She was extremely agitated. She looked at him for a moment before she again cast down her eyes, and in that look he thought he read an answer to his hopes, for, with a happy smile, he came a step nearer to her.
"I do not understand all this," she stammered; "explain to me."
"I cannot explain," he interrupted, "to a strange lady, only to her who gives me the right to consecrate my life to her, and to have no secret from her."
"Good Heavens! Herr von Stielow," she cried, still more embarrassed, "I ask you seriously to explain."
"Then you give me the right to explain to you?"
"I did not say so," she cried, and rose.
She walked towards the door by which her mother had left the room. He hastened to her, and seized her hand.
"Give me an answer, Clara," he cried.
She stood still, with drooping head.
"Clara," he cried again, in a low, earnest tone, "you wear a rose on your breast. In olden days, ladies gave to the knight whose love and service they accepted for ever, a gift, to be a sacred talisman in battle, and to be with them in death. We, too, are on the eve of bloody days. Clara, will you give me that rose?"