Gunther remained alone with Eberhard. It was the first time in thirty years that the two friends had met. Eberhard passed Gunther's hand across his eyes, and then shook his head.
Gunther said: "I know what you mean; you would like to weep, but cannot. Do you understand all I say to you?"
The patient nodded affirmatively.
"Then just imagine," continued Gunther, and his voice has a rich and comforting tone, "that the years we've been separated from each other were but one hour. Our measure of time is a different one. Do you still remember how you would often in enthusiastic moments exclaim: 'We've just been living centuries'?"
There was again a convulsive twitching of the patient's features, just as when a weeping one is enlivened by a cheerful thought and would fain smile, but cannot.
Eberhard attempted to trace letters on the coverlet, but Gunther found it difficult to decipher them.
The sick man pointed to a table on which there lay books and manuscripts. Gunther brought several of them, but none was the right one. At last he brought a little manuscript book, the cover of which was inscribed with the title, "Self-redemption." The sick man seemed pleased, as if welcoming a fortunate occurrence.
"You wrote this yourself. Shall I read some of it to you?"
Eberhard nodded assent. Gunther sat down by the bed and read:
"May this serve to enlighten me on the day and in the hour when my mind becomes obscured.