The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:
"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."
The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man—tall, stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a mass of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.
The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the Countess in the dark.
As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his own words:
"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."
"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her voice.
The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.
"Your daughter I mean, Countess."
Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her image had haunted him day and night.