Geiger-Hans, the friend, the comrade, had become, in his eyes, the enemy. To his meddling he owed his present misfortune, the humiliation that was eating into his soul, the disillusion which made even the soft west wind bitter to his taste.
The wanderer started as he beheld the young face looking down at him from over the horseman's cloak.
"You!" he exclaimed.
"I!" said Steven.
The man on foot halted. He on horseback unconsciously reined in. The two remained gazing at each other, and in the eyes of both was hot reproach.
Slowly the blood crept back crimson to the countenance of Geiger-Hans, which had grown livid under its tan.
"And whither set you off alone, bridegroom, on your grey horse?" asked he at length, in that tone of irony under which he hid most of emotions.
"Anywhere," answered the bridegroom with a pale smile, "so long as I put space between myself and my bride."
Geiger-Hans drew his brows together into a dark frown. His nostrils dilated, the corners of his mouth twitched.
"Peste!" said he under his voice. Then: "Is it not a little premature? The joy bells can hardly be silent yet. Had it been a few months later—but now!"