"Or perhaps because they shun the light and cannot endure——"
"That the new arrival should adore the truth?"
"Perhaps that, too; but I was about to suggest that they fly from the two suns that have suddenly arisen in the old ruins."
"Two suns at once? That would be a terrible experience for their poor owls' eyes, and might even prove too much for a fire-worshipper," replied Elizabeth, laughing, as she passed him with a slight inclination, for her parents had just emerged from the gate in the wall, and were advancing towards her. They had come out with some anxiety when they heard Elizabeth's voice and that of a stranger, and they gently reproved her, after she had related her little adventure, for entering so thoughtlessly into conversation with strangers.
"Your badinage might have had unpleasant consequences for you, my child," said her mother. "Fortunately, they were gentlemen."
"Gentlemen?" interrupted her daughter, with surprise. "There was only one."
"Look around," said her father; "you can see for yourself."
And certainly just where the path began to descend into the valley, two hats were plainly to be seen.
"So you see, mother dear," said Elizabeth, "what an entirely harmless encounter it was. One never stepped out from behind the bushes, and there was certainly not an atom of the brigand to be seen in the kind old face of the other."
When she went to her room she carefully took the wreath from her head, laid it in fresh water, and placed it before the bust of Beethoven, then she kissed the forehead of the sleeping Ernst, and said good-night to her father and mother.