Her husband had not returned on the day appointed; instead there had come a messenger, with a letter, bearing Slusuhr's seal, who said he had orders to wait, until he could give the letter into the hands of the Herr von Rambow himself. What that signified, she could easily understand. She sat, in the twilight, in her room, by her child; her hands were folded in her lap, and she looked out, in the hazy summer evening, at the dark clouds gathering over the sky.
The day had been sultry, and in such weather, the blood flows heavily through the veins, not leaping and throbbing, like a living spring of clear water, but dragging; sleepily along, like the black water in a ditch, and even as Nature sighs and pants for the storm, which shall give her fresh life, so the heart longs and sighs, in impatience, for the whirlwind and thunderbolt of destiny, which may save it from such wearing torture,--come what may, deliver us from this fearful suspense. This was Frida's mood, so she longed and sighed for a sturdy thunder-bolt which might drive away the foul air in which she was stifling, and make everything clear around her; and she did not sigh in vain.
Korlin Kegel came in, bringing the post-bag, and stood there as if she wanted to do something, then unlocked the bag, and laid a letter on the table before her mistress, and again stood still.
"Gracious Frau, shall I light the lamps?"
"No, let them be."
Korlin did not go, she remained standing:
"Gracious Frau, you have forbidden us to come telling tales, but----"
"What is it?" asked Frida, rousing herself from her thoughts.
"Ah, gracious Frau, the Gurlitz people have driven away Herr Pomuchelskopp, and his wife and his two daughters."
"Have they done that?" cried Frida.