“God help us!  You dare not do it.”

“What value has life for me?” said Hartmut with great excitement.  “My mother has marked me with a brand as of seething iron, and that mark closes every door to atonement, to salvation.  I am alone, condemned, thrust out from my own countrymen.  Why, even the poorest peasant can fight; that right is denied only to the criminal without honor, and such I am in Egon’s eyes.  He fears that I would only join with my own countrymen to betray them, to—­be a spy!” He put his hands over his face, and his last words died out in a groan.  Then he felt a hand laid gently on his arm.

“The stigma lies in the name of Rojanow.  Abandon that name, Hartmut.  I bring you that for which you so ardently long—­your admission to the army.”

Hartmut gazed in unutterable astonishment at the speaker.

“Impossible!  How could you?”

“Take these papers,” said Adelheid, drawing out a long sealed envelope which she carried under her cloak.  “You will answer the description of Joseph Tanner, twenty-nine years old, slender, dark complexion, dark hair and eyes.  It’s all right, you see; no one will question your right with these papers.”

She handed him the envelope which she held with a convulsive grasp, as if it were a costly treasure.

“And these papers?” he asked doubting yet.

“Belonged to the dead!  They were given me for one who will not use them now, for he died to-day; and I will be forgiven if I save the living by their use.”

Hartmut tore open the envelope, the wind nearly blew the papers from his hand, so that it was with difficulty he could master their contents, while the baroness continued: 

“Joseph Tanner had a small office at Ostwalden.  This morning he had an unusually severe hemorrhage and died an hour after.  Poor fellow, he had only time to leave a message with me for his old mother.  I shall send her everything belonging to him, except these papers, which I, myself, obtained for him, and these I have kept for you.  We rob no one; they would be of no use whatever to the mother.  A severe judge might question my right, but I take all responsibility.  God and my fatherland will forgive me.”

Hartmut folded the papers carefully and hid them in his breast, then he threw the wet locks back from his broad forehead, his father’s forehead, for that mark of the Falkenried blood was patent to the most careless observer.

“You are right, Ada.  I can never thank you enough for what you have done to-day, but I will strive to deserve it!”

“I know that.  God guard you from danger, and now good-bye.”

“No, you cannot wish that for me!” said Hartmut sadly.  “This battle of life and death into which I go can ease my own conscience of a load, but my father and Egon will never know, if I live, that I have fought for my country, and the old stain will still be there.  But if I fall, then you can tell them that I fought under a strange name, and am at rest, perhaps under foreign soil.  They will at least have some respect for my grave.”