"Wolff, how good you are to me! Shall we gallop over there to the bridge? How splendid it is to be alive, isn’t it? Yes, of course I shall keep the supper waltz for you, if you really want it. We always have such fun together. Look! There is the Kaiser on the brown horse! And Wolff is leading the battery with Seleneck! How splendid he looks! Oh, Wolff! Wolff!" Again the old cry, vibrating with all the unspoken love and pride and happiness which the short, disjointed sentences had but indicated! They had painted for the dazed, heart-stricken listener vivid pictures from the past—the long, joyous gallops over the open country, the brilliant ballroom, the parade, all the laughter, the music, the lights, and chivalresque clash of arms—but in that one name a life had been revealed, the inner life of a girl ripening to a pure and loving woman. The tears burned Nora’s eyes. Every word that fell from the delirious lips struck a deeper, more fatal blow at her own happiness, yet she could not have fled, could not have stopped her ears against their message. "You must work hard, Wolff," the voice went on, sunk to a sudden gentleness. "Perhaps one day you will do something wonderful—something that will help to make us the greatest country in the world. How proud we shall be of you! I am proud already! Steady, Bruno! How wild you are this morning! One last gallop! Oh, Wolff, don’t look like that! It is nothing—nothing at all! Only my back hurts. Am I not too heavy? You are so strong." And then, with a smothered exclamation of anguish: "Wolff, the doctor says I shall never ride again!" A long, unbroken silence. The young, suffering face had grown grey and pinched. There were lines about the mouth which made it look like that of an old woman. A log fell with a crash into the fireplace. The voice went on, toneless, expressionless: "How the light shines on her face! She is so pretty, and she can walk and ride. She is not half dead, like I am. No wonder he stands and watches her! Wolff, why do you stand there? Why do you look like that? Won’t you come and sit by me? No, no, why should you? It is better so. You play well together. _Tristan und Isolde_—I wonder if it is Fate. They have gone out riding. I am glad. I wished it. When one is a cripple one must conquer oneself. I can see them riding through the park gates. They look splendid together—so handsome and young and strong. Now they are galloping. Oh, my God, my God! Nora, what are you doing? Something has happened! Oh, Wolff, Wolff! I know—I know you love her!" The voice, which had risen from note to note as though urged by some frightful inner tumult of fear, now sank to silence. Hildegarde fell back among the pillows. With that final tragic recognition her mind seemed once more to be shrouded in oblivion. The look of agony passed from her features. She was young again, young and beautiful and at peace.