And with a bow he retired.
"Bravissimo, mon comte!" cried the page, laughing heartily. "Roscius was a bungling actor to him. Come now, mon ami," turning to Friedemann—"to your father. He knows all."
Friedemann followed him out with a look of despair. It was a clear, starry winter night. As they came to Bach's house, they heard the hymn Sebastian was singing. As they entered the room, he rose and bade his son welcome.
"Can you forgive me, father?" murmured Friedemann gloomily.
"I have forgiven you; for I trust in your ability to amend."
"No word of reproach?"
"Your conscience does that; my part is to comfort you. Come home to Leipzig."
"No," said Friedemann resolutely; "I will not go home till I am again worthy to be received there."
"Are you so resolved?"
"My life henceforward shall show that I am true to you, father. I will strive to overcome the anguish and remorse that have wrecked me. If I succeed, all will be well. If I fail in the struggle—"