“‘Come,’ he said, when he had waited awhile, and she had raised her burning face to his, begging for an answer, ‘tell me more of your husband, and then perhaps I shall answer you. You say that they would have made a hussar of him—where, then, was he drawn?’
“‘He was drawn at Jajce—your own city. His father is the woodlander, but Ugo left him a year ago, for he would not serve, since that would have taken him from me. They must have heard that he was at Sebenico, and that is why he left me in the mountains. Herr Count, I cannot go back to him—I cannot go!’
“The Count heard her out, and then, rising from his seat, he unlocked the cabinet which held the books, and took from it a volume wherein the reports of the Prefect of Jajce were filed. Two of these, the most recent, he scanned without comment, but at the third he stopped, and an exclamation broke from his lips.
“‘Christine,’ said he—and that was the first time he had called her so—‘you are telling me the truth?’
“‘I swear it,’ she cried.
“‘You do not wish to go back to this man?’
“‘God knows that I cannot go.’
“‘Then think no more of him, my child, for he fired upon his officer and was shot by a trooper in the woods of the Verbas ten days ago.’
“The Count closed the book with a snap; but Christine, trembling and very pale, and awed by the words she had heard, rose to her feet.
“‘He was my friend,’ she said, and that was all, for as she spoke she ran from the room and listened no more. Grief and joy had conquered; the desire of years seemed gratified in that hour, the veil lifted off her life.