"Do not triumph too soon, mamma," her son answered her bitterly. "I only came to say good-bye."
"Hartmut!"
"Father has given me permission to see you this time, and then—"
"Then he will take you away again, and you will be forever lost to me. Is that it?"
Hartmut did not answer, he only threw himself upon his mother's breast with a wild, passionate sob, which had as much anger and bitterness in it, as pain.
It had now grown quite dark and the night was upon them, a cold, misty, autumn night, without moon or starlight, and over in the meadows, where the vapor was so dense, a light rain had just begun to fall, and through the rain and the mist a blue shimmering light appeared, now faint and dull, now with a clear, bright gleam like a flame.
It disappeared, then started forth again a second and a third time—the will-o'-the-wisp had begun its unearthly, spectral dance.
"You are crying!" said Zalika holding her son fast in her arms. "I have long foreseen this day, and if young Eschenhagen had not surprised us the other morning. I should before this have given you the choice between returning to your father and forming some other plan."
"What other plan? What do you mean?" asked Hartmut, perplexed.
Zalika bent over him and although they were alone, her voice sank into a whisper.