"Drive on, Martin," the countess ordered, "I will walk with Herr Freyer." The coachman obeyed. She put her hand through Freyer's arm. "No wonder that the horses shied, my husband, you look so strange. What were you doing in the woods in the middle of the night?"
"What I always do--wandering about."
"That is not right, you ought to sleep."
"Sleep?" Freyer repeated with a bitter laugh.
"Is this my reception, Joseph?"
"Pardon me--it makes me laugh when you talk of sleeping! Look"--he raised his hat: "Even in the starlight you can see the white hairs which have come since you were last here, sent my child away, and made me wholly a hermit. No sleep has come to my eyes and my hair has grown grey."
The countess perceived with horror the change which had taken place in him. Threads of silver mingled with his black locks, his eyes were sunken, his whole figure was emaciated, his chest narrowed--he was a sick man. She could not endure the sight--it was the most terrible reproach to her; she fixed her eyes on the ground: "I had made such a lovely plan--Martin has the key of the outside door--I was going to steal gently to the side of your couch and kiss your sleeping lips."
"I thank you for the kind intention. But do you imagine that I could have slept after receiving that letter which brought me the news that I was betrayed--betrayed once more and, after all the sacred promises made during your last visit, you had done exactly the opposite and accepted a position which separated you still farther from your husband and child, bound you still more firmly to the world? Do you imagine that the days are enough to ponder over such thoughts? No, one must call in the nights to aid. You know that well, and I should be far better satisfied if you would say honestly: 'I know that I am killing you, that your strength is being consumed with sorrow, but I have no wish to change this state of affairs!' instead of feigning that you cannot understand why I should not sleep quietly and wondering that I wander all night in the forest? But fear nothing, I am perfectly calm--I shall reproach you no farther," he added in a milder tone, "for I have closed accounts with myself--with you--with life. Do not weep, I promised that when you sought your husband you should find him--I will not be false to my pledge. Come, lay your little head upon my breast--you are trembling, are you cold? Lean on me, and let us walk faster that I may shelter you in the warm room. Wandering dove--how did you happen suddenly to return to your husband's lonely nest in the cold night, in this bitter winter season? Why did not you stay in the warm cote with the others, where you had everything that you desire? Do you miss anything? Tell me, what do you seek with me, for what does your little heart long?" His voice again sank to the enthralling whisper which had formerly made all her pulses throb with a sensation of indescribable bliss. His great heart took all its pains and suffering and ceased to judge her. The faithless dove found the nest open, and his gentle hand scattered for her the crumbs of his lost happiness, as the starving man divides his last crust with those who are poorer still.
She could not speak--overpowered by emotion she leaned against him, allowing herself to be carried rather than led up the steep ascent. But she could not wait, even as they moved her lips sought his, her little hands clasped his, and a murmur tremulous with emotion: "This is what I missed!"--answered the sweet question. The stars above sparkled with a thousand rays--the whole silent, glittering, icy winter night rejoiced.
At last the castle was reached and the "warm" room received them. It did not exactly deserve the name, for the fire in the stove had gone out, but neither felt it--the glow in their hearts sufficed.