Falkenried was to accompany Adelheid to the city to-morrow.  He had seen her and Regine, and then had stood for a long time beside the body of his old friend, who had parted from him with a careless good-by but yesterday; who had been so full of plans and projects of his hopes and ambitions for the future.  Now everything was at an end.  There he lay, cold and stiff upon the bier.  Falkenried stood at the window in his own room; even this fatal accident had not moved him from his icy calm; he had long looked upon death as a happy release.  Life was hard, very hard—­but not death.

He gazed out into the silent winter night.  The whole northern sky was aglow with the dark red flame which started out of the darkness like a sheet of fire.  The stars blinked faintly, as through a purple veil, and far beneath them all the earth lay cold and white and still.

Falkenried was so deeply wrapt in thought that he did not notice the opening and closing of the door of the adjoining room.  Softly his own room door opened, but he did not look up nor see the tall figure standing on the threshold.

The Colonel still stood by the window, though his face was but half turned toward it, and the flickering of the candle on the table shone across it.  How deep and sad were the lines around the mouth; how fearfully furrowed the high forehead beneath the white hair.  Hartmut shuddered unconsciously—­he had not thought to find the change so great nor so painful.  This man who was yet in his prime, looked old, so old.  And who had worked this change?  Several minutes passed in silence, then a sound was heard in the room, half aloud and breathless; only one word, but that one full of inexpressible tenderness: 

“Father!”

The colonel started as if a voice from another world had fallen on his ear.  Then he turned slowly, but with an expression as though he expected really to see a vision from the spirit-land.

Hartmut took a few quick steps forward, and then stood still.  “Father, it is I. I come—­”

He was silent, for now he met his father’s eyes—­those eyes which he so dreaded; and meeting them, he was robbed of all courage to speak farther.  His head sank and he was silent.

Every drop of blood seemed to have left the colonel’s face.  He had not known that his son was under the same roof with him, and was totally unprepared for the meeting.  But he made no outcry, showed no sign either of anger or weakness.  Still and stark he stood and looked upon him who had once been his all.  At last he raised his hand slowly, and pointed toward the door: 

“Go!”

“Father, hear me.”

“Go, I say!” The order sounded threatening this time.

“No, I will not go!” cried Hartmut, passionately.  “I know that reconciliation can only come in this hour.  I have wronged you deeply; how deeply, how severely, I feel now for the first time.  But I was only a boy of seventeen, and it was my mother whom I followed.  Remember that, father, and forgive me, forgive your own son.”