"Othomar," Herman began, decidedly, as though he wished to say something.
"Don't talk to me for a minute; let me be for a moment," Othomar interrupted, quickly, anxiously.
They walked through the woods in silence. Othomar looked about him, strangely, looked at the ground. Herman compressed his lips tightly and puckered up his forehead: he was annoyed. But he said nothing. In a few minutes Othomar's strange glances grew calmer and quieted down into their usual gentle melancholy.
Then he gave a little sigh, as if he were catching his breath:
"Don't be angry," he said, putting his arm through Herman's.
His voice had resumed its usual tone.
"Perhaps it's as well that I have told you; now perhaps it will leave me. So don't be angry, Herman.... I promise you I shan't talk like that again and I shall do my best also not to think like that any more. But, when I have anything on my mind, I must tell it to somebody. And surely that's much better than for ever keeping silent about it! And then, you see, soon I shall have no more time to think of such things: to-morrow we shall be at Copenhagen and then life will resume its normal course. How can I have talked so queerly? How did I take it into my head? Even I can't remember. It seems very silly now, even to myself."
He gave a little laugh and then, earnestly:
"After all, I'm glad that we have had a talk by ourselves, that I have been able to thank you. We're friends now, aren't we?"
"Yes, of course we're friends," replied Herman, laughing in the midst of his annoyance. "But all the same I shall never know you thoroughly!"