seemed such a wonderful poem, to a woman who evidently knew nothing
whatever of poesy.

Hartmut had, in the meantime, after leaving the platform, descended the
winding stairs slowly. The lost purse was a mere subterfuge, for it lay
in its accustomed place in an inner pocket.

Adelheid von Wallmoden had mentioned to the prince, soon after she
joined them on the platform, that her husband was awaiting her in the
little inn, but that he had not cared to climb the steep, dark stairs.
Hartmut knew he could not avoid a meeting, but he would at least brave
it without witnesses.

If Wallmoden saw his old friend's son and recognized him, he might not
be able, for the moment, to master his surprise.

Hartmut did not fear this meeting, though he knew it would be both
painful and uncomfortable. There was but one in the whole world whom he
feared; but one pair of eyes under whose gaze he would lack courage to
lift his own, and in all probability he would never meet that one.

He could face all others with a proud defiance; he had but exercised his
right in abandoning a hated career. He was decided that there should be
no questioning or reproving; if he were recognized, he should request
the ambassador in a most decided manner, to make no reference whatever
to a past with which he was done forever.

Upon the little veranda of the summer inn, Herbert von Wallmoden sat
with his sister. The impending arrival of the duke and his court for the
autumn hunting had detained the head forester at home, where he was in