"Yes, only—no—that is—If Baron Hormayr says right,—and he ought to know,—why, the cause is deserting you, not you it—at least—Ah, it is not so! O Speckbacher, I am pulled two ways! why have you made me think the cause so important all along, if you are going to forsake it now?"
"Why, so it is—"
"Then, why desert it?"
"Because, dear, they say it's hopeless. I wish you would not use that uncomfortable word 'desert.'"
"I will not—I feel persuaded that a brave man may forsake a hopeless cause—nay, I think he owes it to those who love him. What sleepless nights have you given me, Speckbacher! But now, if I think you are safe, my rest will be sweet."
"I declare I know not what to do," cried Speckbacher, tossing his arms upwards, and then starting up and pacing the room in an agitated manner,—then, throwing himself into a seat,—"I'll be guided by you."
"Then go with the Baron," said Maria, after a moment's pause—"yours is too precious a life to be thrown away. When I felt it useless to remonstrate, and my mind was convinced besides, I wound myself up to a sort of false composure; but now, that has all dissolved away; the necessity for it is gone, and I can only see you, hear you, think of you as the dearest of husbands, the best and tenderest of men."
Speckbacher wept. But his wife was firm. She packed up a little supply of linen for him, bade him remember the Baron was waiting, kissed him cheerfully, and watched him till he was out of sight. Speckbacher trod much more heavily on his way back than when he came. Dejected, solitary, slow, dragging a lengthening chain as he went, he tardily returned to the Baron, who was getting fidgety.
"Your adieux took you a long time," said he, rather peevishly.
Speckbacher made no reply, but silently followed him into the carriage, and they drove off towards Sterzing.