“What affair?”

“Why, our marriage.  I trust you are in the humor for it now.”  Regine turned away somewhat embarrassed.

“How you do love to take one by surprise, Moritz.”

“So that is what you call taking by surprise?” cried the head forester, irritated.  “Over five years ago I asked you to marry me, then last year a second time, and now for the third time, so you have had plenty of time to consider the matter.  Yes, or no?  If you send me away this time I’ll never come again, understand that!”

Regine did not answer, but it was not indecision which made her hesitate.  Notwithstanding her hard, unyielding nature, deep down in her heart there had always been a warm feeling for the man who was to have been her husband long years ago, for Hartmut von Falkenried.  When he had turned from her she had married another, for she had no thought of leading a desolate, useless life; but the same feeling of bitter woe which had entered the young girl’s heart was in the heart of the older woman to-day and closed her lips.  She stood silent for a few minutes, then cast the sweet, sad memory from her forever, and gave her hand to her brother-in-law: 

“Well then, yes, Moritz!  I will make you a good and true wife.”

“Thank God!” said Schoenau earnestly, for he had feared her hesitation would result in a third refusal.  “You should have said that five years ago, Regine, but better late than never.  It’s all right at last.”

And with these words the persevering man folded her in his arms with affectionate tenderness.

* * * * *

The sun shone down warm and bright on the meadow land and penetrated even into the forest depths.  It fell across the pathway of General von Falkenried and his son and daughter, who were sauntering along under the high firs on the way which led to Burgsdorf.

Falkenried did not seem the same man he had been for the past ten years.  The war which, despite its victories and final triumph, had made so many old before their time, had affected him apparently in a different manner.  His white hair was thin over his deeply furrowed brow, but his features had life again, his eyes had fire and expression, and one saw at a glance that this was no old man, but one in the zenith of his strength and power.

Falkenried’s son had not fully recovered his strength yet, and his face showed traces of great suffering.  The war had not left him younger, on the contrary he had grown older; his pallid face, and the broad, red scar on his forehead, told a tale of their own.  For months after that fearful night he had lain at death’s door, but with returning life and strength all traces of the old Hartmut, of Zalika’s son, disappeared forever.

It seemed as if, in casting from him the name of Rojanow, he cast with it the unholy heritage of her who had borne him.  The dark curly locks were beginning to grow again over the high, broad forehead, so like his father’s.