"But there really was no necessity," he observed. "Michael wrote expressly that he could not be here with his regiment until the day after to-morrow, and that he would telegraph you beforehand. Until then we might have stayed quietly in Berkheim."
Hertha shook her head. "Berkheim is full four leagues away. The orders might be changed, the telegram might be delayed, and then I should be too late. Only here on the spot can I be sure of the time of the arrival of the regiment. Do not blame me, your reverence! I must bid Michael farewell; when he is going perhaps to death, even the bare possibility of missing him is terrible!"
Valentin did not look inclined to blame her, but he marvelled at the dominion which Michael exercised over the proud, wayward girl.
"I am thankful that I was able to come with you," said he. "The pastor of Tannberg was quite ready to send me his chaplain to take my place for a while, and I can conduct you back to Berkheim."
Hertha gratefully held out her hand to him. "I have no one but you! My guardian is angry with me, as I foresaw that he would be. He never even answered my letter, and Aunt Hortense was so furious when she learned of my betrothal to Michael, that I could not possibly remain a day longer at Steinrück, loath as I was to leave my mother's grave so soon. I am grieved to have caused your reverence so much trouble and exertion. I am afraid that your accommodations are even worse than mine."
"For the present I have a room upon the ground-floor which certainly is not very inviting," said Valentin, smiling, "but the host has promised me for the night the gable-room in the upper story, since the strangers now occupying it will leave by the evening train. The time for its departure is at hand; I will go and attend to matters."
He left the room, and Hertha walked to the window, which she opened wide. The day had been very hot, and the evening brought no refreshment; the air was sultry and oppressive. Not a star was visible in the clouded heavens, and on the distant horizon there was from time to time a gleam of lightning, unveiling the dim mountain-range. Near at hand sparkled the lights of the railway-station, and close to the house the river rushed, seeming to emerge from the darkness only to be lost in it again. The ripple and dash of its waters were the only signs of its existence.
The young Countess leaned her glowing forehead against the window-frame, resolving to be steadfast and brave. Michael should see no grief that could make departure harder for him; but now that she was alone she could weep her fill. Her sense of loss in her mother's death, the pain occasioned by the strife with her family, all faded in her anguish for the lover whom perhaps she had won only to lose again forever.
Suddenly she heard voices close beneath her window. The host was standing at the inn door with a stranger, and Hertha could hear that they were speaking of the gable-room. The innkeeper asked civilly when the room would be vacant, as some one was waiting to occupy it, and the stranger replied that he had just learned at the station that the evening train would not leave for two hours; for so long he and the lady with him must retain the room. His voice attracted the young Countess's attention. She knew that fluent German spoken with a slight foreign accent, and in another moment she recognized, by the light of the lamp just lit before the house, the speaker, Henri Clermont, who, since he spoke of a lady with him, must be on his way back to France with his sister.
Hertha retired from the window with a pained sensation. Until a short time previously she had had but the merest superficial acquaintance with these people, meeting them from time to time in society. Only lately had she learned of Raoul's relations with Frau von Nérac. A chance meeting was certainly to be avoided, and the young Countess resolved not to leave her room for the next two hours.