She did not take her eyes from his face. She could not get rid of the thought that he looked so young. His hair had not a sign of grey, his walk was easy and erect as in the old days, his eyes glowed with the same strength and the same confidence.
She bent forward and stared and sought. Surely she must be able to find the wounds which sorrow had given him, the marks which age had brought.
Cordt did not look at her. He stood with his hands folded about his neck and with strangely distant eyes:
“You have said it, Adelheid ... it is as you say ... there is something now that is a thousand times greater than what parted us then. We mortals always think, when misfortunes come, that no more will come now ... that it must be over now. And so there is no difference between the child with its lost doll and the man with his dead love ... none except time, which comes and goes, comes and goes, puts out a light and kindles a pyre and puts out the pyre also.”
He dropped his arms and stood silent for a while:
“Adelheid....”
He said no more. He looked round the room and at her, as though he were waking from his thoughts. Then he went to the window and looked across the square, where the lights were being put out.
Fru Adelheid stared with great fixed eyes at where he stood.
She had not seen him during many years ... where had she been all those years ... what had she been doing?
Then she had seen him again, distantly and dimly at first, like the memory of a fight, a pain, on the day when she stood once more in the old room. He had come closer ... the time he warned her about Finn. And, little by little, he had approached her through Finn ... through his fears and his love, through his every word, constantly closer and more effectively.