He bore no marks of fatigue; as he stood, broad and tall before her, his muscles and sinews seemed made of steel, it was only the face which was old and haggard.  The eyes of the young wife followed him thoughtfully as he again paced the room.  She noted the furrowed forehead, so high and broad under the white hair.  It seemed to her she had seen it somewhere else, only the locks were dark and curly, and beneath the brow were strange, large eyes, which illumined a face of southern beauty.  But surely the forehead on which she gazed was strangely like that across which the sudden wave of passion had passed on that memorable day of the hunt, even to the deep-set blue veins which stood out so prominently in the temples.  It was a strange, unaccountable, fascinating resemblance.

A few hours later the two old friends were seated together in Wallmoden’s private study.  The host had dreaded this hour, but now the tale was told and the impression which it made on the Colonel anything but what his host had expected.  He had told of Rojanow’s sudden appearance at Fuerstenstein, of the sensation which his drama had created in the city, of his wandering life with his mother during past years, and of Zalika’s death.  Falkenried had leaned back in the chair, his arm resting on the window sill, and listened to the whole long story without movement of form or feature, without a question, without a comment; he hardly seemed to hear, he was indeed made of stone.

“I believe it is right to tell you all this now,” concluded the ambassador.  “Hitherto I have not troubled you with the knowledge which has come to me from time to time, but now you must learn all I have to tell and how the land lies.”

The Colonel did not change his position, and his voice betrayed no emotion as he replied:  “I thank you for your good intentions, but you could have spared yourself the trouble.  What do I care for this adventurer?”

Wallmoden had not expected such an answer, and looked keenly at his friend as he continued: 

“I deemed it necessary to tell you because of the possibility of a meeting.  Rojanow plays a conspicuous part here and is to be met with everywhere.  The duke is greatly taken with him; you will be very apt to come across him at the castle.”

“And what then?  I know no one who bears the name of Rojanow, and he will not dare to know me.  We will pass one another as strangers.”

Wallmoden watched his friend’s face closely while he was speaking; he wondered if all feeling was dead, or if this intense coldness and indifference were assumed.

“I believed you would have taken the news of your son’s re-appearance differently,” he said, half aloud.  It was the only time he used the word “son;” he had called him Rojanow in telling the story, and he did it with a purpose now.  For the first time there was a movement from the window, but it was a movement of anger.

“I have no son, bear that in mind, Wallmoden.  He died that last night at Burgsdorf, and the dead return no more.”