He paused, with his hand on the door.

“And,” she said, with fiery cheeks, “does your forgiveness date from to-night?”

“Yes!”

He opened the door.

“Good-night!” he said, and went out.

CHAPTER XL

STEPAN RETURNS

At daybreak the next morning Karl Steinmetz was awakened by the familiar cry of the wolf beneath his window.  He rose and dressed hastily.  The eastern sky was faintly pink; a rosy twilight moved among the pines.  He went down stairs and opened the little door at the back of the castle.

It was, of course, the starosta, shivering and bleached in the chilly dawn.

“They have watched my cottage, Excellency, all night.  It was only now that I could get away.  There are two strange sleighs outside Domensky’s hut.  There are marks of many sleighs that have been and gone.  Excellency, it is unsafe for any one to venture outside the castle to-day.  You must send to Tver for the soldiers.”

“The prince refuses to do that.”

“But why, Excellency?  We shall be killed!”

“You do not know the effect of platoon firing on a closely packed mob, starost.  The prince does,” replied Steinmetz, with his grim smile.

They spoke together in hushed voices for half an hour, while the daylight crept up the eastern sky.  Then the starosta stole away among the still larches, like the wolf whose cry he imitated so perfectly.

Steinmetz closed the door and went upstairs to his own room, his face grave and thoughtful, his tread heavy with the weight of anxiety.

The day passed as such days do.  Etta was not the woman to plead a conventional headache and remain hidden.  She came down to breakfast, and during that meal was boldly conversational.

“She has spirit,” reflected Karl Steinmetz behind his quiet gray eyes.  He admired her for it, and helped her.  He threw back the ball of conversation with imperturbable good humor.

They were completely shut in.  No news from the outer world penetrated to the little party besieged within their own stone walls.  Maggie, fearless and innocent, announced her intention of snow-shoeing, but was dissuaded therefrom by Steinmetz with covert warnings.

During the morning each was occupied in individual affairs.  At luncheon time they met again.  Etta was now almost defiant.  She was on her mettle.  She was so near to loving Paul that a hatred of him welled up within her breast whenever he repelled her advances with uncompromising reticence.

They did not know—­perhaps she hardly knew herself—­that the opening of the side-door depended upon her humor.

In the afternoon Etta and Maggie sat, as was their wont, in the morning-room looking out over the cliff.  Of late their intercourse had been slightly strained.  They had never had much in common, although circumstances had thrown their lives together.  It is one of the ills to which women are heir that they have frequently to pass their whole lives in the society of persons with whom they have no real sympathy.  Both these women were conscious of the little rift within the lute, but such rifts are better treated with silence.  That which comes to interfere with a woman’s friendship will not often bear discussion.