Gertrud's pride and self-command seemed over. What, during the whole time, she _would_ not confess to herself, what even yesterday evening she had tried to deny, she had been forced to recognise in the fearful anxiety of the previous night. "He shall not atone for his folly with his life, though I cannot hope for the same generosity from him!" The words would not be put out of her memory. Eugen would not show any generosity; she knew that he was revengeful, like all weak people, and seized the opportunity gladly to revenge himself upon the man whose intellectual superiority had so often oppressed and embittered him, and _he_, too, was sure of his weapon, and seldom failed in his mark. She fell down on her knees, and in speechless anxiety raised her folded hands. She knew now for whom this prayer was offered, and had known yesterday, when that grave, hard voice had asked so gently, "Gertrud, why do you hate me?" Though she had gathered together all her strength for the last despairing resistance, though she had possessed cruel courage to refuse him the one single word which he begged for, it was in vain now. Now she would like to have called him back, now, when it was too late. How icily cold his farewell had sounded--perhaps it was the last. Then suddenly a sound of hoofs was heard in the distance. Gertrud hurried to the window, as she had so often done before in vain, when she had heard any sound, but this time it was no disappointment. Her eyes had recognised the rider, though he was still far off on the edge of the wood; followed by his groom, Count Arnau rode towards the house. The rebound was too great; the sudden appearance of him whom she had feared lost, decided all. In the cry of boundless delight, which unconsciously burst from her lips, in the expression of her face, lay the secret revealed. She flew to the door, reflection and reason for the moment gone; she must and would meet him! A heavy, dull blow, then a cracking sound followed--she stopped suddenly, and looked back alarmed. One of her travelling boxes, which she had brought out yesterday, and partly packed, had been thrust out of its place by her sudden rush to the door. A simple, easily explained circumstance, but the girl's feverishly reddened cheek had become suddenly white. Slowly she again closed the door, and hesitatingly, step by step, approached the corner by the window. There was a strange expression in her face, a shrinking, as if before something supernatural, and with a timidity, as if she were really about to meet with some spirit, she bent down to examine the injury.