The two men looked earnestly and loyally into each other's eyes, and their hands clasped across the consecrated mound, as though taking an oath.
Suddenly a woman, still beautiful though somewhat beyond youth, appeared, moving with dignified cordiality toward Freyer: "Good-day, Herr Freyer; do you remember me?" she said in a quiet, musical voice, holding out her hand.
"Mary!" cried Freyer, clasping it. "Anastasia, why should I not remember you? How do you do? But why do you call me Herr Freyer? Have we become strangers?"
"I thought I ought not to use the old form of speech, you have been away so long, and"--she paused an instant, looking at him with a pitying glance, as if to say: "And are so unhappy." For delicate natures respect misfortune more than rank and wealth, and the sufferer is sacred to them.
The sexton looked at the clock: "I must go, the vesper service begins again at one o'clock. Farewell till we meet again. Are you coming to the gymnasium this evening?"
"Hardly--I am not very well. But we shall see each other soon. Are you married now? I have not asked--"
The sexton's face beamed with joy. "Yes, indeed, and well married. I have a good wife. You'll see her when you call on me."
"A good wife--you are a happy man!" said Freyer in a low tone.
"She has a great deal to do just now for the little one."
"Ah--you have a child, too!"