Greif and Rex sat side by side at the head of the long table. It was long past midnight, but neither felt the need of sleep. Greif dreaded to go home, for he felt that he was taking his last leave of a life he loved. Rex, who was unnaturally calm, even for a man of his solid nerve, sat motionless beside his friend, emptying his huge beaker twice in every hour with unfailing regularity. He talked quietly but constantly, interspersing queer bits of cynicism and odds and ends of uncommon wisdom in his placid conversation. Greif knew by his manner that he was in reality sad and preoccupied, but was grateful for his pleasant talk, which blunted the keen edge of this rupture with first youth’s associations. From time to time Greif wondered rather vaguely whether his relations with Rex would continue in after life, and, if so, whether they would not be affected for the worse by the revelation of Rex’s identity. The excitement of the evening had perhaps momentarily expanded his natural generosity too far, and while he was quite aware that he could not now draw back from the friendship with honour, he was by no means sure that he might not afterwards regret his readiness to receive so kindly, as a cousin, him whom he had so much liked before he had been aware of the relationship. As he sat there, conversing with Rex, he attached an amount of importance to the situation which would have amazed him, had he known that of which both were ignorant, namely, that Rex was his half-brother as certainly as Rieseneck was half-brother to old Greifenstein.
The hours wore on till scarcely fifty students remained in the hall, and they of the sturdy kind who make very little noise over their amusements.
‘Shall we go home, or stay till morning?’ asked Greif at last, hesitating whether to light a fresh cigar or not.
‘We might adjourn to your room,’ suggested Rex. ‘We can finish the night there.’
There was a stir near the door, and Greif looked round, idly at first, to see what was the matter, then with an expression of dismay. A man had entered the hall, a man with a ghastly face, who seemed to be making inquiries of the knot of Korps servants who waited for their tardy masters. Greif’s eyes fixed themselves in the anticipation of evil, when he saw that the fellow wore the Greifenstein livery and was one of his father’s grooms. What was most strange was that he wore boots and spurs, as if he had ridden hard, though he could only have reached Schwarzburg by the railway.
‘Karl!’ cried Greif in a tone that made the man start. ‘What are you doing here?’
Karl crossed the hall, his face growing paler than ever, and his teeth chattering. He had not had time to recover from the thought of what he had left behind him. His hands trembled violently as they grasped the military cap he held.
‘Herr Baron—’ he stammered, staring at Greif with wide and frightened eyes. ‘Herr Baron—’ he began again, trying to frame the words.
‘Speak, Karl!’ exclaimed Greif making a desperate effort to seem calm, though he instinctively dreaded the words which must fall from the man’s lips.
The groom turned appealingly to Rex, who sat motionless in his place, scrutinising the messenger with his stony glance.