Some hours after the incidents recorded in the last chapter Waldemar Nordeck was returning from L----, to which place he had ridden over in the morning. He had now often occasion to go there, a much closer intercourse being kept up in these days between the town and the Castle. The fact that the border-forests were included in the Wilicza territory, and that the population of those districts was strongly distrusted, necessitated frequent conferences and consultations as to the measures to be adopted, and the President knew too well what an energetic supporter he had in the young proprietor not to receive him at all times with the greatest favour. Waldemar had called on him to-day, and had met at his house some of the higher officials and officers of the L---- garrison. These gentlemen had one and all found themselves confirmed in their opinion that young Nordeck was the coldest, the most imperious of men. Any one else would have been galled, oppressed by the hostile attitude in which he stood to his own mother and brother; but he did not appear in the least affected by it. He was as ever, grave, reserved; but determined and ready to abide to the uttermost by the position he had once chosen.

Waldemar had, indeed, every reason to show this calm front to strangers. He knew that his situation with regard to his mother, and the terms they were on together, formed the staple of daily talk in L----, and that the most marvellous reports were current on the subject. He was resolved at all events not to furnish fresh food for gossip. But now that he was alone and unobserved, a troubled look had settled on his face, and his brow was as darkly clouded as it had been serene before. Absorbed in his thoughts, he was advancing at a foot-pace, when, at a meeting of cross-roads, he half mechanically drew rein to let pass a sledge which was approaching at full gallop, and which next instant shot rapidly by quite close to him. Norman suddenly reared high in the air. His rider had jerked the bridle so violently that the animal, taking fright, sprang with a hasty bound to one side, alighting with its hind feet in a ditch covered with loose snow which ran parallel to the high-road. It stumbled and nearly fell with its master.

Waldemar soon brought the horse out of the ditch, and on to the main road again; but this slight mischance seemed to have robbed him, the bold, intrepid rider, of his composure. His usual self-possession quite failed him as he neared the sledge, which had drawn up on a call from the lady occupying it.

"I ask pardon if I have startled you, Countess Morynska. My horse shied at the sudden approach of yours."

Wanda was generally not very susceptible to fear, and possibly it was less alarm than surprise at the unexpected meeting--the first for three months--which drove the colour from her cheeks. Her face was very white as she asked in reply--

"You are not hurt, I hope?"

"No, I am not hurt; but my Norman ..."

He did not finish his sentence, but sprang quickly to the ground. The horse had evidently injured one of his hind feet. He held it up as though in pain, and refused to advance. Waldemar hastily examined the part affected, and then turned to the young Countess again.

"It is nothing serious," he said, in the same cold, constrained tone he had used hitherto. "I beg of you not to interrupt your journey on my account." He bowed and stepped aside to let the sledge pass.

"Will you not mount again?" asked Wanda, seeing that he threw the bridle over his arm, as though preparing to walk.

"No. Norman has sprained his foot, and limps very much. It will be painful enough for him to get on at all, he could not possibly carry a rider."

"But Wilicza is two good leagues from here," objected Wanda. "You cannot go all that way on foot, and at a slow pace."

"There will be nothing else for me," replied Waldemar, quietly. "I must at any rate get my horse on to the nearest village, where I can have it sent for."

"But it will be dark before you reach the Castle."

"That does not matter; I know the way."

The young Countess glanced at the Wilicza road which, at a little distance from the spot where they had met, disappeared into the forest. She knew that it ran through the heart of the woods, emerging only in the immediate vicinity of the Castle.

"Would it not be better to make use of my sledge?" said she in a low voice, without looking up. "My coachman can take charge of your horse, and lead him to the nearest village."

Waldemar looked at her in amazement. The proposal seemed to surprise him strangely.

"Thank you; but you are, no doubt, on your way to Rakowicz."

"Rakowicz does not lie far out of your road," Wanda interrupted him, hastily, "and from thence you can have the conveyance to yourself." The words were spoken hurriedly, almost anxiously. Waldemar slowly let the bridle drop. Some seconds passed before he answered.

"I should do better to go straight on to Wilicza."

"I beg of you, though, not to go on; but to come with me."

This time the anxiety in Wanda's voice was so unmistakable that the refusal was not renewed. Waldemar gave over his horse to the coachman, who had dismounted at a sign from his mistress, and instructed him to lead it with all possible care to a certain village, and there to leave word that it should be sent for. He then mounted the sledge, swinging himself up into the driver's seat behind, and grasping the reins. The place by the young Countess's side remained empty.

