The old man bent over his master's hand, and a tear fell upon it.

"I wish I could go, too," he said, under his breath.

"I believe it," laughed Egon; "and you would not look bad as a soldier, in spite of your snow-white hair. But we younger ones have to march now, and you old ones remain at home. Farewell, Stadinger----" He shook his hand cordially. "I really believe you are crying. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Away with tears and sad antic.i.p.ations. You will yet read me another lecture."

"May G.o.d grant it!" sighed Peter Stadinger, from the depths of his heart. With wet eyes he looked once more into the youthful face, so full of life, smiling at him, so happy and sure of victory. Then he left sadly, with bowed head, realizing how much his young master had grown into his heart.

The Prince cast a glance at the clock. He was to go to his superior, but saw that he had almost an hour yet, so he reached for the newspapers and plunged into the newest dispatches and reports.

A rapid footstep sounded in the ante-room. Egon looked up in surprise.

Servants were not in the habit of making such a noise, and callers were always announced. But this caller did not need any announcing, as all the servants knew. All doors were open to him in the house of Prince Adelsberg.

"Hartmut, is it you?"

Egon sprang to his feet in joyful surprise, and cast himself on the breast of the newcomer.

"You back in Germany, and I have no idea of it! You wicked monster, to leave me for fully two months without news of you! Have you come to say good-by to me?"

Hartmut had neither returned the greeting nor the stormy embrace.

Silently and gloomily he suffered both, and when he spoke at last, even his tone betrayed nothing of the joy of this _Wiedersehen_.

"I came straight from the depot. I hardly dared hope to find you still here, and yet everything depends upon it for me."

"But why did you not announce your return to me? I wrote you immediately after the declaration of war. You were still in Sicily then, were you not?"

"No; I left there as soon as war seemed unavoidable, and did not receive your letter. I have been in Germany a week."

"And you come to me only now?" said Egon, reproachfully.

Rojanow did not notice this reproach. His eyes rested upon his friend's uniform with almost a jealous expression.

"You are already on duty, I see," he said, hastily. "I also intend to enter the German army."

Egon evidently expected something entirely different. He retreated a step in boundless surprise.

"In the German army? You--a Roumanian?"

"Yes, and therefore I have come to you. Will you make it possible for me?"

"I?" asked the Prince, whose surprise grew greater and greater. "I am nothing more than a young officer. If you are really in earnest in this strange resolve, you must go to one of the standing posts of command."

"I have already done that at various places. I have tried it even in your neighboring state, but they will not accept the stranger. They demand all sorts of papers and references, which I do not possess, and torture me with endless questions. Everywhere suspicion and mistrust affront me. n.o.body will understand my resolve."

"To speak the truth, Hartmut, I don't understand it, either," said Egon, solemnly. "You have always showed such a deep antipathy to Germany--you are the son of a country whose higher circles know only French education and customs--which stands in sympathy exclusively with France. The mistrust of strangers is easily understood. But why do you not turn directly to the Duke, and personally accomplish your desires?

You know how prepossessed he is with the poet of 'Arivana.' It will cost you only an audience, which will be granted you at any time, and an order from him will remove every difficulty and admit every exception."

Rojanow's glance fell, and his clouded brow grew darker as he replied: "I know that, but I cannot ask anything from that side. The Duke would put the same questions as all the rest, and I could not withhold the answer from him, and the truth--I cannot tell it to him."

"Not even to me?" asked the Prince, stepping up to him and laying his hand on Hartmut's shoulder. "Why do you insist so persistently upon entering our army? What do you look for under our colors?"

Hartmut pa.s.sed his hand across his brow, as if to wipe something away from there. Then he replied, heavily and huskily:

"Salvation--or death."

"You return as you went--a puzzle," said Egon, shaking his head. "You have hitherto refused every explanation. Can I not now learn your secret?"

"Obtain me an entrance into your army, and I will tell you everything,"

Rojanow cried in feverish excitement. "No matter under what conditions, only see that it is granted me. But do not speak to the Duke nor to a general, but turn to one of the lower commanders. Your name, your relationship with the reigning house makes your word powerful. They will not answer Prince Adelsberg with a 'No' when he himself speaks for a volunteer."

"But the same question will be put to him as to you--you, a Roumanian."

"No, no," cried Hartmut, pa.s.sionately. "If I must confess it to you--I am a German."

The effect of this disclosure was not as great as Hartmut might have feared. The Prince looked at him for a moment, amazed.

"I have thought so at times, for the one who could compose an Arivana in the German language did not get this language by education, but had grown up with it. But you bear the name Rojanow----"

"The name of my mother, who belonged to a Roumanian--Bojar's family. My name is--Hartmut von Falkenried."

His own name sounded strange in his ears, for he had not p.r.o.nounced it for years; but Egon grew attentive at the name.

"Falkenried? That was the name of the Prussian Colonel who came on that secret mission from Berlin. Are you any connection of his?"

"He is my father."

The young Prince looked compa.s.sionately upon his friend, for he saw how terribly hard this confession came to him. He felt that a family drama was hidden here, and, too delicate to investigate further, he only asked: "And you do not want to proclaim yourself the son of your father, not a Falkenried? Every Prussian regiment would be open to you then."

"No, they would be closed to me forever. I fled from the cadets' school ten years ago."

"Hartmut!" Absolute terror was in the exclamation.

"Do you also, like my father, consider me worthy of death for it? You, of course, have grown up in freedom and have no conception of the iron rule which reigns in these inst.i.tutions; of the tyranny with which one is bent under the yoke of blind obedience. I could not stand it. I was forced to freedom and light. I begged--entreated my father--but in vain. He held me fast in the chain--when I broke it, and fled with my mother."

He uttered this, all with wild, desperate defiance; but his eyes rested anxiously upon the face of his listener. His father, with his severe ideas of honor, had sentenced him; but his friend, who idolized him, who in pa.s.sionate enthusiasm admired his genius and all that he did--he _must_ understand the necessity of his step. But this friend was silent, and in this silence lay the sentence.

CHAPTER XLIX.

"You too, Egon?"

In the tone of the questioner who waited several minutes in vain for an answer, there lay deep bitterness. "And you too, Egon, who have so often told me that nothing should hamper the flight of the poet; that he must break the fetters which would hold him to the ground. I did that--and you would have done the same."

The Prince drew himself up with the firmness of decision.

"No, Hartmut; you are mistaken there. Perhaps I should have fled from a strict school, but from the colors--never!"