Then there came a voice. Some one—a complaisant dilettantin—was singing Thekla’s song. We heard the refrain—distance lent enchantment; it sounded what it really was, deep as eternity:
“Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.”
Adelaide moved uneasily; her hand started nervously, and a sigh broke from her lips.
“Schiller wrote from his heart,” said she, in a low voice.
“Indeed, yes, Adelaide.”
“Did you say good-bye to von Francius, May, yesterday?”
“Yes—at least, we said au revoir. He wants me to sing for him next winter.”
“Was he very down?”
“Yes—very. He—”
A footstep close at hand. A figure passed in the uncertain light, dimly discerned us, paused, and glanced at us.