“No; it did not hurt, and I deserved what I got.”

The little maid pressed the old servant’s hand, whereupon he sank to his knees at her feet, and, kissing her pretty fingers, whispered: 

“This fully repays me.”

The next morning Ludwig was entirely recovered.  He rose, and, as was his wont, drank six tumblerfuls of water—­his usual breakfast.

Of the events of the past night he spoke not one word.

At ten o’clock the occupants of the Nameless Castle were to be seen out driving as usual—­the white-haired groom, the stern-visaged gentleman, and the veiled lady.

That same morning Dr. Tromfszky received from the castle a packet containing his medical belongings, and an envelop in which he found a hundred-guilder bank-note, but not a single written word.

Meanwhile the days passed with their usual monotony for the occupants of the Nameless Castle, and September, with its delightfully warm weather drew on apace.  In Hungary the long autumn makes ample amends for the brief spring—­like the frugal mother who stores away in May gifts with which to surprise her children later in the season.

Down at the lake, a merry crowd of naked children disported in the water; their shouts and laughter could be heard at the castle.  Ludwig fully understood the deep melancholy which had settled on Marie’s countenance.  Her sole amusement, her greatest happiness, had been taken from her.  Other high-born maidens had so many ways of enjoying themselves; she had none.  No train of admirers paid court to her.  No strains of merry dance-music entranced her ear.  Celebrated actors came and went; she did not delight in their performances—­she had never even seen a theater.  She had no girl friends with whom to exchange confidences—­with whom to make merry over the silly flatterers who paid court to them; no acquaintances whose envy she could arouse by the magnificence of her toilets—­one of the greatest pleasures in life!

She had no other flatterers but her cats; no other confidantes but her cats; no other actors but her cats.  The world of waves had been her sole enjoyment.  The water had been her theater, balls, concert—­the great world.  It was her freedom.  The land was a prison.

Again it was the full of the moon, and quite warm.  The tulip-formed blossoms of the luxuriant water-lilies were in bloom along the lake shore.  Ludwig’s heart ached with pity for the little maid when he saw how sorrowfully she gazed from her window on the glittering lake.

“Come, Marie,” he said, “fetch your bathing-dress, and let us try the lake again.  I will stay close by you, and take good care that nothing frightens you.  We will not go out of the cove.”

How delighted the child was to hear these words!  She danced and skipped for joy; she called him her dear Ludwig.  Then she hunted up the discarded Melusine costume, and hastened with such speed toward the shore that Ludwig was obliged to run to keep up with her.  But the nearer she approached to the bath-house, the less quickly she walked; and when she stood in the doorway she said: