Heideck had not interrupted her, but she saw that her words had not convinced him.  With gloomy countenance he stood before her, breathing hard, like one whose heart is oppressed by a heavy burden.

“Forgive me, but I cannot follow your train of thought,” said he, with a melancholy shake of the head.  “There are things which cannot be extenuated however we may try to palliate them.”

“Well, then, if you think what I have done so monstrous, what is there to prevent us from undoing it?  Give me back the paper; I will tear it up.  Then no one will be injured by my treachery.”

“It is too late for that.  Now that I know what this paper contains, my sense of duty as an officer commands me to make use of it.  You have involved me in a fearful struggle with myself.”

“Oh, is that your logic?  Your sense of honour does not forbid you to reap the fruits of my treachery, but you punish the traitress with the full weight of your contempt.”

He avoided meeting her flaming eyes.

“I did not say I despised you, but—­”

“Well, what else do you mean?”

“Once again—­I do not despise you, but it terrifies me to find what you are capable of.”

“Is not that the same thing in other words?  A man cannot love a woman if he is terrified at her conduct.  Tell me straight out that you can no longer love me.”

“It would be a lie if I said so, Edith.  You have killed our happiness, but not my love.”

She only heard the last words of his answer, and with brightening eyes flung herself on his breast.

“Then scold me as you like, you martinet!  I will put up with anything patiently, if only I know that you still love me, and that you will be mine, all mine, as soon as this terrible war no longer stands between us like a frightful spectre.”

He did not return her caresses, and gently pushed her from him.

“Forgive me, if I must leave you now,” he said in a singularly depressed voice, “but I must be in Antwerp by daybreak.”

“Is it really so urgent?  May I not go with you?”

“No, that is impossible, for I shall have to travel on an engine.”

“And when will you return?”

Heideck turned away his face.

“I don’t know.  Perhaps I shall be sent on further, so that I shall have no opportunity of saying good-bye to you.”

“In other words, you don’t mean to see me again?  You are silent.  You cannot have the heart to deceive me.  Must I remind you that you have sworn to belong to me, if you survive this war?”

“If I survive it—­yes!”

The tone of his reply struck her like a blow.  She had no need to look at him again, to know what was passing in his mind.  Now for the first time she understood that there was no further hope for her.  Heideck had spoken the truth, when he said he still loved her, and the horror which he felt at her conduct did not, according to his conscience, release him from his word.  But as he at the same time felt absolutely certain that he could never make a traitress to her country his wife, his idea of the honour of a man and officer drove him to the only course which could extricate him from this fearful conflict of duties.