"They are rather more or less neat," said Fink, carelessly; "that is the whole difference."
Lenore rose, offended at his tone more than at his words.
"It is time that I should return," said she, coldly, tying on her straw hat.
"When you rose, all the brightness left the room," cried Fink.
"It is only a cloud passing over the sun," said the forester, going to the window; "that causes the shadow."
"Nonsense," replied Fink; "it is the straw hat hiding the lady's hair that does it; the light comes from those golden locks."
They left the house, the forester locked the door, and each went off in different directions.
Lenore hurried home; the linnet sang, the thrush whistled, but she did not heed them. She blamed herself for having crossed the threshold of the forester's house, and yet she could not turn away her thoughts from it. The stranger made her feel uneasy and insecure. Was he thus daring because nothing was sacred to him, or was it only through his extreme self-possession and self-dependence? Ought she to be angry with him, or did her sense of awkwardness only arise from the folly of an inexperienced girl? These questions she kept constantly asking herself, but, alas! she found no answer.
When Anton wanted to send a message that evening to the shepherd, neither Karl nor any other messenger was to be found, so he went himself. He was not a little surprised to see in one of the farthest fields through which he had to go his friend Fink on horseback, and the German farmer and Karl busily occupied near him. Fink was galloping along short distances, the others placing black and white pegs in the ground, and taking them out again. And then Karl looked through a small telescope that he rested on his peg. "Five-and-twenty paces," cried Fink.
"Two inches fall," screamed back Karl.