Cecilia hastily rose with the child in her arms, and took a few paces forward, as if she wished to fly from the place. But her knees trembled, she could go no farther, and was obliged to put Gretchen down, who, alarmed by her mother's impetuosity, ran away crying, but the next moment forgot her grief at the sight of some bright-hued butterflies which fluttered before her over the flower-beds. Cecilia still stood motionless with her face averted.
"Cecilia!" said Gotthold.
He had approached her, and tried to take the hand that hung by her side. She turned, and the face of Medusa confronted him.
"Cecilia!" exclaimed Gotthold, again extending his hands.
She did not draw back, she did not stir; the rigid features were motionless, except for the quivering of the half-parted lips, and then the words came slowly, like the last drops of blood from a mortal wound.
"I do not need your sympathy, do you hear? I have given you no right to pity me, neither you nor any one else. Why do you torture me?"
"I shall not torture you long, Cecilia; I have told you I am going."
"Why don't you go then? Why do you speak to me of such things? To me? You will drive me mad, and--I won't go mad."
"This is madness, Cecilia," cried Gotthold passionately. "If you do not love him--and you do not, you cannot--no divine, and certainly no human law, compels you to remain, to pine, to die in nameless misery. And he loves you no better than you do him."
"Did he tell you so?"