So she read. She made a curious, pleased sound, and remarked to herself that she thought these verses very fine. But she watched the road for Siegmund.
And now she takes the scissors on her thumb …
Oh then, no more unto my lattice come.
“H’m!” she said, “I really don’t know whether I like that or not.”
Therefore she read the piece again before she looked down the road.
“He really is very late. It is absurd to think he may have got drowned; but if he were washing about at the bottom of the sea, his hair loose on the water!”
Her heart stood still as she imagined this.
“But what nonsense! I like these verses very much. I will read them as I walk along the side path, where I shall hear the bees, and catch the flutter of a butterfly among the words. That will be a very fitting way to read this poet.”
So she strolled to the gate, glancing up now and again. There, sure enough, was Siegmund coming, the towel hanging over his shoulder, his throat bare, and his face bright. She stood in the mottled shade.
“I have kept you waiting,” said Siegmund.
“Well, I was reading, you see.”