"My son! my only child! do you not know your mother?"
Hartmut retreated, startled.
"My mother is dead," he said in a low tone.
The stranger laughed bitterly; it sounded exactly like that harsh, unchildlike laugh which had come from the lips of the lad only a short while ago.
"So that is it; they have called me dead. They would not leave you even the memory of your mother. But it is not true, Hartmut. I live--I stand before you. Look at me! look at my features, which are yours also. They could not take those from you. Child of my heart, do you not feel that you belong to me?"
Still Hartmut stood motionless, looking into the face in which he saw his own reflected as in a mirror. There were the same features, the same abundant, blue-black hair; the same large, deep black eyes--yes--even the strange demoniac expression which glowed like a flame in the mother's eyes, glimmered as a spark in the eyes of the son. The natural resemblance showed that they were of the same blood, and now the voice of that blood woke up in the young man.
He did not ask for explanations--for proofs; the confused, dream-like recollections suddenly became clear. Only one more second of hesitation, then he threw himself into the arms which were open for him.
"Mother!"
In the exclamation lay the glowing devotion of the lad, who had never known what it was to possess a mother, and who had longed for it with all his passionate nature.
His mother! As he lay in her arms while she overwhelmed him with passionate caresses--with tender, fond names such as he had never heard, all else disappeared in the flood of overwhelming delight.