question----'"

"Stay--stop,--that must be contradicted!" exclaimed Eberstein; but,

without further ado, Hans forced the newspaper upon him, and drew out

from behind the tall picture something which, upon closer inspection,

proved to be Fraeulein Gerlinda von Eberstein. There she stood, the

little Dornroeschen, not quite so much of a child as when we first saw

her, but lovelier than ever as she lifted eyes and hands of entreaty to

her father.

"Oh, papa, do not be so cruel! I love him so dearly!"

"Did not I tell you they were sure to be together?" exclaimed the

Professor, advancing. "Herr von Eberstein, there is nothing to do but

to say 'yes.' My Hans will do as he chooses, as you see; and that

delicate little thing, your daughter, is quite capable of dying of

grief if you separate her from him. And when she is dead you will be

left alone with your stainless pedigree."

"That would be terrible!" said Eberstein, with a look of dismay at his

child.

"Then let us put an end to the matter!" And the Professor put his arm

around the young girl and gave her a paternal kiss, after which all was

settled so far as he was concerned.

The old Freiherr was scarcely conscious of what happened then,--he was

really taken by storm. He found himself embracing his daughter and a

future son-in-law. Gerlinda sobbed upon his breast and Hans hailed him

as his beloved father-in-law. There was nothing for it but to clasp the

pair in his arms, which he did. Udo von Eberstein relented, and

consented. In spite of brush and palette, Hans had been the one to

perpetuate the memory of the ancient name.

* * * * *

Towards the end of July a marriage was quietly celebrated in the

pilgrimage church of Saint Michael,--the marriage of Captain Michael

Rodenberg to the Countess Hertha von Steinrueck. As Michael was a

Protestant, like his mother and his grandfather, the Protestant

marriage had first taken place in Castle Steinrueck. Now, in presence of

a small circle of relatives and friends, among whom were the betrothed

couple, Hans and Gerlinda, beaming with happiness, the reverend pastor

of the little Alpine village united before the altar of his church, as

they had desired, the two young people to whom he was so closely bound

by ties of affection.

The morning mists were still veiling the Eagle ridge, but they were

beginning to roll away to lie like a translucent veil at its feet, when

the bells in the old church rang out a joyous peal that echoed among

the mountains, while upon Michael and his young wife, now one for life,

looked down from above the altar the mighty archangel with eagle's

wings and eyes of flame, the victorious leader of the heavenly

host,--Saint Michael!