She reminded herself of the cowardice she knew to be hers. How much of the sacrifice she asked was for her father, and how much for herself? Then came the self-castigation. She was afraid to die. She knew she was afraid. And, in utter self-contempt, she told herself she was flinging away the honest love of a man, of which she could never be worthy, as the price of her life. Yes, there was no denying the truth. She valued life—her miserable life—at a price greater than anything else. Her love? It was a poor thing. It was beneath contempt. She could sell herself to this brutal Prussian that she might live on to see the sun rise for a few more seasons, a few more miserable years of conscious existence.
Such were her feelings as she sat before the cheerful blaze of the fire in her apartment. The evening had closed in, her evening meal had been brought her, and finally cleared away. She had no desire for occupation. There was only thought left her—painful, hideous thought. Everything had gone awry. All plans seemed to have miscarried. She, and her father, and her lover had been out-manœuvred by the Prussian machine, and now, now there only remained a sordid struggle for life itself.
But she was roused, as once before she had been roused, from the depths of her misery by the coming of the man whom she now knew her whole future life was bound to. She heard the door open and close. She did not turn from the contemplation of her fire. Why need she? It was one of her jailers. If it were the women she did not desire to see them. If it were Von Berger she would allow him no sight of her misery. If it were Von Salzinger——
"Vita!"
It was Von Salzinger. His manner was eager and urgent. It also had in it that suggestion of fear of detection which she had witnessed before.
"It is the answer to your letter. I had it this morning, and would have conveyed it you earlier, but I dared not risk it. Now Von Berger is away, and, for the moment, we are safe. So—here it is. Read it quickly and tell me of it. On it depends so much. The future. Our futures. Your father's. Read it."
But Vita's mood permitted no sudden reaction at the thought of that life and liberty for which she had bartered her soul. She took the letter, and, before opening it, her eyes searched the square features of the well-dined man before her. Her regard was sufficiently cold.
"Where has Von Berger gone?" she demanded.
"To Dorby."
In a moment the coldness had left Vita's eyes. She was caught again in the hot tide of alarm.