The forenoon bells were sounding from the great cathedral. On the open place, men and women were moving in various directions, carriages passing along, and priests going to their churches. Ferdinand stood upon the stairs regarding the multitude, and contemplating those who went up to be present at high mass. The sunshine glistened on the white stones; every one sought shelter against the heat; he only had been long standing in meditation, leaning against a pillar, under the burning beams, without feeling them; for he was lost amid the recollections which had risen up in his thoughtfulness. He thought on his former life, and inspired himself with the feeling which had penetrated his being, and extinguished all other wishes.
At the same hour he had stood here in the former year, to see the women and maidens going to service; with listless heart and smiling eye he had contemplated the various forms. Then there came across the square a youthful form in black, tall and noble, her eyes modestly cast before her on the ground; unembarrassed she ascended the stairs with lovely grace; her silken dress lay around the most beautiful of forms, and vibrated as in music about the moving limbs. She was going to mount the highest step, when unconsciously she raised her eye, and its azure beam met his glance. He was pierced as by lightning. She stumbled, and quickly as he sprang forward, he could not hinder but that for a moment she, in the most charming posture, lay kneeling at his feet. He raised her; she looked not at him, but was all a blush, nor answered his inquiry whether she was hurt. He followed her into the church, and saw only the image as she had knelt before him, and the loveliest of bosoms bent towards him. The following day he again visited the threshold of the temple; for him the place was consecrated. He had intended to take his departure, his friends were impatiently expecting him at home; but now from henceforth this was his father-land; his heart was inverted.
He saw her often—she did not shun him—yet only for separate and stolen moments; for her rich family sufficiently watched her, still more a powerful and jealous bridegroom. They confessed to each other their love, but knew not in their situation what to counsel; for he was a stranger, and could offer his beloved no such great fortune as she was entitled to expect. Now he felt his poverty; yet when he thought on his former way of life, he seemed to himself surpassingly rich, for his existence was hallowed, his heart floated for ever in the fairest emotion. Nature was now friendly to him, and her beauty revealed to his meditations, he felt himself no longer a stranger to devotion and religion; and now he trod this threshold, the mysterious dimness of the temple, with far other feelings than in those days of levity. He withdrew from his former acquaintances, and lived only to love. Whenever he passed through her street, and only saw her at the window, that day was for him a happy one. He had often spoken to her in the twilight of evening, as her garden adjoined to that of a friend, who, however, did not know his secret. Thus a year had elapsed.
All these scenes of his new existence again passed through his remembrance. He raised his eyes; that noble form was even then gliding across the square—she lightened upon him from among the mixed multitude as a sun. A lovely song sounded into his longing heart; and as she approached, he stepped back into the church. He held towards her the holy water; her white fingers trembled as they touched his; she bowed graciously. He followed her, and knelt near her. His whole heart melted away in melancholy and love; it seemed to him as if, from the wounds of longing, his existence was bleeding away in ardent prayers; every word of the priest thrilled through him, every tone of the music gushed devotion into his bosom; his lips quivered as the fair one pressed the crucifix of her rosary to her ruby mouth. How had he not been able to comprehend this faith and this love before?
The priest raised the host, and the bell sounded. She bowed herself more humbly, and crossed her breast. Like lightning it struck through all his powers and feelings; and the altar-picture seemed alive—the coloured dimness of the windows as a light of Paradise. Tears streamed profusely from his eyes, and allayed the inward burning of his heart. Divine service was ended. He again offered her the holy font; they spoke some words, and she withdrew. He remained behind, not to excite notice; he looked after her till the hem of her garment vanished round the corner. Then he felt as the weary bewildered traveller, who in the thick forest beholds the last gleam of the descending sun.
He awoke from his dream, as a dry, withered hand struck him on the shoulder, and some one called him by name. He started back, and recognised his friend the morose Albert, who lived apart from men, and whose lonely house was open only to the young Ferdinand. "Are you mindful of our engagement?" asked the hoarse voice.