He had waited with feverish expectancy the message from Egon, and it had come. No letter, only three lines with the signature, “Egon, Prince Adelsberg,” but these three lines, for him who received them, meant—the end of all things. Thrust out forever and despised! The friend his heart held dear asking neither for confirmation nor denial, but condemning him unheard.
The crash of a mighty branch which had been broken in the whirlwind, aroused Hartmut from his brooding. He was not alarmed, and turned his head slowly to look where the heavy branch had fallen. Only a few feet from him—why had it not struck him and ended his misery in a moment? How welcome was the thought of death. Such fatalities follow only those who love life. He who seeks death must accomplish it with his own hands. He took his gun from his shoulder and set the stock firmly in the ground and felt over his breast for the right place. He looked up at the veiled heavens, then down at the little lake with the deceptive, marshy meadow-lands beyond, with the old gray mist hovering over it as usual.
He seemed to see again the will-o’-the-wisp darting in and out, that spirit of the marsh at which he had often gazed in the long ago over his mother’s shoulder, and while listening to her seductive words. He gave no second look to the sky, no sign was in the heavens to-day to lead him up to higher planes. One shot through the heart and all would be over.
He moved his hand to touch the trigger, when he heard a voice call his name. It was a quick, desperate cry, and a figure tall and slender, enveloped in a dark storm cloak, rushed before him. The gun fell from his hands as he looked up to see Adelheid’s face, white and despairing, looking into his own.
Several minutes went by before either of them spoke. It was Hartmut who broke the silence finally.
“You here, my dear madame?” he asked, forcing himself to speak quietly. “Why are you abroad in such unseemly weather?”
Adelheid looked at the weapon which had fallen at her feet and shuddered.
“I might ask you the same question,” she answered.
“I started out for a hunt, but this is no day for sport. I was just emptying my gun, when you—”
He did not finish, for her pained, reproving glance told him that all subterfuge was useless—he broke off and gazed gloomily before him. Adelheid too, abandoned any attempt at an ordinary conversation. Her voice was trembling and her face white as death, as she said: “Herr von Falkenried—God help us, what would you have done?”
“That which would have been finished now, had you not interfered,” said Hartmut, in a hard tone. “Believe me, dear madame, it would have been better if accident had brought you here five minutes later.”
“It was no accident. I was at the Rodeck forestry and heard that you had been gone several hours; a terrible suspicion took possession of me and drove me to follow you. I was almost certain I should find you here.”