"I think not. How long ago was it--yesterday, I believe--or it might have been the day before; I don't keep any reckoning of the days--I met her on the road to Rossow, and we rode together two or three miles, and the whole time she was talking of nothing but you."
"She must have been sadly in want of a topic of conversation."
"And she cried, too, poor thing! I was sorry for her, and have ever since had it on my mind to tell you that you must really bring the matter to a close."
A long silence followed. The third bottle was uncorked, the bright points still glowed, while the darkness sank ever deeper, and the noiseless sheet-lightning flickered from moment to moment.
"But you are not drinking," said Hans.
I did not answer: in fact I had scarcely heard him. I was hardly conscious that he was there or where we were. In the darkness that surrounded us I saw her eyes beaming; in the rustling of the wind in the leaves I heard her voice. And the large blue eyes gazed reproachfully upon me, and the voice seemed to tremble, and the sweet lips quivered as they had done yesterday when she asked me to accompany them.
"Where are you going?" asked Hans.
I had arisen and stood at the entrance of the arbor, gazing with burning eyes into the darkness. On the western horizon there was still a thin pale streak, but elsewhere the sky seemed to cover the earth like a black opaque pall. There was a deep silence; only from time to time strange moans and whispers seemed to pass through the air, and at intervals the nightingales in the woods sent forth a plaintive sobbing sound, as if bewailing the overthrow of a beautiful world full of light and love. Now and then an electrical flame clove the darkness, and flickered strangely along the edges of the low heavy clouds; but no thunder followed to break the oppressive stillness, and no refreshing rain came down to revive the exhausted earth.
"Where are you going?" asked Hans again.
"Where do you suppose they are now?"