“All of them?”
“All of them, sir. Those who do not go for the sake of the bear go for the sake of the luncheon.”
Melchior laughed so that it echoed through the silent yard. He gave the man a crown for his answer.
“Go say to my daughter that I am here to take her home. She need not be afraid of the cold. I have the big sledge and a wolfskin cloak to wrap her in.”
“Will you not come in, sir?”
“Thank you! I sit very well where I am.”
The man disappeared, and Melchior began his waiting.
He was in such a genial mood that day that nothing could irritate him. He had expected to have to wait a little for Marianne; perhaps she was not even up. He would have to amuse himself by looking about him for a while.
From the cornice hung a long icicle, with which the sun had terrible trouble. It began at the upper end, melted a drop, and wanted to have it run down along the icicle and fall to the earth. But before it had gone half the way, it had frozen again. And the sun made continual new attempts, which always failed. But at last a regular freebooter of a ray hung itself on the icicle’s point, a little one, which shone and sparkled; and however it was, it accomplished its object,—a drop fell tinkling to the ground.
Melchior looked on and laughed. “You were not such a fool,” he said to the ray of sunlight.