Germany; you served him just
right, for there's no sense in his lying so persistently. He has often
angered me with his harangues against my country, all of which I thought
he meant, at the time, but now I know better."

"You do not believe, then?" Adelheid turned suddenly and faced the
speaker.

"No, I have the proof of it in my hand. He fairly revels in our German
scenery. Your ladyship looks at me incredulously; may I tell you a
secret?"

"Well?"

"I went to Hartmut's room, this morning, to look for him," began the
prince, "and he was not there; but I found on his desk what was better
than finding him--a poem which he had evidently forgotten to lock up,
for he never intended it for my eyes, that's certain. No pricks of
conscience prevented my stealing it, and I have it with me this minute.
If you would care to glance at it--"

"I do not understand the Roumanian tongue," responded Frau von
Wallmoden, with a slight sneer; "and I imagine Herr Rojanow has not
condescended to write in German."

For answer Egon drew a paper from his pocket, and unfolded it. "You are
prejudiced against my friend, I see, but I do not want to leave him in
the false light in which he has placed himself in your eyes. May I not
read this to you, and let his own words be his justification?"

"If you desire."

The words were spoken indifferently, but Adelheid's eyes sought the
paper with an expression of keen interest. A few verses, written in a
careless, hasty hand, covered the white page. Egon began to read. They
were indeed German verses, but in them was a pureness and euphony which
told that they could only have been written by a master of that tongue,
and the description which they gave was one well known to both
listeners. Deep, sad, woodland loneliness, pervaded by the first breath
of autumn; endless green depths which swayed and beckoned with their
gloomy shadows; fragrant meadows flooded with the golden sunlight;
silent stretches of water in the far distance, and the noisy murmur of
the mountain brook, as it rushed down from some nearer height. This
picture had life and speech in it, too, and had its echoes of an
old-time woodland song; the rustle and whisper of the swaying branches
sounded to the ear like a soft, low melody, and above all and through
all, was the deep, pent-up longing for that peace which was the
background of the whole scene.

The prince had begun with fervor, and entering into the spirit of the
poem, read