When they reached the hall, they found there a crowd of curious idlers, all eager to see the suicide's daughter. Gretchen paused, overcome with dismay. She could hardly trust her limbs to bear her through the throng. A soft, warm hand clasped hers,--it was Hilsborn's. He drew the little hand under his arm, and led her through the gaping loiterers to the carriage. Gretchen was scarcely conscious, she only felt that, supported by this arm, she could raise her head once more, and she was filled with gratitude towards the man who did not shrink from thus espousing the cause of the child of a criminal.
Herr Meyer made them a formal bow as they entered the carriage, and it rolled away past the gay, sparkling waters of the Alster, now swarming with boats.
Gretchen looked out of the carriage window. Yesterday all this had been the world to her,--to-day her world was within, and all this was mere outward show.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
BLOSSOMS ON THE BORDER OF THE GRAVE.
"Come quick, Johannes, Hilsborn has arrived," the Staatsräthin whispered from the door of the apartment. Johannes was seated by Ernestine's bedside, her head leaning upon his hand, while the poor girl moved restlessly from side to side, muttering unintelligibly. He motioned to Willmers to take his place, and went softly out.
"Thank God, you are back again. Have you brought him with you?"
"He has escaped."
"Hilsborn, that is terrible!"
"He is gone whither he cannot be pursued, and whence he can work no more mischief."