tter drop had mingled in his cup.

When the young man had entered his room an hour before, he had glanced
hastily over the evening papers. A review of his work was to be found in
each, and he read with interest the impressions which the drama had
made: of its strength, and depth, and power, and how skillfully the
young and talented Roumanian, Hartmut Rojanow, had outlined and
elaborated his characters.

Then, as he turned the sheet, another name met his gaze, a name which,
for the moment, deadened his very senses.

The article which caught his eye stated that the recent journey of the
Prussian Ambassador to Berlin, had been on a matter of great
significance. Herr von Wallmoden had had an audience of the duke
immediately on his return, and they had discussed matters of the gravest
importance, and now a high Prussian officer was expected, who was the
bearer of certain special dispatches to the duke. It was evident that
some weighty military affair was under discussion, and Colonel Hartmut
von Falkenried would be in the city in a few days.

Hartmut let the paper drop from his hands; his whole body seemed to turn
to ice. His father to be here in a day or two! Herr von Wallmoden would
of course tell him all. The possibility of meeting him now seemed to
resolve itself into a certainty.

"When you have made a great, proud name and future for yourself then you
can stand before him and ask him whether he despises you or not," Zalika
had said to her son on that memorable night when he had protested
against breaking his word to his father. Now the first step toward this
brilliant future had been taken.

Hartmut Rojanow already wore the laurel wreath, and that was enough,
surely, to obliterate the past. It should and must be enough; and it was
this thought which blazed from Hartmut's eyes as he looked toward the
ambassador's box last night.

But could he look thus into his father's eyes? Despite all his defiance
he feared those eyes, and them alone, in all the world.

He had partly decided to go to Rodeck, and then he picked up the paper
again to see if any date was named for the distinguished officer's
arrival. He felt within him a something--a secret and burning longing.
Perhaps now when his great triumph was but just begun, the hour for
reconciliation had come; perhaps, when Falkenried saw what the freedom
and life for which his son had craved so long ago, had developed, he
would forgive the boy for the sake of the man.