“Yonder is Fuerstenstein,” said he, as he turned and spoke to the young girl for the first time since they had left the stream.  “It is about half an hour’s walk from here, though.”

“O, that is nothing.  I am grateful to you for guiding me so successfully, but the way is very plain now, and I will trouble you no longer.”

“I am subject to your orders,” said Hartmut coldly.  “If you desire to dismiss your guide so summarily, he will no longer force himself upon you.”

The lady felt the reproof implied in his words.  After a man had spent a couple of hours in her service, he did deserve something more than a contemptuous dismissal, even though she had found it necessary to keep him at a distance.

“I have taken too much of your time already,” she said, unbending a little.  “You have introduced yourself to me, Herr Rojanow, and I must, in return, tell you my name before I say good morning—­Adelheid von Wallmoden.”  Hartmut drew a short breath, and a fleeting red colored his face as he repeated, slowly: 

“Wallmoden!”

“Are you familiar with the name?”

“I have heard it, but not here, in—­in North Germany.”

“Very probable; that is my husband’s home, and mine, too.”

Rojanow’s face showed extreme surprise as he heard this young girl, whom he had taken as a matter of course, for unmarried, speak in so matter-of-fact a tone about her husband, but he bowed, and said most courteously: 

“I beg your pardon, my dear madame, for mistaking you for a girl, but I could not know you were married.  And I now know that I have never had the honor of meeting your husband.  The only one of the name with whom I was ever familiar, was a gentleman now past middle life.  He belonged to the diplomatic service, and his name, if I do not mistake, was Herbert von Wallmoden.”

“That is my husband, and he is at present ambassador to this country.  He will be looking anxiously for me now, so I must not linger a moment longer.  Again let me thank you, Herr Rojanow.”  And with a bow of adieu, the lady hurried down the hill toward the carriage road.

Hartmut stood looking after her, like one in a maze; heavy beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.  So soon?  He had scarcely set foot on German soil, and here he was met at once by the old names and all the painful memories which their mention entailed.

Herbert von Wallmoden, Frau von Eschenhagen’s brother, Willibald’s guardian and his own boyhood’s friend.  Rojanow felt a sharp cut like a dagger thrust through his breast.  He drew himself up and threw his shoulders back, as though he would throw from him some overwhelming burden, and the old bitter, mocking smile came to his lips again, as he said, half aloud: 

“Uncle Wallmoden hasn’t wasted any of his opportunities, that’s evident.  His hair’s gray by this time, but it hasn’t prevented him winning a lovely young wife.  To be sure, an ambassador is a fine match, and it is evident that Adelheid von Wallmoden was born to marry such a man.  She has all the aristocratic airs and manners which are the one thing needful in the diplomatic circle.  Doubtless he’s had her well trained to take her place in the diplomatic school.  Well, he’s fared well in this world, there’s no doubt of that.”