He did not answer; what was he to say? No, they had not shut him up, he might go about as he liked in the house and garden, in the street, to school--and still, still he was not free.
Tears suddenly started to his eyes. "You--you shouldn't--shouldn't taunt me--Frida," he cried, stammering and faltering. "I'm so--so----"
He wanted to say "unhappy"; but the word seemed to mean too little and in another way too much. And he felt ashamed of saying it aloud. So he stood silent, colouring up to the eyes. And only his tears, which he could not restrain any longer, rolled down his cheeks and fell into the dust of the street.
They were tears of sorrow and of rage. It was already more than six months ago--oh, even longer--but it still enraged him as though it had happened the day before. He had never forgotten for a moment that they had caught him so easily. They had found him so soon, at daybreak, ere the sun had risen on a new day. And they had carried him home in triumph. What he had looked upon as a great deed, an heroic deed, was a stupid boy's trick to them. His mother had certainly cried a good deal, but his father had only pulled his ear: "Once, but not more, my son. Remember that."
Wolfgang was crying quietly but bitterly. Frida stood in front of him, watching him cry, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears as well--she had always been his good friend. Now she cried with him.
"Don't cry, Wölfchen," she sobbed. "It isn't so bad. People don't remember anything more about it--such things are forgotten. You certainly need not feel ashamed of it--why should you? There's no harm in your having frightened your people a little for once in a way. Simply say to them: 'Then I'll run away again,' if they won't let you come to us. Come next Sunday afternoon. Then I won't go with Artur and Flebbe--no, I'll wait for you."
She wiped her own tears away with the one hand and his with the other.
They stood thus in the bright sunshine amidst the flowering bushes. The lilac spread its fragrance around; a red may and a laburnum strewed their beautifully coloured petals over them, shaken by the soft wind of May. The dark and the light head were close to each other.
"Frida," he said, seizing hold of her hand firmly, as though clinging to it, "Frida, are you still fond of me, at any rate?"
"Of course." She nodded, and her clear merry laugh was heard once more, although there were still traces of tears on her face. "That would be a nice sort of friendship, if it disappeared so quickly. There!" She pursed up her mouth and gave him a kiss.