“Bravissimo, mon comte!” cried the page, laughing as he looked after him—“where is there a better actor? Roscius is a poor bungler to him! But now, mon ami”—he turned to Friedemann—“come with me to your father. Courage! he knows all.”
“All!” repeated the youth, and with a look of despair he followed his friend. They passed out into the open air. It was a clear winter’s night; the stars glittered in the deep blue firmament, recording in burning lines their hymn of praise to Infinite love; but in the heart of the young man dwelt hopeless anguish.
The pious melody Sebastian sang, was yet unfinished, when they arrived at the house. They entered. Philip, who saw them first, hastened to tell his father. Sebastian came into the room; as he approached his son, he said, “You come back to me—you are welcome!”
“Can you forgive me, father?” murmured Friedemann, fixing his looks gloomily on the ground.
“You have deeply sinned against your first, your truest friend; but I trust you will have ability to amend, and I have forgiven you!”
“And without a word of reproach?”
“Your own conscience has suggested more than I could say; it is now my part to console you. Come with me to Leipzig, and if I alone cannot comfort you, why, the others shall help me!”
“No, by my life!” cried Friedemann, looking up boldly. “I pass not again the sacred threshold of my home, till I am worthy of you—or quite resigned to despair!”
“Is that your firm resolve?” asked Sebastian.
“It is, my father! Henceforward I will be true to you. I know not if I shall overcome this anguish, but I will struggle against it, for I have yet power! If victorious, more is won than lost! But if I am overcome—”