He stood before her in the stormy triumph of the victor, and his dark, demoniacal beauty had, perhaps, never been as captivating as at this moment, when the fire which breathed in his words burst also from his eyes--his whole being.
And he did speak the truth!
The woman who leaned there against the trunk of the tree so deathly white, loved him as only a pure, proud nature can love; that nature which so far had lived in the delusion that her emotions would forever lie in slumber, called by the world coldness of heart.
Now she saw herself awaking before a passion which found a thousand-fold echo in her own breast; now that breath of flame floated around her also with its scorching glow; now came the test!
"Leave me, Herr Rojanow, instantly!" cried Adelaide.
Her voice sounded half smothered, almost inaudible, and she addressed a man who was not wont to yield when he felt himself victorious.
He started to approach her hastily--he suddenly stood still. There was something in the eyes--in the bearing of the young Baroness which kept him within bounds, but again he breathed her name in that tone, the power of which perhaps he knew best--"Ada."
She shuddered and made a repellent gesture.
"Not that name. For you I am Adelaide von Wallmoden. I am married--you know that."
"Married to a man who stands on the border of old age, whom you do not love, and who could not give you any love if he were young. That cold, calculating nature knows no emotion of passion. The Court, his position, his promotion, are everything to him--his wife, nothing. He perhaps boasts of the possession of a jewel which he does not know how to value, and for which another would give his soul's eternal bliss."