Frau von Wallmoden had not lost a word; she had not looked at the
reader, though, but had gazed across the distant hills. Now, at the
prince's question, she turned slowly. "Is this the language of one who
despises our country?" he continued, confident he had the best of the
argument. And as he looked closely at her, while demanding justice for
his friend, he realized for the first time, just how lovely this Frau
von Wallmoden was. The rosy tints of the setting sun softened the look
in the lovely eyes, and added beauty to the tender oval of her face; but
there was no softness in the cold, deliberate answer: "It is really
quite surprising that a foreigner should understand our language so
well."

Egon stared at her. Was this all she had to say? He had expected
something quite different. "And what do you think of the poem itself?"
he asked.

"Very full of sentiment. Herr Rojanow seems to possess a great deal of
poetical talent. Many thanks for your field glass, and now I must go
down to my husband. I fear he is tired already, waiting for me."

Egon folded his paper without a word and returned it to his pocket. He
had been very enthusiastic over his friend's production, and this young
woman, colder and more frozen than ever now, chilled him to the bone.

"I have had the honor of meeting his excellency, and will accompany you
down, with your permission," he said, courteously.

She gave a slight bow of acknowledgment and left the platform, followed
by the Prince, who had grown suddenly very taciturn. He felt annoyed on
his friend's account, and regretted now that he had read, what to him