Bernal turned on him a look of the most profound disgust, which the forester was too absorbed in his inward self-gratulation to perceive. They walked on in silence for a short time.
“Your daughter does not understand the meaning of these attentions yet,” remarked Bernal, presently.
The father shrugged his shoulders.
“She has been well brought up,” was the response.
“By you?” asked the other, dryly.
Franz nodded, with perfect unconsciousness.
“And by her mother,” he added. “She died three years ago next midsummer.”
“Poor child!” murmured Bernal.
By this time they had completed a circuit, and were again drawing near to the arbour, from which they were in time to see the young man rush out, looking deeply disturbed. Auguste quickened his steps to come up to his friend, whom he took affectionately by the arm.
“Has anything happened?” he inquired in low tones.