her lover
has had a duel on my account? What will Frau von Eschenhagen say?"

"Well, they can be easily convinced that you are blameless in the whole
affair, and if it ends well, they need know nothing about it. I hardly
know you, child, the last few days. You, who always laughed every care
and anxiety away, to sit and mope and grieve. It's incomprehensible to
me. You have hardly eaten or drunk a thing for two days, and wouldn't
sit down to your breakfast this morning. But you must eat some dinner,
and I must go and see to it at once."

With this the old lady rose and left the room. She was right, poor
Marietta seemed indeed a changed girl. It was without doubt a painful,
depressing feeling, that blame would undoubtedly rest upon her; her
friends at Fuerstenstein perhaps might never be made to understand the
real state of the case, how innocent she was of any intention to wrong
or even annoy them; her reputation, too, of which she had been so
guarded; would not every paper be teeming with this "affair of honor,"
if either combatant were killed?

"If need be with my blood," these had been Willibald's last words to her
and they rang in her ears. "O, God be merciful. Not that! not that!"

Suddenly a tall, manly figure turned the corner and came forward hastily
through the little street, evidently in search of some special number,
and as Marietta looked down she gave a cry of delight, for she
recognized Herr von Eschenhagen.

She did not wait for the bell to be answered, but rushed out impetuously
to open the door herself.

Her eyes were wet with tears, but her voice sounded clear and jubilant:

"You have come at last--God be praised!"

"Yes, here I am, safe and sound," Willibald replied, while his whole
face glowed at this reception.

How they got back to the little sitting-room neither of them ever knew,
but he had drawn her arm through his and led her in, while she feasted
her eyes on his flushed, happy face. But now she noticed that his right
wrist was bandaged.

"You have been hurt?" she said, in an anxious whisper.

"Only a scratch, not worth talking about," Willibald answered, with
great cheerfulness of spirit. "I gave the count something worth
remembering, though--a fine shot through his shoulder--nothing
dangerous, but slow to heal, so that he'll have plenty of time for
reflection. It's very satisfactory, very!"

"Then it's all over? I knew it."

"Yes, we met this morning at eight o'clock. But ther