CHAPTER XVI
In the embrasure of a window the tall figure of Otto von Raabe was silhouetted more darkly against the shadow of the night; he stooped a little to reply in a low voice to the subdued and quiet questions of Paul Léon, who was standing beside him. Both had their faces turned towards the room; every now and then they threw a glance to the back of it. Outside, over their shoulders, a portion of the sky shone with stars.
"To gather flowers?" asked the French poet, after a long silence, his eyes apparently veiled by deep, inward thought.
"Yes, to gather flowers, merely to gather flowers," murmured the German.
"Flowers? What flowers?" insisted the Frenchman strangely.
"Some beautiful flowers he was told were up there; he went to look for them."
"And did he find them?"
"He found them—he always used to find them—they are still in his hands."
"They left them with him."