"By the by," Bertram asked, "who is this Baron? You were talking about him once or twice at table, but I confess I hardly listened." "Lotter?" his friend said. "Look here; you'll like him immensely. Stunning fellow, Lotter. Has read every mortal thing; plays the piano; paints--portraits, landscapes, anything you like. Has come home to do some painting; studies at our academy, don't you know?--and is a constant guest at Court, of course." "Does he belong to these parts?" "Oh; dear no! hails from Würtemberg. A very, very old family; Lotter-Vippach. His father was a General, I believe; his uncle a Minister of State; that sort of thing, don't you know? He has been in the army himself; was in the '70 campaign. But he is a bit of a rover. Has been up and about a good deal; in Algiers, South America; that, sort of thing. I pressed him to come and stay here during the man[oe]vres, to help me to do the honours, as I never was in the army myself. He is awfully anxious to make your acquaintance; has read all your works and--and--but where on earth are our ladies? I'll go and look. You stop where you are; do not come out bareheaded." The last words had already been spoken in the garden saloon, the great French windows of which, leading to the verandah, stood wide open. His host had hurried off to look for the ladies, and Bertram, left alone, strode up and down in the large, half-darkened room. Had he not, perhaps, yielded all too readily to Erna's command? If obedience was to be easy to him, nay, if it was to be at all possible for him, she ought to have stayed by his side. And now her very image was gone from his inner eye, and its place had been taken by her whom he had once so passionately loved, as if twenty years had not gone by since he last saw her, as if she had only passed a minute ago with her beautiful friend and hostess into the garden, thence to return immediately under some pretext or other, to rush to his embrace, to shower hot, passionate kisses upon him--here, in this very saloon, as she had so often, so often done--here, where the faint fragrance of violets still seemed to float, that she was so fond of, and which in those days he was ever associating with her presence! He was standing in the semi-darkness, his back turned to the verandah; a gentle rustling sound was coming up the steps. He turned. Framed in by one of the doors against the brighter background of the evening sky, appeared the shadowy outline of a lady, lingering a moment or two on the threshold, then hastening with raised arms towards him, as he stood motionless, spellbound. Before he could prevent it, she had sunk on her knees before him, had seized his hands which he was involuntarily stretching forth to lift her up, and now she was pressing them to her bosom, to her lips. A dense cloud of violet perfume came floating up to him. "Mercy, Charles, mercy!" "I entreat you, My Lady, ... for Heaven's sake ..."