"Martin, Your Highness."
"Very well, then go home and say that I shall not come, but visit the estates."
"It is bitterly cold. Your Highness!" observed the major domo, who had attended her to the equipage.
"That does not matter--is the beaver robe in the carriage?"
"Certainly, Your Highness!"
"What time is it? Late?"
"Oh no; just nine. Your Highness."
"Forward, then!"
Martin knew where.
The major-domo closed the door and away dashed the horses into the glittering winter night along the familiar, but long neglected road. It was indeed a cold drive. The ground was frozen hard and the carriage windows were covered with frost flowers. The countess' temples were throbbing violently, her heart beat eagerly with longing for the husband whom she had deserted for this base world! The mood of that Ammergau epoch again asserted its rights, and she penitently hastened to seek the beautiful gift she had so thoughtlessly cast aside. With a heart full of rancor over the injustice and lovelessness experienced in society, her soul plunged deeply into the sweet chalice of the love and poesy of those days--a love which was religion--a religion which was love. "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal!" Aye, for sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal she had squandered warm heart's blood, and the sorrowing soul of the people from whose sacred simplicity her wearied soul was to have drawn fresh youth, gazed tearfully at her from the eyes of her distant son.