“I might have had a boyish fancy—I wrote a poem about her—”
“And some day you’ll write a poem about me and all will be ended.”
“Hilda, why do you torture me so?—”
He clasped her hand and kissed it. She withdrew her hand and said he must not do this.
“I know I shouldn’t have come here—I know I shouldn’t—some one might have seen us—”
“And what if they did?”
“Oh, Albert, you don’t understand—”
He was about to seize her hand again but she ran down the path.
IV.
When Hilda had suddenly left him he remained at Klopstock’s grave until the stars appeared. He found the grave symbolic. The grave was the only place for a poet, he mused in despair—yes, a silent grave under a shady tree, the roar of the sea in the distance, the silence of fields around. Ah! the serenity and the beauty of lying still without surging blood, without agitated nerves, wrapt in a white shroud in the bosom of the cool earth, in peace, with no sound save the swaying of the branches and the chance song of a bird! The burden of youth was oppressing him, the presentiments of sorrows to come were in his heart. For the moment he wished he were dead—dead at the feet of the silent poet who had sung so gloriously of the Redeemer. He remained standing before the grave in sad contemplation of his plight. In vain had he consoled himself that Hilda loved him. She was just playing with him, he mused bitterly.