tears burst from her eyes, and she raised the book with both hands to
hurl it from her and throw her arms around the writer's neck.

He had been standing opposite to her, as if spellbound, listening
blissfully to the lofty flight of his own words. Trembling with
passionate emotion, he yet restrained himself until she had raised her
eyes from his lines and lifted the book, then his power of resistance
flew to the winds and, fairly beside himself, he exclaimed: "Maria, my
sweet wife!"

"Wife?" echoed in her breast like a cry of warning, and it seemed as if
an icy hand clutched her heart. The intoxication passed away, and as she
saw him standing before her with out-stretched arms and sparkling eyes,
she shrank back, a feeling of intense loathing of him and her own
weakness seized upon her and, instead of throwing the book aside and
rushing to meet him, she tore it in halves, saying proudly: "Here are
your verses, Junker von Dornburg; take them with you." Then, maintaining
her dignity by a strong effort, she continued in a lower, more gentle
tone, "I shall remember you without this book. We have both dreamed;
let us now wake. Farewell! I will pray that God may guard you. Give me
your hand, Georg, and when you return, we will bid you welcome to our
house as a friend."

With these words Maria turned away from the Junker and only nodded
silently, when he exclaimed: "Past! All past!"




CHAPTER XXXI.