The radiant, loving eyes I treasure;
And what of song and what of crime
I wrought let others weigh and measure.
But thou sometimes wilt not forget,
When evening creeps across the pane,
The scent of shy blue violet
That sweetened all the plain.
Cordt was standing behind her chair when the song was finished. She did not perceive it, but sat with her hands on the keys and softly repeated the last lines.
He looked at her hair and her hands and at the white dress that hung over her shoulders and her lap. He knew as he had never known before what he had lost and knew that he would never win it back. His hands trembled, his eyes burned. He thought that he must kill her and himself.
Then he spoke her name.