"That man would kill her, soul and body. Alas, that it is so and that I should be the one to have to say it."
Again Fränzchen rose from her chair; she went up to Hans, she laid her trembling hand on his arm and whispered scarcely audibly:
"Dear Mr. Unwirrsch, I have done you a great wrong. Can you forgive me? Will you forgive me? I have done heavy, heavy penance for it. It has cost me many, many tears and wakeful nights. Oh, forgive me for this distress; forgive me for my uncle's sake."
Hans Unwirrsch staggered as he heard these words.
"Oh, Miss—Franziska," he stammered, "not you, it is not you who have done me a wrong. We both have been caught in the confused whirl of this world. Evil powers have played with us and we could not defend ourselves against them! Is not that the clear and simple truth?"
"It is," said Fränzchen. "We have not been able to defend ourselves."
The rain poured down in streams; the wind shook the window like a wild beast, but both wind and rain, and the darkness that added to their terror might do and threaten and say their worst: from then on, even on this night when Kleophea Götz did not return to her home, they scarcely seemed dreadful or uncanny any longer. From then on the wind and the rain and the night were blessings; no longer were they voices from the abyss, proclaiming destruction—death and the reign of egoism.
It was long after midnight and still Kleophea had not come. Hans and Fränzchen sat beside the sleeping stranger and talked to each other in low tones. Ah, they had so much to say!
They did not speak of love,—they did not think of it at all. They simply spoke of how they had lived; and everything that had seemed so confused was now so easily untangled; and often a single word made everything that had been so dark and threatening become light and simple and consoling.