It had now grown quite dark and the night was upon them, a cold, misty,
autumn night, without moon or starlight, and over in the meadows, where
the vapor was so dense, a light rain had just begun to fall, and
through the rain and the mist a blue shimmering light appeared, now
faint and dull, now with a clear, bright gleam like a flame.

It disappeared, then started forth again a second and a third time--the
will-o'-the-wisp had begun its unearthly, spectral dance.

"You are crying!" said Zalika holding her son fast in her arms. "I have
long foreseen this day, and if young Eschenhagen had not surprised us
the other morning. I should before this have given you the choice
between returning to your father and forming some other plan."

"What other plan? What do you mean?" asked Hartmut, perplexed.

Zalika bent over him and although they were alone, her voice sank into a
whisper.

"Will you allow this tyranny to go on, will you permit yourself to be
separated from your mother and our holy love trodden under foot, without
asserting yourself, or protecting our joint right? If you do permit it,
you are no son of mine, and my blood does not flow in your veins. He
sent you to bid me farewell, and you take his word as final. Do you
really come to take leave of me, for long years, in all probability?"

"I must do it," her son broke out despairingly. "You know my father.
Against his iron will there is no appeal."

"If you return to him--no! But who will force you to return?"