"I'm a poor woman, give me something," said a figure, suddenly emerging from the thicket. It was Zenza.
Bruno started as if a ghost had appeared to him. He put spurs to his horse and hurried off. His hair stood on end with fright, and it was long before he regained his composure.
In spite of this interruption, and without an effort on his part, his thoughts went back to the subject that engaged them at the moment when Zenza appeared upon the scene; but the old woman's cry of: "Give me something," was ever ringing in his ears. If everything were to die with its possessor, who would inherit? What is more peculiarly a man's own than his thoughts? And even they die with him--
"I won't think any more," said Bruno to himself. "Not now; to-morrow--the day after--some other time; but now I don't want to think."
He raised his hat, as if to permit his thoughts to escape; then he whipped and spurred his horse so that it reared and started off at a furious pace. The effort to maintain himself in his saddle drove what he regarded as gloomy fancies from his mind. He sat firmly, pressed his knees against the horse's ribs, and felt the better for the exertion. But, in spite of all, his thoughts would suddenly wander off to his father again. He felt a sudden shudder--This must have been the very moment--at that instant, his father must have breathed his last--involuntarily, Bruno drew his hand back. His horse halted. He again put spurs to him, and galloped away as if to escape from his thoughts. Suddenly, a voice cried out:
"Stop, Bruno!" He shuddered. Whose voice could it be? Who would call him by name? Surprise and alarm had thrown him into a cold sweat.
"Who calls me?" he asked with pale, trembling lips.
"You can't get here."
"Who are you? Where are you?" cried Bruno. A cold shudder passed over him, and his horse snorted and snuffed the air. Was it true that witches lived in rocks? for the voice had come from the rock.
"Who are you?" repeated Bruno; "your voice seems--"