“I thought we were out for a hunt, to-day,” said Adelheid evasively, “and this is neither the time nor the place to discuss poetry.”

“We have both left the hunt for to-day; it’s on its way now toward the Rodecker heights.  Here is the true forest loneliness.  Look at the perfect autumn landscape around us.  It speaks to the heart of peace and forgiveness.  Look at that placid sheet of water, a those heavy storm-laden clouds against the horizon—­to me there is more poetry in this than in the crowded salons of Fuerstenstein.”

The aspect of the landscape had entirely changed since the morning hours, and a dull, gloomy light had taken the place of the bright, clear sunshine, beneath whose gleams the cavalcade had set forth so merrily.

The endless stretch of forest which lay before them was in its gayest autumn dress, but in the sombre light of the approaching storm, its brilliant leaves looked faded and faint.  The deep reds and many tinted yellows of the foliage formed a beautiful picture, but these were the colors of decay and death, and told that the end of their life and bloom was not far distant.

Beneath them lay the little lake, dark and motionless, surrounded by high grasses and swamp reeds.  It looked like another lonely sheet of water in the far northland—­the Burgsdorf fish pond, and back from this little lake stretched a meadow green and marshy, from which, even now, a faint mist was rising, a mist, which as night came down, would change into a rain, while the will-o’-the-wisp in its endless sport and motion, would play in and out among the long green rushes, now gleaming, now disappearing—­thus perfecting that far off picture of long ago.

The air was oppressive and sultry, and the distant clouds were forming deeper and darker heights against the horizon.

Adelheid had not answered Hartmut’s question; she stood looking into the distance with face turned away from the man who was watching her, and yet she felt the dark consuming glance resting on her, as she had felt it so many times during the past few weeks.

“You are going away to-morrow, my dear baroness!” he began again.  “Who knows when you will return—­when I shall see you again.  May I not beg for your verdict now, may I not ask whether my words have found favor in Ada’s eyes?”

Again her name upon his lips, again that soft, veiled, passionate tone which she so feared, and which rang in her ear like the voice of an enchanter.  She felt there was no escape, no chance for flight, she must look the danger in the eye.  She turned to her questioner, and her face betrayed that she had decided to fight out the battle—­the battle with herself.

“Are you interested in my verdict merely because I bear this name?” she said coldly and proudly.  “It stands at the beginning of your poem, which by the way was sent me the other day by some mysterious hand, without name.”

“And which you read notwithstanding?” he interrupted triumphantly.