Emanuel delayed by circuitous paths the ascent of the mountain, in order to raise his broken friend, whose eyes were no longer dry, from one sun to the other, so that in that high position he might look down from the midst of lights upon this shadowy earth and hardly notice the corpse of his friend on account of its littleness. "Yes, this is the reason," said he, "why the earth is every day darkened, like the cages of birds, that we may in the dark more easily catch the higher melodies.—Thoughts which the day makes a dark smoke and vapor stand round about us in the night as flames and lights, as the column which floats over Vesuvius appears a pillar of cloud by day and is a pillar of fire by night." Victor perceived the design, namely, of consoling him, and became the more disconsolate and continued silent.
They did not go up on the side of the mountain to the weeping-birch, but over its slowly ascending ridge. They overlooked the theatre of night, over which the moon and the storm were coming up under a veil; Emanuel stopped and said: "O look up and see the eternally sparkling morning-meadows which lie around the throne of the Eternal! Had never a star shone out of heaven, only then would man lay himself down with anguish in his last sleep, on a dark earth built over like a burial vault without an opening." Before eyes which were fastened on suns, flashing glowworms trailed by, and a bat whizzed after a gray night-butterfly,—three St. John's day fires; lighted by superstition, brought three distant hills out of night,—all life slept under its leaf, under its twig, nearer to its mother, and in the dreams that were strewed about lay storms,—fishes tumbled up like corpses on the surface of the water as forerunners of the thunder.
Suddenly Emanuel began, with an ill-fitting, not sufficiently controlled voice: "Verily we should stand more composedly beside the genius who lets fall the last sands of slumber on the eyes of our loves, if they did not afterward sleep out their last sleep in church vaults, in churchyards, but upon meadows, under the open heavens, or as mummies in chambers.... Now then, my beloved," they heard already the waving of the weeping-birch, "control thy fantasy; thou wilt see near the birch-tree my resting-pit open; I have for four weeks sown and clothed it with flowers which are now mostly in bloom,—thou wilt lay me thus to-morrow, without any other preparation, in my night-dress among the flowers,—and cover it up to-morrow,—but do not, thou good man, give my little flower-piece such hard names as other men do,—to-morrow, I say; to-day go immediately home to thy Julius, when I...." (am dead, he would have said, but could not find for emotion the soft paraphrase).—
Ah! Horion with a sigh tore his agonized eyes out from the cold open grotto of his beloved, and could not look down to its blooming flowers. He sobbed aloud and looked out through tears faintly into Emanuel's face, to see whether he was living or dying. Two glowworms crossed one another in glimmering curves above the grave, they settled down beside it, and were extinguished, for their light ceases with their motion.
The thunder now struck into Victor's wounds with its first clap,—a dissolving lightning covered the Eastern horizon, and the flame ran over the Alpine ridges,—the lightning-rod on the powder-house glowed, its alarm-bells rang, the ignes-fatui played about the tower, and in mid-air a hovering luminous point moved fearfully towards it.
In Maienthal eleven o'clock was called,—at twelve Emanuel believed he should be gone hence. At last Emanuel, unmanned himself by another's sorrow, fell upon his friend and said: "What hast thou further to say to me, my beloved, my inexpressibly dear friend?—by hours are fled,—our farewell approaches,—say thine, and then disturb not my dying. Be still, when death climbs the mountain, and send no lamentations after me, when he takes me up.—What hast thou more to say to me, my eternally beloved?"—"Nothing more, thou angel of heaven! nor can I," said Victor with bleeding and exhausted heart, and laid his oppressed head with streams of tears on Emanuel's shoulder.
"Now then break off thy heart from mine, and farewell,—be happy, be good, be great. I have loved thee very much, I shall love thee once more and then forever. Good, faithful one,—mortal like me, immortal like me!"
The storm-bells tolled more violently,—the hovering luminous point advanced upon the powder-house,—all the covered cloud-volcanoes bellowed side by side and flung their flames together, and the thunders passed like alarm-bells between them,—the two friends lay in each other's arms, close, mute, gasping, clasping, trembling before the last word.
"O speak once more, my Horion, and take leave of thy friend,—only say to me, Rest well! and leave the dying."
Horion said, "Rest well!" and left him. His tears ceased and his sighs were hushed. The thunder came to a fearful pause. Nature was mutely ordering her chaos in the tempest. Not a flash gleamed through the funeral pile in heaven. Only the funeral tolling of the alarm-bells on the lightning-rod continued to speak, and the luminous point to creep onward.