"Our marrying. I hope you are now in the 'humor' for it?"

Regine turned away, somewhat offended.

"You like to be abrupt, Moritz. How did you get into the notion so suddenly?"

"What! you call that sudden?" the Chief Forester cried, indignantly. "I made my first proposal to you five years ago; the second one last year, and now I come for the third time, and yet you have not had sufficient time to consider. Yes or no? If you send me away this time, I shall not come back--depend upon that--and the whole courtship can go where it wants to."

Regine did not answer, but it was not indecision which made her hesitate. Even this strange, original nature had a spice of deep romance in her heart--love for the man who was once to be her husband, Hartmut von Falkenried. When he had married another, she too had pledged her hand, for she was not the kind to mourn her life away uselessly; but the same bitter pain which had stung the young girl when she approached the altar, awoke now again in the aging woman and closed her lips; but it lasted only a few moments, then she threw the dream from her with decision, and stretched out her hand to von Schonan.

"Well, then, yes, Moritz. I will be a good and true wife to you."

"Thank G.o.d!" cried Schonan, with a deep sigh of relief, for he had taken the hesitation as a preliminary to a third refusal. "You should have said that five years ago, Regine, but better late than never. At last we have gotten so far."

And with that the persistent wooer enclosed the finally won life companion in a hearty embrace.

CHAPTER LXI.

It was a hot summer day. Even in the forest one felt something of the intense heat which flickered upon meadows and fields. Upon the forest path a little group walked beneath the tall firs. It was General Falkenried, with his son and daughter, who were accompanying him a part of the way to Burgsdorf, where he intended making a visit.

Falkenried had indeed become another person.

The war which had been fatal to so many, and made others old before their time, in spite of the victories and triumphs won, appeared to have been a source of rejuvenation to him. Although the white hair and deep furrows in the face remained, witnesses not to be erased of a painful time, yet the face had life in it again; the eyes had regained their old fire, and one saw now at the first glance that the man was not so old, but stood yet in the fulness and power of life.

Hartmut had not yet entirely recovered, as his appearance proved. The campaign had not made him younger. He looked older and graver, and the still pale face, with the broad red scar upon the forehead, spoke of a time of heavy suffering.

The wound in itself had not been serious, but had become so through the severe loss of blood, and the overexertion of the ride in the night of the severe cold, so that at first all hope had been abandoned, and it required months of careful nursing to give Hartmut back to life.

But the old Hartmut, the son of Zalika, with his wild blood and unbridled desire for freedom, had also died in this time of suffering.

It seemed as if with the name Rojanow, which he had cast forever from him, the unfortunate inheritance from the mother had also been lost.

The heavy, dark curls were just beginning to grow again, and the high, powerful forehead appeared more striking in its resemblance to his father.

But the young wife at his side bloomed in the fullest beauty of youth and happiness. Whoever had seen her in her cold hauteur--her icy, unapproachable manner, would hardly have recognized her in this bright, slender woman, in her light summer costume, with fresh forest flowers in her hand.

The smile and tone with which she spoke to her husband and father had never been known to Frau von Wallmoden; they had been learned only by Adelaide von Falkenried.

"Not any farther, now," said the General, pausing in their walk. "You have to take the return walk, and Hartmut must still be careful. The physicians request that he be very prudent."

"Father, if you only knew how depressing it feels to be considered an invalid still, when I already feel full of life and power! I am really well."

"Do not place in jeopardy again what has been so hardly won," continued the father. "You have not yet learned patience, but fortunately I know you are under Ada's supervision, and she is strict on this subject."

"Yes, had it not been for Ada, there probably would not have been anything to take care of," said Hartmut, with a look of deepest affection upon his wife. "I believe I was in rather a hopeless condition when she came to me."

"The physicians, at least, gave me no hope when I sent off the dispatch which called Ada to your side. You called for her in your first conscious moment, to my boundless surprise, for I did not dream that you ever knew each other."

"Was it not right to you, Papa?" asked the young wife, looking smilingly up to the father, who drew her to his breast and pressed a kiss upon her brow.

"You know best what you are to Hartmut and me, my child. I thanked G.o.d that I could leave him under your nursing when I had to march on. And you were right, too, when you persuaded him to remain here, although the doctors wished to send him away. He has to learn to feel at home first in the fatherland--must learn to understand and love again that from which he has so long been estranged."

"_Has_ to learn it?" said Ada reproachfully. "What he read to you and me to-day I should think would show that he has learned it already, and that this new work bears another language from the wild, glowing Arivana."

"Yes, Hartmut, your new work is of great merit," said Falkenried, giving his hand to his son. "I believe the fatherland will be proud of my boy, even in times of peace."

Hartmut's eyes sparkled as he returned the pressure of the hand. He knew what praise from his father's lips was worth.

"And now, good-by." The General kissed his daughter-in-law again, "I will drive from Burgsdorf directly to town, but we shall see each other in a few days again. Farewell, children!"

When he had disappeared behind the trees, Hartmut and Adelaide turned on their homeward way, which led them by the Burgsdorf pond.

Involuntarily they paused beside it, and gazed upon the calm sheet of water which lay so shiningly in the sun with its wreath of rushes and water lilies.

"I have played boys' games here so often with w.i.l.l.y," said Hartmut softly, "and here my future was decided on that fatal night. I realize only now what I did to my father in that unfortunate hour."

"But you have atoned for it fully," returned Ada, leaning her head on her husband's shoulder. "It has been wiped out before the world, too, which overwhelmed you and father on all sides with admiration and appreciation when it was known who had done that heroic deed."

Hartmut shook his head gravely.

"It was a deed of despair, not heroism. I did not believe that it would succeed--n.o.body believed it; but even if I had fallen I should have regained my lost honor by that ride through the enemy. Egon knew that, and for that reason he put the rescue into my hands. When we said farewell that icy winter night in the shattered walls of the little chapel, we both felt that it was a final farewell, but we thought, too, that I should be the victim, for I went into almost certain death. Fate decreed differently. I was borne as by spirit hands through the dangers to the accomplishment of my aim, and almost at the same hour Egon fell.

You need not hide your tears from me, Ada; I am not jealous of the dead, for I loved him just as--he loved you."

"Eugene brought me his last greeting," said the young wife, in whose eyes shone the tears she had wished to conceal from her husband. "And Stadinger, too, wrote me to fulfill his dying master's last request. I fear the old man will not live much longer; his letter sounded as if he were utterly crushed."

"Poor Egon!" In Hartmut's voice sounded the deep pain he felt for his friend. "He was so full of sunny happiness and joy; he was created for it and to give it. Perhaps you would have been happier at his side, Ada, than with your wild, pa.s.sionate Hartmut, who will trouble you often enough with the dark side of his nature."

Ada smiled up at him with the tears still in her eyes. "But I love this wild, stormy Hartmut, and do not desire any greater happiness than to be his wife."

The forest lake lay in dreamy noonday stillness; grave and dark stood the old firs over it; the rushes at its border whispered low, and thousands of bright sparkles danced upon its surface.

Above it curved the blue sky into which the boy had once wished to soar like the falcon of which his race bore the name, higher and higher to the sun. It beamed, too, now up there in shining splendor the powerful, eternal sign of flame in the heavens!

[THE END.]