"A friend of mine, a musician, had these songs in a big volume of music, out of which I copied them. The man who wrote them is said to have been called Miller and to have been a miller himself."
"Read, read quickly," cries Trude.
But Johannes refuses. "They are too sad," he says, closing the book; "some other time."
And so matters rest. But Trude so persecutes him, pouting and imploring, that he has to give way to her after all.
"Come this evening to the weir," he says--"I have to close up the sluices. Then we shall be undisturbed and I can read to you--of course only if--"
He winked across at the "office." Trude nods. They understand each other admirably. After supper Martin withdraws to his retreat, pursued by Trude's impatient looks, for she is dying to hear what secrets are contained in the "Lovely Miller-Maid." Arm in arm they walk across the meadow to the weir. The grass is damp with the evening dew. The sky glows red and all a-flame. The dark pine wood which forms a sombre frame round the picture is clearly silhouetted against the fiery background. Louder and louder the waters rush towards them.
In the tumbling waves the glowing sunset is reflected and every drop of frothy spray becomes a dancing spark. On the other side of the weir the river lies like a dark mirror and the alders lay their black shadows upon it and dip their image into its clouded depths.
Silently the two go to the weir. A narrow plank which in the center carries a drawbridge, runs alongside the main beam. From this point the sluices of the lock, six in number, and supported by solid pillars or props, can be opened or closed at will by the miller. Now in the gentle month of June the weir gives little trouble, but in early spring or autumn at high water or during the drifting of the ice, when all the sluices have to be opened wide and some of the supports to be removed, so that the volume of water as well as the lumps of ice may pour down unhindered, then one has to watch and put forth one's strength, or there is danger of being dragged down along with the wood-work by the seething mass. Johannes opens two of the sluices. That suffices for the present. Then he throws the lever to one side and rests his elbow on the rail of the drawbridge. Trude, who has so far watched him in silence, hoists herself up on to the big beam which runs from shore to shore on a level with the rail.
"You will get dizzy, Trude," says Johannes, anxiously looking down onto the "fall," where over sloping planks the water shoots down in wild haste and then rushes foaming into the depths below.
Trude gives a short laugh and declares she has often sat here for hours and looked down without experiencing the least giddiness, and, if the worst came to the worst, why he would be there. Full of suspense she looks towards his pocket, and when he pulls out the book of poems she sighs rapturously, in anticipation of delights to come, and clasps her hands like a child ready to listen to fairy stories. The tender words of the inspired poet flow like music from his lips.