She spoke the last words in a tone of annihilation, but Willibald did not seem at all disturbed by them, and answered very quietly:
"Well, then, in that case, there's no need for my saying anything. Otherwise I should have spoken to my uncle this afternoon."
That was too much. Now the cloud broke with thunder and lightning, and the storm descended with such violence upon the head of the sinning son that there seemed nothing less for him to do than to sink into the ground as a creature too debased to live; but he did not sink; he bent his head before the driving tempest, and when his mother stopped a moment—she had to take breath—he looked up quietly and said:
"Mother—will you allow me to speak now?"
"Oh, you are ready to speak? That is really remarkable," Schönau interrupted with a sneer. He felt he had not been kindly used by his daughter and her lover. Willibald began to speak, at first hesitatingly and slowly, but, as he went on, his voice strengthened, and his courage returned.
"I am very sorry to have grieved you, but I could do nothing else this time. I was as innocent of any desire to fight a duel as was Marietta. She was followed in the park by an impertinent fellow who insisted upon pressing his attentions upon her; she was alone, unprotected. I saw what happened and knocked the fellow down for his pains. He sent me a challenge which I would not, and dare not decline. I have only Toni's pardon to beg for loving Marietta, and that I did immediately upon my arrival. She knows all, and has given me back my freedom. We understand and respect one another much more since our betrothal is at an end, than ever we did before."
"Well, this almost passes belief," exclaimed the head forester angrily. "We did not force you; you could have said no, either of you, if you had desired."
"Well, we do it now," Willibald answered, so decidedly and quickly that his uncle looked at him quite bluffed. "Toni sees as well as I that a mere marriage by arrangement is not right, and when one has felt the bliss of loving he must marry the object of that love and no other."
Frau von Eschenhagen, who had recovered her breath by this time, felt the sting of these last words. It had not entered her thoughts that one betrothal had been broken in order that another might be arranged, but now the fearful possibility struck her.
"Marry;" she repeated, "who would you marry? Would you marry that Marietta, that creature—"