orthland--the Burgsdorf fish pond, and back from this
little lake stretched a meadow green and marshy, from which, even now, a
faint mist was rising, a mist, which as night came down, would change
into a rain, while the will-o'-the-wisp in its endless sport and motion,
would play in and out among the long green rushes, now gleaming, now
disappearing--thus perfecting that far off picture of long ago.

The air was oppressive and sultry, and the distant clouds were forming
deeper and darker heights against the horizon.

Adelheid had not answered Hartmut's question; she stood looking into the
distance with face turned away from the man who was watching her, and
yet she felt the dark consuming glance resting on her, as she had felt
it so many times during the past few weeks.

"You are going away to-morrow, my dear baroness!" he began again. "Who
knows when you will return--when I shall see you again. May I not beg
for your verdict now, may I not ask whether my words have found favor in
Ada's eyes?"

Again her name upon his lips, again that soft, veiled, passionate tone
which she so feared, and which rang in her ear like the voice of an
enchanter. She felt there was no escape, no chance for flight, she must
look the danger in the eye. She turned to her questioner, and her face
betrayed that she had decided to fight out the battle--the battle with
herself.

"Are you interested in my verdict merely because I bear this name?" she
said coldly and proudly. "It stands at the beginning of your poem, which
by the way was sent me the other day by some mysterious hand, without
name."

"And which you read notwithstanding?" he interrupted triumphantly.

"Yes, and burned."

"Burned?" The old savage expression came over Hartmut's face, that
intense angered look which had evoked from Egon's lips the expression,
"You look like a demon, Hartmut." The demon of hate and revenge burned
once again in his breast as he thought of his recent insults from this
woman's husband, insults which must be resented to the full. And yet he
loved the woman before him as only Zalika's son could love, with a wild,
consuming passion. But in this moment hate gained the mastery.

"My poor pages!" he said with unconcealed bitterness. "They, too,
suffered in the flame; they were, perhaps, worthy a better fate."

"Then you should not have sent them to me. I will not and dare not
accept such poems."

"You dare not, my dear Baroness? It is the homage of a p