“For my own sake—­I need quiet and rest—­I will go to Rodeck.”

The young prince shook his head.  He was accustomed to have his friend do as he pleased without much heed to his remonstrances, and he knew no means by which he could combat this new whim; but it did appear to him a very unaccountable one.

“I believe my highly esteemed aunt knows what she’s talking about sometimes,” he said, between a joke and a reproof.  “She said to me last night, in the theatre, ‘Our friend has caprices like other poets.’  I agree with her.  What has come over you, Hartmut?  Yesterday and to-day you were fairly beaming with triumph and joy, and now I have scarcely left you for an hour and return to find you in the depths of melancholy.  Have you seen anything in the papers which has annoyed you?  Something from the pen of a malicious, spiteful critic, I’ll be bound.”

He turned toward the writing-table, where the evening papers lay.

“No, no,” Rojanow said, hastily, but he turned his face sidewise, so that it lay in the shadow.  “All the papers mention ‘Arivana,’ and each strives to outdo his neighbor in writing complimentary things about me.  You know I am of an uncertain temper, and am often cast down, without being able to give reason for my depression.”

“Yes, but now when you are overwhelmed with praise, fairly extolled to the skies, such depression should be far from you.  You really seem exhausted.  That comes from the excitement we both have undergone during the past few weeks.”

He bent anxiously over his friend, who stretched out his hand to him as if to atone for this sudden change.

“Forgive me, Egon.  You must have patience with me—­I’ll be myself again in a little while.”

“I sincerely hope so.  My poet has much honor awaiting him, even to-night.  I’ll leave you now.  Try and rest, and don’t let any one else disturb you.  You have three good hours before we need start.”

The prince went.  He had not seen the bitter smile on his friend’s face when he referred to his triumphs and good fortune; and yet the prince had spoken the truth.  Fame was good fortune and happiness, perhaps the highest in life, and Hartmut was willing to acknowledge that it was so, until an hour ago, when a bitter drop had mingled in his cup.

When the young man had entered his room an hour before, he had glanced hastily over the evening papers.  A review of his work was to be found in each, and he read with interest the impressions which the drama had made:  of its strength, and depth, and power, and how skillfully the young and talented Roumanian, Hartmut Rojanow, had outlined and elaborated his characters.

Then, as he turned the sheet, another name met his gaze, a name which, for the moment, deadened his very senses.

The article which caught his eye stated that the recent journey of the Prussian Ambassador to Berlin, had been on a matter of great significance.  Herr von Wallmoden had had an audience of the duke immediately on his return, and they had discussed matters of the gravest importance, and now a high Prussian officer was expected, who was the bearer of certain special dispatches to the duke.  It was evident that some weighty military affair was under discussion, and Colonel Hartmut von Falkenried would be in the city in a few days.