“Do cease your senseless chatter,” said Egon violently.  “You know very well that Herr Rojanow is in Sicily, and now you find him in an orderly of the seventh regiment.  It is really laughable.”

Stadinger was silent; everything that he said was laughable or impossible.  The prince was only vexed because he had discovered that his friend was only a common soldier.  To be sure the Herr Rojanow of Rodeck, who ordered every one around, even the prince himself, and the orderly whom Lieutenant Walldorf ordered to come forward because he didn’t speak loud enough, were as far apart as heaven and earth.  If it had not been for the voice!

“Then your highness, you think—­” Stadinger began again.

“I think you’re an old ghost-hunter,” said Egon gently.  “Go to your quarters and get a good night’s rest after your journey; otherwise you’ll be discovering resemblances throughout the whole garrison—­good-night!”

Stadinger obeyed, and left for his own quarters at once.  He shook his head as he went—­he was by no means satisfied with his master’s peremptory dismissal of the subject.

The prince paced the little room in great excitement as soon as he was alone.  His former friend had forced his way into the army notwithstanding.  Joseph Tanner!  He remembered perfectly to whom the name had belonged, and knew only too well whose hand had opened the way for Hartmut.  What will not a woman do for the man she loves, what price will she not pay?  She had even sent him into danger in order that he might be reconciled to life and himself.

Jealousy, fierce and wild, filled Egon’s heart at these thoughts, and above all rose the fearful suspicion of the man’s fidelity to his flag and country.  Was his presence at the dangerous outpost an answer to suspicions, or was it a cloak to hide secret machinations?

Then the prince thought of the pale, dark face which had been so dear to him, and with a motion of torture, he tried to put the memory from him.  He knew, none so well, Hartmut’s intense pride, and this pride was dragged in the dirt day after day in the degrading position which he occupied.

He had heard of the ceaseless labor on Chapel hill, of the days and nights employed in digging trenches, of the worn bodies, the bleeding hands.  That was what Rojanow did now, the same Rojanow who had had a city at his feet one short year before, who had been the honored guest at princely boards, whose successful work had not only placed the laurel wreath on his brow, but had brought him a fortune as well.  And besides all this, he was General von Falkenried’s son.

Egon’s breast heaved violently as he thought of it all.  Then his lost confidence came back to him slowly, and banished the unjust doubts.  Hartmut was atoning now for his boyish folly.  As for the rest, his mother, and she alone, was to blame.