Wallmoden had been greatly disturbed and annoyed at the result of the previous night’s performance.  He had scarcely spoken as they drove from the theatre, and his wife had been equally taciturn.  She explained that the heat of the crowded room had given her a headache, and in consequence retired at once upon reaching home.

Her example was followed by her husband, who, as he bade his nephew good-night, said: 

“Do not forget our talk, Willibald.  Be silent before every one, no matter who.  You’ll have to be on your guard, too, for the name of Rojanow will be on every one’s lips for the next few days.  He’s had luck this time, like all adventurers!”

Willibald made no answer to this, but he felt that something beyond adventurer’s luck had come to the author of Arivana.  Under other circumstances he should have looked on this drama as something unheard of, inexplicable, without in the least understanding it, but last night he seemed to comprehend it all fully.

One could love without the consent of parent or guardian; such freedom was not confined to India alone—­it often happened in Germany as well.  A promise given thoughtlessly and blindly could be broken, but what then?  Yes, then came the fate which Hartmut had pictured so beautifully, yet so vividly.  Will was fully determined to transfer the lesson which Arivana had taught him to Burgsdorf.  Surely the punishment invoked by the furious priestcraft, would be no worse than the vial of Frau von Eschenhagen’s wrath.

The young heir sighed deeply as he thought of the second act of the drama, where, from the group of Hindoo maidens, the sacrificial figure steps forth.  How lovely she looked in her soft, white, clinging garments, with the wealth of flowers in her dark curly hair.  His eyes had never left her during the two or three times when she had appeared for a moment on the stage; then her song sounded forth from the shore of the moonlit river, the same clear, sweet voice which had captivated him in the little parlor of Waldhofen, and here again were the same old unholy feelings against which he had battled so bravely then.

And the worst of it was that he no longer considered them unholy.

The energetic walker came for the third time to a little temple which was open at one side and within which were seats inviting to rest, and a marble bust in the centre.  Willibald stepped in and sat down, less from necessity for rest than with the hope he might in this seclusion get his disturbed thoughts in order.

It was about ten o’clock in the morning, and the grounds were almost entirely deserted.

Only a single pedestrian, a young man elegantly attired, lounged along slowly, and to the casual observer, purposelessly.

But he was on the lookout for some one, for he glanced with unconcealed impatience toward the winding walks which led direct from the city.

Suddenly he stepped quickly behind one of the pillars which supported the little temple, where he could see any one approaching without being seen himself.