Suddenly the pure, white light of heaven breaks through the red glow of the drama; the scene is beautiful, but short and swift and fleeting as the zephyr’s breath.  The chaste form vanished to the snowy heights of her distant home, while here below from the river’s moonlit shore rose the song of the Hindoo maiden—­Marietta’s soft and swelling voice; the cry of warning from above was lost in these sweet seductive tones.  In the last act came the tragic ending, the judgment upon the guilty pair who suffer death in the flames.  But this death was no atonement, it was rather a triumph, a glorious apotheosis, and out of the midst of the fire flamed high toward heaven the infernal doctrine of the unconditional right of passion.  The curtain fell for the last time, and the applause, which had increased from act to act, rose now to a perfect storm.  The house shouted for the author and would take no denial.  At last Hartmut came forward, free from every trace of embarrassment, and beaming with pride and joy.  He bowed his thanks to the public, which had held to his lips that night a cup of delight such as he had never before tasted.  They are intoxicating, these first draughts from the goblet of fame!  In the pride of victory the young poet cast a glance toward the proscenium box whose inmates he had already recognized.

He did not find what he sought.

Adelheid had leaned back in her chair and covered her face with an open fan.  He saw only the cold, unmoved countenance of the man who had so deeply insulted him, and who now was the witness of his triumph.

Wallmoden understood only too well the mute language of those flashing dark eyes; they said to him: 

“Dare to despise me now!”

* * * * *

At an early hour the next morning, Willibald von Eschenhagen entered the great city park, which, he had just declared to his uncle, he would explore for himself.  This extensive, well-wooded park, which lay before the city’s very doors, was well worth a visit, but Willibald took scant notice of its beauties as he hurried on in the keen November morning.  He glanced neither to the right nor to the left, but strode on, striking into this path and now into that, frequently re-treading the very ground which he had left but a moment before.

Perhaps this brisk, aimless walk, would silence or stupefy the passion and excitement which were struggling for mastery within him.

Some of his excitement was due to seeing his old friend again, for he had been greatly moved at the sight of him.  Fourteen long years he had heard nothing of Hartmut, had been forbidden even to mention his name, and now he stood before him suddenly in all the pride and glory of a rising poet’s fame, wonderfully changed in appearance and manner, but yet the old Hartmut still, the same with whom he had so often frolicked and never quarreled in by-gone days.  Even had he been unprepared, he would have known his dear old friend at a glance.