The professor made no reply.
Hansfelt continued: “In truth, a departure like mine is so much like death, that it gives me a similar liberty to say anything. Hilda, why should I not acknowledge it to you now in his presence? It will do no harm. Well, you shall know, then, that the old poet, whose forehead is more wrinkled than your father’s, would perhaps be foolish enough to forget his age were he to remain near you. It is therefore well for him to go.”
He took the young girl’s icy hand in his. “If he were younger,” he continued, forcing himself to smile, “he might perhaps obtain the right to give you a different ring than this.”—He stopped alarmed. Hilda’s face had become frightfully pale, and she leaned her head against Fleurange’s shoulder. She seemed ready to faint.
“Hilda, good heavens!”
“Zounds, Karl,” cried the professor, rising abruptly. “You try my patience at last. Where are your wits?”
“Ludwig!”
“Yes, where, if you cannot see that you are yet young enough to force me to give you my daughter, if I would not behold her die with grief?”
“Ludwig!” repeated Hansfelt, quite beside himself.
“Of course I am displeased with her for her folly, and I am angry with you too, but I suppose I must forgive you both because—because she loves you.”
“Beware, beware! Ludwig,” said Hansfelt, growing pale. “There are hopes that prove fatal when blasted!”