He jumps up abruptly.
Away from this place, away from this atmosphere--else madness will really assail him!
He rushes towards the door. One creak of its hinges, one click of the lock: he has disappeared.
Martin looks after him, mute with consternation; then he says, as if to quell his rising fear:
"He is too excited; he wants some fresh air. He will come back!"
His glance falls upon the wooden clothes=pegs on the opposite wall. He smiles, now quite reassured, and says "He has left his cap here; it is raining outside, the wind blows cold; he will come back." Thereupon he calls the innkeeper, orders his horse to be put up and has some hot grog mixed for his brother, and a bed prepared for him. "For," he says with a blissful smile, "he will come back again."
When everything is made ready he sits down on the bench and becomes lost in brooding. From time to time he murmurs as if to resuscitate his sinking courage:
"He will come back!"
Outside the rain beats against the windowpanes, autumn blasts are soughing around the housetop, and every gust of wind, every drop of rain, seems to proclaim:
"He will come back! He will come back!" The how's pass; the lamp goes out.... Martin has fallen asleep over his waiting and is dreaming of his brother's return.