“Really, I sometimes think Conrad is not mad at all,” observed Moida solemnly. “At this moment I do believe he sees dear Walburga. Look! look! He is beckoning!”
“It may be so,” returned Ulrich. “At any rate, he is infinitely happier, judging by his expression and his songs, than many a man who is not mad.”
“Well, I’ll not say ‘Poor Conrad!’ any more,” added Moida. “For I verily believe he knows Walburga is ever hovering near him; nay, that at times he actually sees her. There, look again! look! How he smiles! And his outstretched hands may indeed be clasping hers now, albeit they are invisible to you and me.”
Here there was a brief silence, after which Ulrich remarked, “I am very pleased, my love, that you keep the little lamp so nicely trimmed before the image of our Blessed Mother: for the image belonged to Walburga. See, now Conrad is praying before it.”
“Oh! ’tis not I who trims the light,” replied Moida. “Conrad takes entire charge of the shrine; I merely bring him oil and tapers.”
“But, darling,” continued Ulrich somewhat abruptly, and with a look of seriousness, “if Conrad’s mysterious condition last much longer ’twill plunge us into still greater difficulties; will it not? Why, already all your slender means have been swallowed up, as well as the few florins I had, in paying off the swarm of laborers who were employed upon this ruin. Now all work is stopped, and ’twill be a bitter cold place to spend the coming winter in. Yet what can we do? We must surely stay by Conrad, for he was extremely generous to you and me; and if we abandoned him in this dark hour ’twould be very cruel.”
“Ay, let us prove his stanch friends, now that he is unable to help himself,” answered the girl, brushing away a tear.
“Well, if he could only sleep he might grow better,” pursued Ulrich.
“Our kind friend hasn’t closed his eyes in ever so many nights,” said Moida. “Nor does he take enough nourishment to keep another person from starvation. In fact, his condition is exceedingly mysterious. An inward fire seems to be consuming him; you can see it shooting out of his eyes; but still on he lives—on and on; apparently happy, too, withered to a skeleton though he is.”
“Ay, what can keep good Conrad alive?” said Ulrich.