CHAPTER III.

BARON VON KOLBIELSKY.

Leonore had accompanied her father into the anteroom and listened in breathless silence to his departing footsteps.

Then, rushing to the window, she threw it open and gazed down into the street.  Yes, she saw him enter a carriage and drive off in it, turning once to nod to her.

With a sigh of relief she went back to her boudoir.  Her whole being seemed transformed.  Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled, and a happy smile hovered around her lips as she glanced at the clock.

“Twelve!” she cried joyously, “twelve!  He will come!  I shall see him again.  Ah, there he is!  There he is!”

She darted to the door to open it.  She had not been mistaken. He was there, the man whom she expected.  With a cry of joy he opened his arms, and she threw herself into them, clasping her arms around his neck, and laid her head upon his breast.

“Welcome, my beloved one, welcome!  Oh, how delightful it is to rest upon your breast!”

“And what happiness to clasp you in my arms, Leonore!  Raise your head, my sweet love; let me see your beautiful face and sun myself in your eyes.”

She lifted her face to his, gazing at him with a happy smile.  “I see myself in your eyes, dearest.”

“And you would see yourself in my heart also, if you could look into it, Leonore.  But come, my queen, sit down and let me rest at your feet and look up to you as I always do in spirit.”

He accompanied her to the divan and pressed her down upon the silken cushions.  Then, reclining at her feet, he laid his clasped hands in her lap and resting his chin upon them, gazed up at her.

“Do you really love me, Leonore?  Can you, the proud, petted, much courted Baroness de Simonie, really love the poor adventurer, who has nothing, is nothing, calls nothing his own, not even his heart, for that belongs to you.”

“I love you, because you are what you are,” she said, smiling, stroking his black hair lightly with her little white hand.

“I love you because you are different from every one else; because what attracts others does not charm you; what terrifies others does not intimidate you; I love you precisely because you are the poor adventurer you call yourself.  Thank heaven that you are no sensible, prudent, deliberate gentleman, who longs for titles and orders, for money and position, but the clever adventurer who calls nothing his own save his honor, seeks nothing save peril, loves nothing save—­”

“Loves nothing save Leonore,” he ardently interrupted.  “Believe me, it is so!  I love nothing save you, and, until I knew you, I did not know even love, only hate.”

“Hate?” she asked, smiling.  “And whom did you hate, my loved one?”

“The foes of my native land,” he cried, while a dark, angry flush swept over his handsome, expressive face, and his dark eyes flashed more brightly.