"
Egon spoke in an anxious tone. No need to ask how painfully this
separation from his dearest friend affected him.
He little knew that the woman by his side could have solved the riddle
for him. She knew what drove poor, unsatisfied Hartmut from land to
land, knew the blemish that soiled the poet's name. This was the first
news she had heard of him since that fatal night at Rodeck, when all had
been revealed to her.
"I presume poets are formed of different clay from common mortals," she
said slowly, as she scattered the leaves before her. "That's the only
reason one can ascribe for their vagaries."
The young prince shook his head sadly.
"No, it is not that; his peculiarities spring from some other source. I
have felt confident for a long time that there is something dark and
mysterious in Hartmut's life, but I never could ascertain what it was.
He would allow no allusions to his past. I have often broached the
subject, but he resented all reference to it. There seems to be a
veritable sword of Damocles hanging over him, and when in some happy
moment he thinks he has escaped, he looks up, and there it hangs as
usual gleaming above his head. I was more impressed than ever with that
idea when he last parted from me, he was so excited--almost
insane--nothing could hold him back.
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