ying in
his heart her picture in her yellow, sunlit room, crying bitterly with
face hidden in her hands. He hated tears, but Wilhelmine's weeping was so
different from that of other women, he reflected, as he wended his way
through the gardens towards the castle to mount his charger and head the
procession to the market-place, and thence away to the French frontier.
He had taken leave of Johanna Elizabetha that morning, for though she was
to assist in the ceremony of departure, he had granted her request for a
previous farewell in private. The Duchess had met him with tear-swollen
lids, and had wept incessantly during the short interview. The poor soul
had shown her grief in a most unbecoming way; her mouth grimaced
ridiculously when she cried, 'like a squalling brat's,' his Highness had
reflected bitterly.

Ah! the difference when Wilhelmine wept--her head bowed down with
sadness, her face hidden. It was so graceful, so poetic; of course the
secret was, that when she wept she hid her face. A really clever woman of
the world would never show the grimace of sorrow: she may weep, but she
hides her face, well knowing that a weeping woman is a hideous sight; but
all this Eberhard Ludwig did not know.

Meanwhile Wilhelmine sat in her yellow salon listening to the sounds from
the market-place which floated to her across the gardens behind the
Jaegerhaus. She heard the flare of trumpets which greeted the Duke, the
roar of the enthusiastic people acclaiming their warlike sovereign; then
followed silence, Osiander must be pronouncing his benediction, she
thought. Again a flourish of trumpets, men shouting, and then she heard
the grand hymn, 'Ein' Feste Burg ist unser Gott,' sung by thousands of
voices and brayed out by the brass instruments. The sound came nearer:
she could hear the tramp of feet, the clatter of horses, the cries of the
people. The musicians played a march: it seemed to Wilhelmine that it
became more triumphant, more blatant, as the cortege passed near the
Jaegerhaus; yet the boisterous military music held a note of pathos,
something infinitely moving at this terrible farewell hour, and the
listening woman wept bitterly, and, God knows! she forgot to hide her
sorrow-distorted mouth at that moment.

* * * * *

The days dragged on. May came cold and unfriendly, as April had been, and
Wilhelmine thought that all the warmth of the world must have departed
when Eberhard Ludwig went