They drove on in silence. The offer had been so simple, so natural, a decided rejection of it would have appeared singular, nay, uncourteous, between such near relatives; but easy intercourse had long since grown impossible to these two, and the unexpected meeting made their embarrassment more marked and painful. Waldemar devoted his attention exclusively to the reins, and Wanda wrapped herself more closely in her furs, never once turning her head.

They were already in the beginning of March; but it seemed this year as if winter never would give way. Before taking its departure, the cruel season once more let loose all its terrors on the poor earth, lying happily expectant of spring's first breath. A heavy snowstorm, lasting through an entire day, had clothed it anew in the white shroud of which it had so slowly and painfully divested itself. Again the country lay rigid under its pall of snow and ice, and stormy wind and freezing cold strove together for the mastery.

The storm with its thick drifting snow had subsided on that morning; but it was as gloomy and cold a winter afternoon as though the month had been December. The horses stepped out merrily, and the sledge seemed to fly over the smooth earth; but its two occupants sat silent and motionless, paralysed, as it were, by the icy breath of that chill March day. It was the first time they had been alone together since that hour by the forest lake. Dreary and melancholy as had been that autumn evening, with its falling leaves and surging mist-visions, some last lingering throbs of life had then quickened Nature's pulse; but now even these were stilled. The silence of death lay on the broad fields, stretching away on all sides, so white and endless. Nothing but snow all around, far as the eye could reach! The distant horizon lay wrapped in fog, and the sky was heavy with dense snow-laden clouds which drifted slowly, lazily along--else all was numb and dead in these wintry desert solitudes.

The road now left the open lands and turned into the woods which it had hitherto skirted. Here in the sheltered forest path, the snow lay so thick that the horses could only advance at a foot-pace. The driver loosed the reins which up to this time he had held so tightly, and their giddy, rapid flight was changed into a gentle, gliding onward movement. The dark fir-trees on either side bowed under their load of snow. One of the low-hanging branches brushed against Waldemar's head, and a perfect cloud of white flakes was showered down on him and his companion. She half-turned now for the first time and said, pointing to the trees--

"The road to Wilicza lies all the way through a forest as thick as this."

Waldemar smiled slightly.

"That is nothing new to me. I pass along it often enough."

"But not on foot and at dusk! Do you not know, or will you not own to yourself, that there is danger for you in these journeys?"

The smile vanished from Nordeck's face, giving way to its accustomed gravity. "If I had had any doubt of that, I should have been enlightened by the bullet which, not long ago, as I was coming home from the border-station, sped so close by my head that it ruffled my hair. The marksman did not show himself. He was probably ashamed of his--unskilfulness."

"Well, after such an experience, it is really challenging danger to ride out so constantly quite alone," cried Wanda, who could not altogether conceal her alarm at this news.

"I never go unarmed," replied Waldemar, "and no companion could protect me against a shot fired in ambush. In the present state of affairs at Wilicza, my personal ascendancy is the one influence which still avails. If I show fear and take all sorts of precautionary measures, there will be an end to my authority. If I continue to face all their attacks alone, they will desist from them."

"But suppose that bullet had not missed," said Wanda, with a little quiver in her voice. "You see how near the danger was."

The young man bent half over her seat.

"Was it a desire to avert from me some such peril as this which made you insist on my coming with you?"

"Yes," was the hardly audible reply.

An earnest rejoinder was on his lips; but some sudden remembrance flashing through his mind, he suddenly drew himself erect and, grasping the reins more firmly, said with a rush of the old bitterness--

"You will find it hard to justify such a desire in the eyes of your party, Countess Morynska."

She turned completely round to him now, and her eye met his.

"It may be so, for you have openly avowed yourself our enemy. It lay with you to make peace; instead of that you have declared war upon us."

"I did what necessity compelled me to do. You forget that my father was a German."

"And your mother is a Pole."

"Ah, you need not remind me of it in that reproachful tone," said Waldemar. "The unhappy division of interests has cost me too much for me ever to lose sight of it for an instant. It was the cause of my parents' separation. It poisoned my childhood, embittered my youth, and robbed me of my mother. She would perhaps have loved me as she loves her Leo if I had been a Baratowski. That I was my father's son has been my gravest offence in her eyes. If now we stand politically opposed to each other, that is only a consequence of past events."

"Which you logically, inexorably, carry out to its extreme limits," cried Wanda, flashing into anger. "Any other man would have sought for some means of reconciliation, some compromise, which must have been possible between mother and son."

