“If need be with my blood,” these had been Willibald’s last words to her and they rang in her ears.  “O, God be merciful.  Not that! not that!”

Suddenly a tall, manly figure turned the corner and came forward hastily through the little street, evidently in search of some special number, and as Marietta looked down she gave a cry of delight, for she recognized Herr von Eschenhagen.

She did not wait for the bell to be answered, but rushed out impetuously to open the door herself.

Her eyes were wet with tears, but her voice sounded clear and jubilant: 

“You have come at last—­God be praised!”

“Yes, here I am, safe and sound,” Willibald replied, while his whole face glowed at this reception.

How they got back to the little sitting-room neither of them ever knew, but he had drawn her arm through his and led her in, while she feasted her eyes on his flushed, happy face.  But now she noticed that his right wrist was bandaged.

“You have been hurt?” she said, in an anxious whisper.

“Only a scratch, not worth talking about,” Willibald answered, with great cheerfulness of spirit.  “I gave the count something worth remembering, though—­a fine shot through his shoulder—­nothing dangerous, but slow to heal, so that he’ll have plenty of time for reflection.  It’s very satisfactory, very!”

“Then it’s all over?  I knew it.”

“Yes, we met this morning at eight o’clock.  But there’s nothing to be anxious about now, Fraeulein.  It’s all well over.”

The young singer gave a deep sigh, as she said:  “I thank you, Herr von Eschenhagen, I thank you from my heart.  You have risked your life on my account, and I cannot be too grateful.”

“There is no occasion for gratitude, Fraeulein, but as I have faced a pistol on your account, you must, at least accept a little memento of the occasion.  You must not trample this peace offering under your feet.”

As he spoke he unwrapped—­somewhat awkwardly, for he had only his left hand—­a full blown rose and two buds from its cover of tissue paper.

Marietta’s eyes sank and a flush of shame o’erspread her features as she took the flowers, without speaking, and pinned them on her breast; then she reached out her hand, as if begging for forgiveness; it was grasped at once.

“You are accustomed to receive gifts of flowers,” he said almost apologetically.  “I hear from all sides how much homage is paid you.”

The young girl smiled, but smiled more sadly than joyfully.

“You have seen what manner of homage is done me at times,” she said.  “Count Westerburg is not the first against whom I have had to contend.  So many men consider it perfectly legitimate to attempt liberties with any one who appears on the stage, and sometimes even those with whom one associates are not—­believe me, Herr von Eschenhagen, my lot is not always an enviable one.”