The fields of grain have vanished. They are driving now through a village,--a silent village, where every one is asleep. The dark window-panes glisten in the moonlight; the shadows of the pointed roofs form a black zigzag on the road, dividing it into two parts,--one dark, one light. Only behind one window shines a candle; perhaps a mother is watching there beside a sick or dying child. The candle-light, with its yellow gleam, contrasts strangely with the bluish moonlight. A dog bays behind a gate; otherwise, all is quiet.
And now the village lies behind them,--a chaos of black roofs, whitewashed walls, and dark lindens. To the right and left are pasture-lands, where countless wild chamomile-flowers glitter white and ghostly among the grass, in the midst of which rises a rude wooden crucifix. The pungent fragrance of the chamomile-flowers mingles with the odour of the dust of the road.
Then the pastures vanish, with the chamomile-flowers and the oppressive silence. A forest extends on either side of the road,--a forest which is never silent, where even in so quiet a night as this the topmost boughs murmur dreamily. It sounds almost like the dull plaint of human souls, imprisoned in these ancient pines,--the souls of men who aspired too high in life, seeking the way to the stars which gleamed so kindly when admired from afar, but which fled like glittering will-o'-the-wisps from those who would fain approach them.
The moonlight seems to drip down the boles of the monarchs of the wood like molten silver, to lie here and there upon the underbrush around their feet. A strong odour rises from the warm woodland earth,--the odour of dead leaves, mingling deliciously with all other forest fragrance.
"How wonderful!" Paula whispers.
"Yes, it is beautiful," says Harry; and again his eyes seek the face of his companion.
"And do you know what is still more beautiful?" she murmurs. "To feel protected, safe,--to know that some one else will think for you."
The road grows rough; the wheels jolt over the stones; the little carriage sways from side to side. Paula clutches Harry's arm. Her waving hair brushes his cheek; it thrills him. She starts back from him.
"Pardon me," she murmurs, as if mortified.
"Pardon me, Baroness," he says. "I had no idea that the forest-road was so rough; it is the shortest. Did you not come by it to Zirkow?"