Frau von Wallmoden stooped to pluck a flower which grew in her way, as she said quietly: 

“I believed you were in constant correspondence with one another.”

“I hoped to be when we parted, but the fault is not on my side.  Hartmut has become an unsolvable riddle to me lately.  You witnessed the glittering success of his ‘Arivana’ on that first night; which success has been repeated in many cities since then; the drama has fairly taken the people by storm, and the poet who has done it all flees from the world, even from me, and buries himself, God knows where.  I cannot understand it.  Upon my soul, I cannot understand it.”

Adelheid plucked the petals of her flower as they walked on slowly, then said in a low tone, as she looked with intense interest into the prince’s face: 

“And when did Herr Rojanow leave Germany?”

“In the beginning of December.  Shortly before that he had gone to Rodeck to spend a few days; that was immediately after ‘Arivana’ was brought out.  I thought it was a whim of the moment and said little, but suddenly he came back to me in the city in a state of excitement which fairly frightened me, and announced that he was going to leave Germany and travel.  He wouldn’t listen to reason, wouldn’t answer a question, and was off like a thunder-bolt.  He had been gone weeks before I heard from him again; since then I have had some letters, few and far between.  He was in Greece for several months, then he went to Sicily, and now for two months I have been waiting anxiously for news.”

Egon spoke in an anxious tone.  No need to ask how painfully this separation from his dearest friend affected him.

He little knew that the woman by his side could have solved the riddle for him.  She knew what drove poor, unsatisfied Hartmut from land to land, knew the blemish that soiled the poet’s name.  This was the first news she had heard of him since that fatal night at Rodeck, when all had been revealed to her.

“I presume poets are formed of different clay from common mortals,” she said slowly, as she scattered the leaves before her.  “That’s the only reason one can ascribe for their vagaries.”

The young prince shook his head sadly.

“No, it is not that; his peculiarities spring from some other source.  I have felt confident for a long time that there is something dark and mysterious in Hartmut’s life, but I never could ascertain what it was.  He would allow no allusions to his past.  I have often broached the subject, but he resented all reference to it.  There seems to be a veritable sword of Damocles hanging over him, and when in some happy moment he thinks he has escaped, he looks up, and there it hangs as usual gleaming above his head.  I was more impressed than ever with that idea when he last parted from me, he was so excited—­almost insane—­nothing could hold him back.  I cannot tell you how sad I am about him.  For more than two years we lived together.  I learnt to know and appreciate his warm heart, and responsive, genial nature.  Now everything is desolate and dreary without him, and all the rich coloring seems to have gone out of my life.”