In the meantime Prince Adelsberg had found Frau von Wallmoden in the park.  He begged her to continue her walk, and now the two were sauntering under the cool dark shadows of the great lindens, whose spreading branches protected them from the sun’s rays, which beat down so fiercely on the neighboring meadows.

Egon had not seen the young wife since her husband’s death.  He had made a formal visit of condolence at that time, but Eugen Stahlberg had received him in his sister’s stead, and immediately after the brother and sister had left for the North.  Adelheid still wore deep mourning, but Prince Egon thought the sombre attire and black veil under which her fair hair gleamed like a halo, only enhanced her beauty.

His glance frequently sought the fair young face, and each time he asked himself what change had come over it; he felt there was a change, but could not define wherein it lay.  Egon had only seen her when her cold, proud reserve held every one in check.  Now all coldness had disappeared, he saw and felt it, and yet there seemed a mystery about her which he could not unravel.

She could not be grieving for a husband old enough to be her father, who, even had he been nearer her own age, was of a cold, guarded nature, and could not inspire the love of a fresh young girl.  And yet there was something in the face which told of sorrow, of a deep and voiceless woe.

“If this icy exterior could be broken through one would find warmth and life beneath,” Prince Egon had declared more than once, half jestingly.  Now this transformation had been partially effected, slowly, almost imperceptibly.  But this soft, half-pained expression, which had taken the place of the haughty, cold one, this sorrowful glance, gave the young widow the one charm which had been lacking—­gentleness.

The conversation had been about trifling every-day matters, inquiries and answers concerning the court and the harmless gossip of the day.  Egon repeated the story he had already related to the head forester about the heat of Ostend, and his desire for solitude in his little woodland home.  His listener’s fleeting smile showed him that she was as incredulous as Herr von Schoenau had been; perhaps she too had read the newspaper statements concerning the royal niece at Ostend.  He was angry, and was puzzling his brain to know how he could broach the subject, and correct the error into which the papers had led her, when Adelheid asked suddenly: 

“Will your highness be alone all summer at Rodeck?  Last year you had a guest with you.”

A shadow darkened the prince’s face, and he forgot the correction which he was about to make concerning his reported betrothal.

“You mean Hartmut Rojanow ?” he said very seriously.  “He will scarcely join me; he is in Sicily at present, or was, at least, a couple of months ago.  Since then I have not heard from him, and don’t even know where to write.”