“I can only guess, Rudolph. I think it might be a son of Mother Isel—she had two. The Ermine of whom he spoke, no doubt, is some girl named after thine aunt. Perhaps it may be a child of their sister Flemild. I cannot say.”
“You think it could not be my aunt, Mother? I should like to know one of my own kin.”
“Not possible, my boy. She must have died with the rest.”
“Are you sure they all died, Mother?”
“I cannot say that I saw it, Rudolph: though I did see the dead faces of several, when I was searching for thee. But I do not see how she could possibly have escaped.”
“Might she not—if she had escaped—say the same of me?”
Countess seemed scarcely willing to admit even so much as this.
“It is time for sleep, my son,” she said; and Rudolph rose, lighted the lantern, and followed her upstairs. The chamber above was divided in two by a curtain drawn across it. As Rudolph was about to pass beyond it, he stopped to ask another question.
“Mother, if I should meet that man again,—suppose he were to speak to me?”
A disquieted look came into the dark eyes.