And this picture had taken on life and language. That which whispered in it was the old, old song of the forest itself; its murmuring and rustling--its mysterious working gathered into words which enchanted the ear of the listener like melody, while through it all floated and moaned a deep, unspeakable longing for this forest peace.
The Prince read warmly at first, then with great enthusiasm. Now he dropped the sheet and asked triumphantly:
The young Baroness had listened spellbound. She did not look at the reader, but stared motionless into the blue distance. At the question she started slightly and hastily turned.
"Is this the language of a depredator of our fatherland? I believe not," said Egon in most decided tones, but greatly as he was engrossed with his friend's poetry, he could still notice how exceptionally beautiful Frau von Wallmoden looked at this moment.
Of course, it must have been the setting sun which lent the rosy coloring to her face and the brilliancy to her eyes, for her bearing was as cold as her answer.
"It is really surprising that a foreigner should command the German language so perfectly."
Egon looked at her in amazement. Was this all? He had expected a different impression. "And what do you think of the poem itself?" he asked.
"Quite excellent. Herr Rojanow seems indeed to possess much poetic talent. But here is your glass, Your Highness. I thank you. I must be thinking of the descent now, as I do not wish to keep my husband waiting too long."
Egon folded up the paper slowly and deposited it in his breast pocket. He felt the icy breath now surround again the beautiful woman, which chilled him to the heart.
"I already have the honor of an acquaintance with His Excellency," he said. "May I renew it today?"
A slight bow gave the permission to accompany her. They left the platform, but the Prince had grown somewhat monosyllabic. He felt offended for his friend, and now regretted having given this poetry, the beauty of which carried him away, to a lady who had no understanding of, nor appreciation whatever for, poetry.
Hartmut descended the stairs slowly after his leave-taking, the lost letter-case resting safely in its usual place. It had served its purpose as a pretext to free its possessor a little while.