"Then come where I will tell you."
She did not wish to say a word more.
Zaklika left the room with a sad presentiment. Wehlen, whom he met in the courtyard, was feverish, looking every moment at the setting sun.
The old commandant called Zaklika to have a glass of beer and play the usual game of draughts. The sergeant who locked the doors and brought the key usually found them absorbed in the game, which lasted late into the night.
The evening was beautiful. Zaklika played absentmindedly, listening to the smallest noise in the castle, and the commandant, winning each time, laughed at him.
"What is the matter with you to-day?" he asked.
"I have a headache."
Having played a few games, they began to chat. Wehlen filled his pipe. The night was growing dark; they lighted candles. Henry was absent, and this was unusual.
"I am sure he went to town," said the commandant. "He is weary here, and I prefer him to go out rather than sigh at that proud lady, who imagines she is a queen and does not deign to look at anybody."
Zaklika did not answer.