“Not openly, but there is only one that he can be.”
Christina smiled, thankful that the work of pardon and reconciliation had been thus softened by the personal qualities of the enemy, whose conduct in the chapel had deeply moved her.
“Then all will be well, blessedly well,” she said.
“So I trust,” said Ebbo, “but the bell broke our converse, and he laid me down as tenderly as—O mother, if a father’s kindness be like his, I have truly somewhat to regain.”
“Knew he aught of the fell bargain?” whispered Christina.
“Not he, of course, save that it was a year of Turkish inroads. He will speak more perchance to-morrow. Mother, not a word to any one, nor let us betray our recognition unless it be his pleasure to make himself known.”
“Certainly not,” said Christina, remembering the danger that the household might revenge Friedel’s death if they knew the foe to be in their power. Knowing as she did that Ebbo’s admiration was apt to be enthusiastic, and might now be rendered the more fervent by fever and solitude, she was still at a loss to understand his dazzled, fascinated state.
When Heinz entered, bringing the castle key, which was always laid under the Baron’s pillow, Ebbo made a movement with his hand that surprised them both, as if to send it elsewhere—then muttered, “No, no, not till he reveals himself,” and asked, “Where sleeps the guest?”
“In the grandmother’s room, which we fitted for a guest-chamber, little thinking who our first would be,” said his mother.
“Never fear, lady; we will have a care to him,” said Heinz, somewhat grimly.