"Perhaps between any other mother and son, but not between the Princess Baratowska and me. She gave me the choice of surrendering Wilicza and myself, bound hand and foot, into her hands to serve her interests, or to declare myself at war with her. I chose the latter alternative, and she takes good care that there shall be no truce, not even for a day. Were it not that the contest for dominion is still going on, she would long since have left me. She certainly does not stay on my account."

Wanda made no reply. She knew he was right, and the conviction was now forcing itself on her mind that this man, held on all sides to be cold and unfeeling, was in reality most keenly and bitterly sensitive to all that was painful in his position towards his mother. In the rare moments when he disclosed his secret feelings, this subject always came uppermost. The thought of his mother's indifference to himself and of her boundless love for her younger son had stung the boy's soul years ago; it rankled yet in the heart of the man.

They soon emerged from the forest, and the horses quickly resuming their former swift pace, Rakowicz shortly afterwards appeared in the distance. Waldemar would have turned into the main road which led thither, but Wanda pointed in another direction.

"Please let me get out at the entrance to the village. I shall like the little walk home, and you can go straight on to Wilicza."

Nordeck looked at her a moment in silence. "That means, you do not venture to appear at Rakowicz in my company. I was forgetting that the people about would never forgive you for it. To be sure--we are enemies."

"We are so through your fault alone," declared Wanda. "No one compelled you to act as our foe. Our struggle is not with your country or countrymen, it will be fought out yonder on foreign soil."

"And supposing your party to be victorious on that soil," asked Waldemar, slowly and pointedly, "whose turn will it be next?"

The young Countess was silent.

"Well, we will not discuss that," said Nordeck, resignedly. "It may have been some secret necessity of Nature which drove your father and Leo into the fight; but the same necessity urges me to resistance. My brother's task is indeed easier than mine. One way has been marked out for him, both by birth and family tradition, and he has gone that way without the pain of making a choice, or of causing dissension. Neither of these troubles has been spared me. It is not in my nature to vacillate between two contending parties without giving in my adhesion to one or to the other. I must declare myself friend or foe to a cause. What the choice has cost me, none need know. No matter, I have chosen; and where I have once taken my stand, I will remain. Leo throws himself into the struggle full of glowing enthusiasm; his highest ideal is before him; he is supported by the love and admiration of his friends. I stand alone at my post, where possibly death by assassination, where surely hatred awaits me, a hatred in which all Wilicza, my mother and brother--and you, too, unite, Wanda. The lots have been unevenly divided; but I have never been spoiled by over much love and affection. I shall be able to bear it. So go on hating me, Wanda. It is perhaps best for us both."

While speaking, he had driven forward in the prescribed direction, and now drew up just at the entrance to the village, which lay before them still and, as it were, lifeless. Swinging himself from his seat, he would have helped the young Countess to alight; but she waved his hand away, and got out of the sledge without assistance. No single word of leave-taking passed her tightly closed lips. She merely bowed her head in mute farewell.

Waldemar had drawn back. Once again the deep lines of pain showed plainly on his face, and the hand which grasped the reins was clenched convulsively. Her repulse evidently wounded him to the quick.

"I will send the sledge back to-morrow," said he in a cold and distant tone--"with my thanks, if you will not decline them, as you decline my slightest service."

Wanda appeared to be struggling with herself. She half turned as though to go; but lingered yet an instant.

"Herr Nordeck."

"What is your pleasure, Countess Morynska?"

"I ... You must promise me not again wilfully to challenge danger as you would have done to-day. You are right, the hatred of all Wilicza is directed against you at the present time. Do not give your enemies so good a chance--do not, I entreat of you."

A deep flush overspread Waldemar's face at these words. He cast one look at her, one single look; but at that glance all the bitterness went out from him.

"I will be more prudent," he answered, in a low voice.

"Good-bye, then."

She turned from him and took the path leading to the village. Nordeck gazed after her until she disappeared behind one of the nearest farm-buildings, then he swung himself into the sledge again, and drove off swiftly in the direction of Wilicza, the road soon taking him back into the forest. He had drawn his pistol from his breast-pocket and laid it within easy reach; and, whilst he handled the reins with unaccustomed caution, his eye kept a vigilant watch between the trees. This defiant, inflexible man, who knew no fear, had suddenly grown careful and prudent; he had promised to be so, and he had now learned that there was one being who trembled for his life also, who longed to avert danger from him.