"I am severely punished," she said, with trembling lips. "I must pay for the weakness of a moment with the misery of a long, long life. But there is one thing I can not have you do. You must not despise me. I was induced to write you that letter by the devilish machination of a wretch, who knew how to make use of the prejudice that my people feel against yours—a prejudice I learned in my earliest childhood."
"I thought so," he interrupted her, mildly. "I have felt the effects of that prejudice sorely. I forgive you all the more easily. But who was it?"
"Prince Alexius Sugatscheff," she answered.
"What! That man!" he exclaimed contemptuously; but immediately forced back the words he would have uttered, and continued quietly:
"Thank you for telling me this. It makes it easier for me to forgive myself for having partly broken my promise to the old prince...."
It had grown darker in the summer-house now, and the sun had set.
"Good-by, Jadwiga," he said, in a low voice. "Be happy!"—he took her hand in his—"and never forget that we shall meet again one day."
She could not speak. She stood in the middle of the room listening, until the last echo of his footsteps died away, and then fell fainting on the floor....
The next day found Baron Starsky as troubled in mind and as thoughtful as on the previous day. Gräfin Jadwiga had gone away very early in the morning. Nobody knew where. He was much put out, for in spite of the curious scene he had witnessed between her and "that beast of a Jew," he would perhaps—have married her.
The man against whom his wrath was roused was however at that very moment lovingly stroking the boyish head of the writer of these pages, and comforting him in his sorrow. He had just told the boy that he could be his teacher no longer, for he must now give every moment of his time to the sick and miserable.