“What is a single blossom to you which you plucked heedlessly and cast aside so carelessly?  To me—­baroness, as a favor—­I beg you, baroness.”

He stood close by her side.  The witchery of voice and eye which had so often overcome all obstacles in his boyhood’s days, and which had then been exercised, unconsciously, had become a great power in these later years, and one which he knew how to use only too well.

His voice had again that soft, persuasive tone which fell on her ear like music, and his eyes, those dark, fathomless eyes, were fixed on the young wife with a half melancholy, half pleading expression.  Adelheid’s face had grown very white now, but she did not answer.

“Please,” he repeated, in a lower, more pleading tone, as he pressed his lips to the purple-red blossom; but this last motion seemed to break the spell.  Adelheid reached her hand out suddenly.

“I must insist upon your giving me my flower, Herr Rojanow.  It is for my husband.”

“Indeed, then, I beg your pardon, madame.”

He held out the flower to her with a profound bow, and she took it with a scarcely perceptible motion of the head, then the heavy white train of her robe rustled past him—­he was alone.

All in vain!  Nothing affected this icy nature.  Hartmut stamped his foot in a fury.  Scarcely fifteen minutes ago he had asserted to Prince Egon that he could sing to please the ear of any woman.  Now he had sung again that song which never before had failed him, and all to no purpose.  But this proud, arrogant man could not believe that the game which he so often won had been lost this time, and in this knowledge lay his determination to win yet at all hazards.

And should it only remain a game?  He had not called himself to account as yet, but in the intense interest which this beautiful woman excited within him, there was a strong mixture of hate.  There had been an antagonistic feeling on that first day in the wood, and since then he had been repelled and attracted by turns; it was just that which spurred him on.

Love, the holy, pure significance of that word, was a stranger to the heart of Zalika’s son.  He had learned much that was harmful at the side of his mother, who had made such a shameless spectacle of her own husband’s love; and the many women who were her companions and associates in her Roumanian home, but echoed her sentiments concerning love and fidelity.  Their later life, unstable and adventurous, with no ground under their feet, had ruined altogether all ideals of happiness and love in the young man’s breast; he learned contempt before he learned love, and now he received his well-deserved humiliation as an insult.

“You keep me at bay now,” he murmured.  “You are battling against yourself.  I have felt it and seen it, but in such a battle the man is always victor.”

A slight rustle of a curtain made him turn round.  It was the ambassador in search of his wife, whom he thought still here; he stood on the threshold and threw a hasty glance around the room, when he caught sight of Hartmut.  He stopped and hesitated for a moment, then he said half aloud: