A whole week having passed since Brandelaar had started, Heideck at least hoped for his return to-day. The north wind had increased towards evening; there was almost a storm, and the blast rattled violently at the windows of the room in the hotel, in which Heideck sat still writing at midnight.
A gentle knock at the door made him look up from his work. Who could have come to see him at this late hour? It was certainly not an orderly from his office, which was open day and night, for soldiers’ fingers as a rule knocked harder.
“Come in!” he said. The door opened slowly, and Heideck saw, in the dimly-lighted corridor, a slender form in a long oilskin cape and a large sailor’s hat, the brim of which was pressed down over the forehead.
A wild idea flashed through Heideck’s mind. He sprang up, and at the same moment the pretended young man tore off his hat and held out his arms with a cry of joy.
“My dear—my beloved friend!”
“Edith!”
At this moment all other thoughts and feelings were forgotten by Heideck in the overpowering joy of seeing her again. He rushed to Edith and drew her to his breast. For a long time they remained silent in a long embrace, looking into each other’s eyes and laughing like merry children.
At last, slowly freeing herself from his arms, Edith said—
“You are not angry with me, then, for coming to you, although you forbade it? You will not send me away from you again?”
Her voice penetrated his ear like sweet, soothing music. What man could have resisted that seductive voice?