“You saw—?” he began.

“No one,” said she, bending her dark eyes full upon him.  “Will you close the shutter?”

Wogan drew back instinctively.  He had a sense that this open window, though there was no one to spy through it, was in some way a security.  Suppose that he closed it!  That mere act of shutting himself and her apart, though it gave not one atom more of privacy, still had a semblance of giving it.  He was afraid.  He said,—­

“There is no need.  Who should spy on us?  What would it matter if we were spied upon?”

“I ask you to close that shutter.”

From the quiet, level voice he could infer nothing of the thought behind the request; and her unwavering eyes told him nothing.

“Why?”

“Because I am afraid, as you are,” said she, and she shivered.  “You would not have it shut.  I am afraid while it stays open.  There is too much expectation in the night.  Those great black pines stand waiting; the stars are very bright and still, they wait, holding their breath.  It seems to me the whirl of the earth has stopped.  Never was there a night so hushed in expectation;” and these words too she spoke without a falter or a lifting note, breathing easily like a child asleep, and not changing her direct gaze from Wogan’s face.  “I am afraid,” she continued, “of you and me.  I am the more afraid;” and Wogan set the shutter in its place and let the bar fall.  Clementina with a breath of relief came back to her seat at the table.

“How long is it till dawn?” she said.

“We have half an hour,” said Wogan.

“Well, that old man—­Count von Ahlen, you said—­received you, heaped logs upon his fire, stanched your wounds, and asked no questions.  Well?  You stopped suddenly.  Tell me all!”

Wogan looked doubtfully at her and then quickly seated himself over against her.

“All?  I will.  It will be no new thing to you;” and as Clementina raised her eyes curiously to his, he met her gaze and so spoke the rest looking at her with her own direct gaze.

“Why did he ask no question, seeing me disordered, wounded, a bandit, for all he knew, with a murder on my hands?  Because thirty years before Count Philip Christopher von Koenigsmarck had come in just that same way over the lawn to the window, and had sat by that log-fire and charmed the old gentleman into an envy by his incomparable elegance and wit.”

“Koenigsmarck!” exclaimed the girl.  She knew the history of that brilliant and baleful adventurer at the Court of Hanover.  “He came as you did, and wounded?”

“The Princess Sophia Dorothea was visiting the Duke of Wuertemberg,” Wogan explained, and Clementina nodded.

“Count Otto von Ahlen, my host,” he continued, “had a momentary thought that I was Koenigsmarck mysteriously returned as he had mysteriously vanished; and through these thirty years’ retention of his youth, Count Otto could never think of Koenigsmarck but as a man young and tossed in a froth of passion.  He would have it to the end that I had escaped from such venture as had Koenigsmarck; he would have it my wounds were the mere offset to a love well worth them; he would envy me.  ‘Passion,’ said he, ‘without passion there can be no great thing.’”