'Pray carry no such burden of imaginary debt, and have no scruples in staying as long as you like; we are a mountain refuge, use it as you would a monastery. In the winter we have many travellers. We are so entirely in the heart of the hills that we are bound by all Christian laws to give a refuge to all who need it. But how came you on the lake last evening? Could you not read the skies?'
He explained his own folly and hardihood, and added, with a glance at her, 'The offending rifle is in the Szalrassee. It was my haste to quit your dominions that made me venture on to the lake. I had searched in vain for the high road that you had told me of, and I thought if I crossed the lake I should be off your soil.'
'No; for many leagues you would not have been off it,' she answered him. 'Our lands are very large, and, like the Archbishopric of Berchtesgarten, are as high as they are broad. Our hills are very dangerous for strangers, especially until the snows of the passes have all melted. I repented me too late that I did not send a jäger with you as a guide.'
'All is well that ends well,' said the Princess. 'Monsieur is not the worse for his bath in the lake, and we have the novelty of an incident and of a guest, who we will hope in the future will become a friend.'
'Madame, if I dared hope that I should have much to live for!' said the stranger, and the Princess smiled sweetly upon him.
'You must have very much to live for, as it is. Were I a man, and as young as you, and as favoured by nature, I am afraid I should be tempted to live for—myself.'
'And I am most glad when I can escape from so poor a companion,' said he, with a melancholy in the accent and a passing pain that was not assumed.
Before this gentle and gracious old woman in this warm and elegant chamber he felt suddenly that he was a wanderer—perhaps an outcast.
'You need not use the French language with him, Wanda,' interrupted the Princess. 'The Marquis speaks admirable German: it is impossible to speak better.'
'We will speak our own tongue then,' said Wanda, who always regarded her aunt as though she were a petted and rather wayward child. 'Are you quite rested, M. de Sabran? and quite unhurt?' I did not dine with you. It must have seemed churlish. But I am very solitary in my habits, and my aunt entertains strangers so much better than I do that I grow more hermit-like every year.'