"You do not look at all like a hermit, Your Highness," said the young Baroness, with a fleeting smile.
"In truth, I have not much taste for it; but at times Hartmut has perfect attacks of the ailment, and then I bury myself in solitude for weeks for his pleasure."
"Hartmut! That is a thoroughly German name, and it is also surprising that Herr Rojanow speaks German with such fluency and without even a foreign intonation. Yet he introduced himself to me as a foreigner."
"Certainly. He comes from Roumania, but was raised by relatives in Germany, from whom also he may have inherited the German name," said the Prince, simply.
It was plainly to be seen that he knew nothing further of the origin of his friend. "I became acquainted with him at Paris, when I was about to begin my trip to the East, and he decided to accompany me. It was my good star of fortune that brought him to me."
"You seem infatuated with your friend."
There was something like disapprobation in the tone.
"Yes, Your Excellency, I am indeed," affirmed Egon, warmly; "and not I alone. Hartmut is one of those genial natures who conquers and wins people by storm wherever he appears. You should see and hear him when he is heart and soul enthusiastic. Then his soul flames like fire into yours. He envelops everything with his warmth; one has to follow where his flight leads."
The enthusiastic eulogy found a very cool listener. The young lady seemed to bend all her attention upon the landscape, as she replied: "You may be correct. Herr Rojanow's eyes betray something of it, but such fiery natures make upon me an impression more uncanny than sympathetic."
"Perhaps because they bear the demoniac lines which are peculiar to genius. Hartmut has them. He startles me sometimes, and yet the dark depths of his nature draw me irresistibly to him. I have actually forgotten how to live without him and shall try everything to retain him in our country."