"And such poetry!" cried w.i.l.l.y in high satisfaction, but added in somewhat subdued tones: "Only I cannot find rhymes, and it also sounds quite different from your verses. To tell the truth, it did not run right, and I want to ask you how you do the affair. You know it is not to be anything grand like your Arivana--only just a little poem."

"Of course to 'her,'" finished Hartmut.

"Yes, to her," a.s.sented the young lord with a deep breath, and now his listener laughed aloud.

"You are a model son, w.i.l.l.y, one must confess. It does happen sometimes that one is betrothed at paternal or maternal command, but you dutifully fall in love with your bride-elect besides, and even compose poetry to her."

"But it is not to the right one," exclaimed Willibald suddenly, with such a strained expression that Rojanow looked at him in perplexity. He really believed that his friend was not in his senses; and Willibald must also have felt that he was making a peculiar impression. He therefore began an explanation, but antic.i.p.ated himself so much and was so vague, that the affair became only the more tangled.

"In fact, I have had an encounter with a fellow this morning who dared to insult a young lady--Fraulein Marietta Volkmar, from the Court Theatre. I knocked him to the ground and I would do it again to him or to anybody who gets too near Fraulein Volkmar."

He stretched out his arm so threateningly that Hartmut caught it quickly and restrained him.

"Well, I do not intend to get near her--you can spare me for the present. But what is Marietta Volkmar to you--the little mirror of virtue of our opera--who has so far been considered unapproachable?"

"Hartmut, I request that you speak of this lady with reverence. In short, this Count Westerburg has challenged me. I am going to exchange shots with him, and hope to give him a good reminder."

"Well, you really are making good progress in romance," said Hartmut, who listened with ever-increasing interest. "You have been here only three days and have commenced with a quarrel which ends in a challenge, and are the knight and protector of a young singer--have a duel for her sake. w.i.l.l.y, for heaven's sake, what will your mother say?"

"This concerns an affair of honor, and my mother cannot interfere here," declared w.i.l.l.y with a really heroic effect, "but now I must get a second here, where I am quite a stranger and do not know a soul.

Uncle Herbert must not hear anything about it, of course, or he would interfere with the police. So I decided to come to you and ask you if you would render me this service."

"That was what brought you," said Rojanow, in a tone of painful disappointment. "I really believed old friendship had done it; but, nevertheless, of course, I am at your command. What weapons does the challenge demand?"

"Pistols!"

"Well, you know what to do with them. We practiced often enough with a target at Burgsdorf, and you were a good shot. I shall look up the second of your opponent to-morrow morning and send you word then. I have to do that in writing, as I do not enter the house of Herr von Wallmoden."

w.i.l.l.y only nodded. He thought Wallmoden's hostility was being reciprocated, but deemed it best not to make any inquiries upon this point.

"Very well, just write me," he replied. "Arrange things as seems best to you; I shall be satisfied with everything; I have no experience in such things. Here is the address of the second, and now I must go. I have several things to put in order yet, in case the worst happens."

He arose and extended his hand to his friend in farewell, but Hartmut took no notice of it. His eyes were fixed on the floor, as he said in low, hesitating tones: "One thing more, w.i.l.l.y. Burgsdorf is so near Berlin. Perhaps you often see----"

"Whom?" asked Willibald, as Hartmut paused.

"My--my father."

The young lord became visibly embarra.s.sed at the question. He had avoided the mention of Falkenried during the conversation, but did not seem to be aware of his near arrival.

"No," he said, finally; "we hardly ever see the Colonel."

"But does he not come to Burgsdorf as of old?"

"No, he has become very unsocial. But I happened to see him in Berlin when I went to meet Uncle Herbert."

"And how does he look? Has he aged any during these last years?"

Willibald shrugged his shoulders.

"Of course he has aged; you would hardly recognize him with his white, hair."

"White hair!" Hartmut burst forth. "He is hardly fifty-two years old.

Has he been ill?"

"Not that I know of. It came quite suddenly--in a few months--at the time when he asked for his discharge."

Hartmut blanched, and his eyes were strained fixedly upon the speaker.

"My father sought a discharge? He who is a soldier through, body and soul; to whom his vocation---- In what year was it?"

"It did not come to an issue," said w.i.l.l.y, pacifyingly; "they did not let him go, but removed him to a distant garrison, and he has been in the Ministry of War for three years."

"But he wanted to leave--in what year?" panted Rojanow, in a sinking voice.

"Well, at the time of your disappearance. He believed his honor demanded it, and, Hartmut, you ought not to have done that to your father--not that. He almost died from it."

Hartmut made no answer, no attempt to defend himself; but his breast heaved in deep, unsteady breaths.

"We will not speak of it," said Willibald, stopping short; "it cannot be changed now. I shall expect your letter to-morrow. Get everything in order. Good night."

Hartmut did not seem to hear the words--did not notice the departure of his friend. He stood there immovable, with eyes on the floor, and only after Willibald had long disappeared did he straighten himself slowly and draw his hand across his brow.

"He wished to leave!" he murmured; "to leave the army because he thought his honor demanded it. No--no, not yet. I must go to Rodeck."

The honored poet, upon whose brow Fate was pressing the first laurel wreath--who only yesterday had challenged the whole world in this victorious knowledge--dared not meet the eye of his father. He fled into solitude.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI.

In one of the quieter streets, whose modest but pleasant houses were mostly surrounded by gardens, Marietta Volkmar lived with an old lady--a distant relative of her grandfather--who was alone, but willing and glad to be protection and company to the young singer.

The two ladies led a life about which the ever-busy tongue of gossip could find nothing to say, and were much beloved by other members of the house. Fraulein Marietta, with her pleasant, happy face, was an especial favorite, and when her clear voice rang through the house everybody stopped to listen. But the _singvogelchen_ had grown mute in the past two days, and showed pale cheeks and eyes red from weeping.

The people shook their heads and could not understand it until they heard from old Fraulein Berger that Dr. Volkmar was sick, and his granddaughter was worried about him, but could not obtain leave of absence without a more forcible reason.

This was, indeed, no falsehood, for the old doctor had really been suffering for several days from a severe cold, but it offered no occasion for serious concern. It was only a plausible explanation of Marietta's changed demeanor, which was noticed even by her colleagues at the theatre.

The singer was standing at the window, gazing steadily out, in her plain but cosily furnished sitting room, having just returned from a rehearsal, while Fraulein Berger sat at a little table with her needlework, casting anxious glances at her protegee.

"But, dear child, do not take this affair so sorely to heart," she admonished. "You will wear yourself out with this anxiety and excitement. Why antic.i.p.ate the worst at once?"

Marietta did not turn. She was painfully pale, and a suppressed sob was in her voice as she replied:

"This is now the third day, and yet I cannot learn anything. Oh, it is awful to have to wait like this, hour after hour, for bad news."