Suddenly the Baron raised his voice, and a strange gleam passed over his face.
'Der Teufel!' he exclaimed; 'here is the name of a friend of yours—in the Extra Blatt?
'Of mine—who?' asked the Count.
'We regret to learn by a recent telegram from the seat of war that a party of the 95th Thuringian Regiment met with a severe misfortune, and lost two officers. Herr Lieutenant Pierrepont fell, it is believed, mortally wounded——'
The Baron paused and changed colour; the Countess grew pale, but with a smile of grim satisfaction on her lips; the Count said:
'Poor fellow—poor fellow!'
A low cry escaped Ernestine, who fell forward with her face on the table, and her arms stretched upon it at full length; but this emotion failed to avert the attention of the Baron, whose eyes, now dilated, were fixed on the newspaper. He was very pale, and shook his head slowly, as he said to the Count:
'Ach Gott—the worst is yet to come. Compose yourself, my dear friend.'
'Read—read—it is the name of my son—my Heinrich, that you see,' said the Countess, in a breathless voice.
'It is, madam. "Herr Lieutenant Pierrepont fell, it is believed, mortally wounded——"'