“Yes, and burned.”

“Burned?” The old savage expression came over Hartmut’s face, that intense angered look which had evoked from Egon’s lips the expression, “You look like a demon, Hartmut.”  The demon of hate and revenge burned once again in his breast as he thought of his recent insults from this woman’s husband, insults which must be resented to the full.  And yet he loved the woman before him as only Zalika’s son could love, with a wild, consuming passion.  But in this moment hate gained the mastery.

“My poor pages!” he said with unconcealed bitterness.  “They, too, suffered in the flame; they were, perhaps, worthy a better fate.”

“Then you should not have sent them to me.  I will not and dare not accept such poems.”

“You dare not, my dear Baroness?  It is the homage of a poet which he lays at a woman’s feet, and poets have had that right for all time.  It is incumbent on you to accept such an offering.”

The words were spoken in such a hot, passionate whisper that Adelheid trembled.

“Perhaps you pay homage to the women of your country in such words.  German woman do not understand them.”

“But you understand them,” said Hartmut fiercely, “and you understand the fire and passion of my ‘Arivana,’ which rises above all laws and restrictions of this narrow, human life.  I saw that on the evening when you turned your back on me, while the rest of the world applauded and came forward with their congratulations.  Do not deceive yourself, Ada.  When the god-like spark enters two souls, it bursts into flame whether they be of the south or the cold north, and that spark has ignited and burns in us both.  All strength and will dies in its fiery breath, it extinguishes all else, nothing remains but that holy, sacred fire which illumines and blesses, even while it consumes.  You love me, Ada, I know it; do not try to deceive me, and I love you beyond all power of speech.”

He stood before her in the triumph of victory.  Never before had his dark beauty shone forth so strongly, never before had his eyes glowed with such intensity, or his face expressed such passion and longing.

And he had spoken the truth.

The woman who leaned against the tree, trembling and deadly pale, loved him; loved him as only a pure, exalted nature can love.  This cold, haughty woman, whom the world had named heartless, was swayed and torn by this, the first love of her young life.

She felt within her a passion to which she could no longer blind herself; the fiery breath, with all its fierceness, was blowing down upon her.  Now came the crucial-test.

“Leave me at once, Herr Rojanow—­this instant,” she said.  The words had a choked, scarcely audible sound, and they were spoken to a man who was not accustomed to yield when he felt himself the victor.  He would have gone closer to her—­but something in the young wife’s eye, in spite of all, kept him within bounds.  But he spoke her name again, and in a tone whose power he best knew: