‘Herr Rex,’ she said at last, ‘it is necessary that the last act of this tragedy should be completed to-morrow. You have a voice in the matter—’ she hesitated.
‘Whatever you do will be well done,’ answered Rex. He seemed to think the question over quickly. ‘If you have any objections to his resting here,’ he said presently, ‘I will take him away. Do not let any feeling of delicacy prevent you from being frank.’
‘Let them lie together,’ replied Frau von Sigmundskron. ‘It would be Greif’s wish. You are very thoughtful, Herr Rex, but you must not think that any such unkind feeling can exist any longer now. Though there is no real tie of blood, you are one of us. You and Greif should be as brothers.’
A momentary light flashed in Rex’s impenetrable eyes.
‘I will be a brother to him, if he will let me,’ he answered steadily. ‘I thank you very much for what you have done and for what you say.’
Frau von Sigmundskron bade him good-night and went away. She was a woman, and her curiosity was strong, though her conscience was stronger. She felt that she was in the presence of some extraordinary mystery, and that Rex himself was a somewhat mysterious personage. His eyes haunted her and disturbed her peace, and yet she could not deny that she was attracted by him. His quiet dignity pleased her, as well as the tone of his voice. She liked his face and its expression, and her deep-rooted prejudices of caste were satisfied, for she recognised in him a man essentially of her own class. There was something very manly, too, about his bearing, which could not fail to impress a womanly woman, no matter of what age. But his eyes followed her and seemed to stare stonily at her out of the dark corners of the room. She was too much exhausted, however, to resist very long the oppression of sleep that came over her, and she was far too tired to dream, or at least to be conscious of dreaming.
With the following morning came the last trial of her strength, and those who saw her wondered how a thin, pale woman, whose hair was already white could show such constant energy, forethought and endurance. She had led a hard life, however, harder than any one there suspected, and she could have borne even more than was thrust upon her, without flinching or bending under the burden. On foot she walked in the mournful procession through the snow and the bitter wind, leaning but lightly on Greif’s arm, and sometimes feeling that she was helping him rather than accepting his assistance. It was nearly a quarter of a mile from the castle to the spot where the burial-place of the Greifensteins was built in the depth of the forest, and the road was bad in many parts, though an attempt had been made to clear it, and the footsteps of those who bore the dead smoothed the path for the living who came after.
At last it was over. The last short prayer was said. The great stone slab, green with the mould of centuries, was raised by twenty strong arms and was made to slide back into its place above the yawning steps that led down into the earth, the heavy doors of the mausoleum swung slowly upon their hinges, the huge, rusty lock was secured and the unwieldy key was solemnly placed in the hands of the new master of Greifenstein. With slow steps, two and two together, all went back through the dim shadows of the trees, while the icy wind whistled and roared upon them from every giant stem, and the trodden snow creaked beneath their feet. Two and two they re-entered the low gateway of the castle, till the iron-studded oak clanged behind the last pair, sending rolling echoes along the dark, vaulted way.
An hour later Greif and Rex sat together in sad silence before the big blazing logs in Greif’s room, faintly conscious of the comforting warmth, looking at each other from time to time without speaking, each absorbed by the pain of his own thoughts. It seemed as though several hours had passed in this way when Greif at last broke the silence.
‘I will ride to Sigmundskron to-morrow,’ he said, ‘and then we will go away.’