“Yes—no. I do not know. What does it matter?”
He sat up upon the wolf-skin with passionate pain upon his face; all his soul was in rebellion, and he was only a child and was powerless.
“It is a sin; it is a theft; it is an infamy,” he said, slowly, his eyes fastened on the gilded feet of Hirschvogel.
“Oh, August, do not say such things of father!” sobbed his sister. “Whatever he does, we ought to think it right.”
“IT IS A SIN, IT IS A THEFT, IT IS AN INFAMY,” HE SAID
August laughed aloud.
“Is it right that he should spend his money in drink?—that he should let orders lie unexecuted?—that he should do his work so ill that no one cares to employ him?—that he should live on grandfather’s charity, and then dare sell a thing that is ours every whit as much as it is his? To sell Hirschvogel! Oh, dear God! I would sooner sell my soul!”
“August!” cried Dorothea, with piteous entreaty. He terrified her, she could not recognize her little, gay, gentle brother in those fierce and blasphemous words.