Everything was still; the church bells stopped ringing; the last tones died away with the splendour of the red clouds.
"You are mine!" sounded in the deep. "You are mine!" sounded from on high, from the infinite.
How happy to fly from love to love, from earth to heaven!
A string broke, a cry of grief was heard, the icy kiss of death conquered; the prelude ended; so that the drama of life might commence, discord melted into harmony.—
Do you call this a sad story?
Poor Babette! For her it was a period of anguish.
The boat drifted farther and farther. No one on shore knew that the lovers were on the island. The evening darkened, the clouds lowered themselves; night came. She stood there, solitary, despairing, moaning. A flash of lightning passed over the Jura mountains, over Switzerland and over Savoy. From all sides flash upon flash of lightning, clap upon clap of thunder, which rolled continuously many minutes. At times the lightning was vivid as sunshine, and you could distinguish the grape vines; then all became black again in the dark night. The lightning formed knots, ties, zigzags, complicated figures; it struck in the lake, so that it lit it up on all sides; whilst the noise of the thunder was made louder by the echo. The boat was drawn on shore; all living objects sought shelter. Now the rain streamed down.
"Where can Rudy and Babette be in this frightful weather!" said the miller.
Babette sat with folded hands, with her head in her lap, mute with sorrow, with screaming and bewailing.
"In the deep water," said she to herself, "he is as far down as the glaciers!"