"And why was the father supposed to have commanded that?" inquired the little pitchman.
"Because she loved a married man. It won't do to talk of that."
"Why won't it?" whispered a sailor. "She and the king were fond of each other, and, to save herself from doing wrong, she took her life."
How can I describe my emotions, while listening to their conversation?
Years hence, perhaps, some solitary child of man may cross the lake and sing the song of the beautiful countess with the diamond star on her brow.
I do not remember how night came on, and how I at last fell asleep. I awoke and still heard the song of the drowned countess. Its sad, deep strain had filled my dream. All that I had experienced seemed but as a vision. I looked out of my window--I looked across the lake and beheld the golden characters in the rosy dawn.
What was I to do? Should I turn back?
My little pitchman was quite happy when he saw me so fresh again. The hostess offered me a picture of the monument, saying that every visitor bought one. My uncle bargained with her, got it for half the price she had asked, and then presented it to me. I carry the picture of my gravestone with me.
I felt irresistibly drawn toward another grave--my father's. While my hand rested on the mound, an inner voice said to me: "You will be reconciled."--I expiate and atone for my sin.
How the memories awakened by these different spots agitated me. I cannot write about it--my heart is breaking! Besides this, it is filled with fear. I shall be brief. I am unable to continue my recital. I shall never again look at these pages.