The sinking sun struck horizontally through the richly tinted windows, and the shadows of the trees, just stirred by the almost windless atmosphere, danced slowly and languidly on the wall, the pillars and richly carved stalls, as though keeping time and character with the music. The sands of his last day were running low, the dreamy music, though he loved it, made him impatient. Then an idea came to him. Why should he not ask Countess Minna to release him and take his place, so that he might go round and be at least within sight of the Princess? He hesitated. Would she not be offended if he broke the tacit understanding between them? Certainly her reception of him had given no encouragement to impatience or forwardness. It was his duty to respect her slightest hint, to let the initiative always come from her, above all, never to make her task (if he dared believe it were one) more difficult. Yet every argument failed against his intense desire. He looked round at the demure reader coiled up snugly in her corner; she glanced up as his movement caught her eye, and laughed as he signed to her. Then she shook her head; she was sharp enough, and guessed what he wanted, but—perhaps she, too, thought it madness. Anyhow it was with a deprecating expression that she rose and came to him.
“Will you not relieve me for five minutes?” he asked.
She kept her hands behind her. “Why?” she asked. “You are surely not tired.”
“No; not tired, but——”
“The Princess hates any one to look over her.”
“May I not see her from a distance?”
“You are a fool, with apologies for the liberty of telling you so, Herr Lieutenant.”
“I dare say I am. But why?”
“To long for fruit that is out of your reach.”
“Perhaps. Still I shall not say it is sour.”