condescended to write in German."

For answer Egon drew a paper from his pocket, and unfolded it. "You are
prejudiced against my friend, I see, but I do not want to leave him in
the false light in which he has placed himself in your eyes. May I not
read this to you, and let his own words be his justification?"

"If you desire."

The words were spoken indifferently, but Adelheid's eyes sought the
paper with an expression of keen interest. A few verses, written in a
careless, hasty hand, covered the white page. Egon began to read. They
were indeed German verses, but in them was a pureness and euphony which
told that they could only have been written by a master of that tongue,
and the description which they gave was one well known to both
listeners. Deep, sad, woodland loneliness, pervaded by the first breath
of autumn; endless green depths which swayed and beckoned with their
gloomy shadows; fragrant meadows flooded with the golden sunlight;
silent stretches of water in the far distance, and the noisy murmur of
the mountain brook, as it rushed down from some nearer height. This
picture had life and speech in it, too, and had its echoes of an
old-time woodland song; the rustle and whisper of the swaying branches
sounded to the ear like a soft, low melody, and above all and through
all, was the deep, pent-up longing for that peace which was the
background of the whole scene.

The prince had begun with fervor, and entering into the spirit of the
poem, read clearly and intelligently. As he finished, he turned to the
baroness with a triumphant, "What do you say to that?"