He went to the river-bank, followed by his great dog, Devil, and there he sat down under the huge, tall willows, putting his hat on the ground near him, for his head seemed on fire. He bathed his brow with water, but his brow was no cooler. He did not know how long he had been sitting there, gazing fixedly into vacancy without any conscious thought, when he heard some one call him by name. He involuntarily clapped his hand upon the muzzle of the dog lying near him, scarcely breathing himself, in order not to betray his place of concealment. The voice grew fainter, and ceased to be heard. He still sat quiet, and cautioned the dog in a low tone to be still also; the dog seemed to understand him.
Roland took put of his side-pocket the letter he had written to Eric, and read it; his eyes overflowed with tears of longing and grief, and getting up, he hurled the letter into the river.
The night came on. Noiselessly, as a hunter who is stalking a deer, Roland left his lurking-place, and wended his way through the narrow path of the vineyard back from the river. He wanted to go to the huntsman, he wanted to go to the Major, he wanted to go to somebody who would help him. Suddenly he stopped.
"No! to nobody—to nobody!" he breathed low to himself, as if he hardly dared trust the silent night.
"To him! to him!"
He crouched down, so that nobody should see him in the vineyard, although it was dark. He did not stand erect, until he came to the highway above.
CHAPTER X.
HELPING ONE'S SELF, OR BEING HELPED.
Eric turned homewards, like a man, who, coming out of a saloon illuminated with dazzling brilliancy, to his study where burns a solitary lamp, involuntarily rubs his eyes, which having become accustomed to the greater degree of brightness, require it, and are unable without it to see so clearly and distinctly as before.
The peril of wealth lies in the fact that it may ruin not only the possessor, but the non-possessor. Language has not completely covered the whole case, when it calls this dissatisfaction and unrest of soul, envy, grudging, churlishness; it is not this at all, it is rather the severe torment of the unanswered question, Why art thou not as rich? No, this thou dost not desire; but why art thou not, at least, placed out of the reach of anxious care? The struggles of human life are hard enough, why must thou have, in addition, this wrestling with sordid want?