But she still believed and hoped, hoped and
believed, that the day would never come.
And yet it was at hand, now, after all those months of agonising fear,
just when she deluded herself with the sweet thought that it might
never come at all. Greifenstein came home in the dusk one afternoon,
and found a letter upon his desk in his own room. He broke the seal and
read it while his teeth ground upon each other, and his face turned
grey. He did not utter a sound, he did not strike his forehead nor
clench his fist, nor fall into a chair. He only stiffened his neck a
little and stood silently gazing at the fire. After a moment's
reflexion, he tossed the letter into the flames and waited until it was
quite burnt. Then he rang the bell.
'Listen, Jacob,' he said to the servant who came, and his voice did not
tremble. 'A friend of mine has written to say that he is coming to the
forest to shoot. He comes alone, as I go myself. It is bad weather, and
he may find his way here at any hour. When he presents himself, bring
him immediately to this room and send for me. I will not go far from
the castle until he arrives.'
The servant asked the gentleman's name.
'Herr Brandt,' answered Greifenstein without hesitation.
The letter had informed him that Rieseneck's application to be included
in the amnesty had been absolutely refused, and that he had fled a
second time under an assumed name. He appealed to his brother to help
him over the frontier to Constance, and said that he might arrive at
any time after his letter.
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