The young man, who until now had stood at the window silent and indifferent, as if the conversation in no way concerned him, turned and approached the bed. He appeared the same as usual, except that he was somewhat pale; at the first glance one felt that Witold's solicitude was excessive, but closer scrutiny revealed a great change. The face had assumed an expression of indifference and rigidity which excluded the play of any other emotion. Perhaps this was only a mask with which Waldemar sought to hide from the world a deeply wounded sensibility. The voice no longer had its usually powerful ringing tone; it was hollow and expressionless, as he replied,--
"Do not heed my uncle's words; nothing is the matter with me."
Doctor Fabian grasped his pupil's right hand in both of his, the young man offering no resistance. "Herr Witold thinks you are still censuring yourself for the accident which occurred to me. This, you must know, is wholly unnecessary, now that all danger is past. I fear that the cause of your sadness lies in quite another direction."
Waldemar's hands trembled; he turned his face away.
"Hitherto I have not ventured to allude to this subject," Fabian went on, hesitatingly. "I see that it still pains you; shall I keep silent?"
Waldemar sighed deeply. "No," he answered; "say what you please; but first let me thank you for not telling my uncle. He has tortured me nearly to death with his questions, but I could not answer them. My mood that evening nearly cost you your life. I can not and will not deny what you already know."
"I know nothing; I only have my conjectures in regard to the scene I witnessed. For heaven's sake, Waldemar, what happened?"
"A childish folly, nothing more," Waldemar replied, with bitter irony; "a mere stupid whim not worth noticing,--at least so my mother wrote me day before yesterday. But I was in earnest, so terribly in earnest that nothing the future has in store for me can atone for my disappointment."
"Do you love the Countess Morynski?" asked Doctor Fabian, timidly.
"I have loved her--but that love is a thing of the past. She did her best to fascinate me; I now know that she was only playing a heartless game. The wound was deep, but it will heal. I shall conquer this weakness. I shall learn to forget and despise the girl who trifled with the holiest sentiment of my heart. But do me this favor: never mention the matter to my uncle, never speak of it again to me. I cannot talk about it, not even with you. Leave me to fight out the battle alone, and it will end all the sooner."