It was not grief—no quiet heartache that disturbed—but a confused blending of wrath and sorrow. He did not wish to appear before the friend of his youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came towards him. He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle of the capital; life seemed grey and hollow. His intention of communicating with the commandant of the citadel remained unexecuted; for he thought of nothing but his father's anger, of Ruth, his own shame and misery.
He could not leave so.
His father must, yes, he must hear him, and when it grew dusk, he again sought the house to which he belonged, and from which he had been so cruelly expelled.
The door was locked. In reply to his knock, a man's unfamiliar voice asked who he was, and what he wanted.
He asked to speak with Adam, and called himself Ulrich.
After waiting a long time he heard a door torn open, and the smith angrily exclaim:
"To your spinning-wheel! Whoever clings to him so long as he wears the
Spanish dress, means evil to him as well as to me."
"But hear him! You must hear him, father!" cried Ruth.
The door closed, heavy steps approached the door of the house; it opened, and again Adam confronted his son.
"What do you want?" he asked harshly.