O solitude
Of lonely wood,
A vanished good
In dreams pursued,
In absence rued,
O solitude!
"I could not sleep through the night; everything came back to my mind, and I felt more than ever that I had done wrong. When I got up the sight of the bird was positively repugnant to me; he was constantly staring at me, and his presence worried me. He never ceased singing now, and sang more loudly and shrilly than he used to. The more I looked at him the more uneasiness I felt. Finally, I opened the cage, stuck my hand in, seized him by the neck and squeezed my fingers together forcibly. He looked at me imploringly, and I relaxed my grip—but he was already dead. I buried him in the garden.
"And now I was often seized with fear of my waiting-maid. My own past came back to me, and I thought that she too might rob me some day, or perhaps even murder me. For a long time I had known a young knight whom I liked very much—I gave him my hand, and with that, Mr. Walther, my story ends."
"You should have seen her then," broke in Eckbert quickly. "Her youth, her innocence, her beauty—and what an incomprehensible charm her solitary breeding had given her! To me she seemed like a wonder, and I loved her inexpressibly. I had no property, but with the help of her love I attained my present condition of comfortable prosperity. We moved to this place, and our union thus far has never brought us a single moment of remorse."
"But while I have been chattering," began Bertha again, "the night has grown late. Let us go to bed."
She rose to go to her room. Walther kissed her hand and wished her a good-night, adding:
"Noble woman, I thank you. I can readily imagine you with the strange bird, and how you fed the little Strohmi."
Without answering she left the room. Walther also lay down to sleep, but Eckbert continued to walk up and down the room.
"Aren't human beings fools?" he finally asked himself. "I myself induced my wife to tell her story, and now I regret this confidence! Will he not perhaps misuse it? Will he not impart it to others? Will he not perhaps—for it is human nature—come to feel a miserable longing for our gems and devise plans to get them and dissemble his nature?"
It occurred to him that Walther had not taken leave of him as cordially as would perhaps have been natural after so confidential a talk. When the soul is once led to suspect, it finds confirmations of its suspicions in every little thing. Then again Eckbert reproached himself for his ignoble distrust of his loyal friend, but he was unable to get the notion entirely out of his mind. All night long he tossed about with these thoughts and slept but little.