her remembrance been questioned.

"Are you hurt by the fall, dear August?" she murmured at length,
for he looked to her so pale and strange.

"Yes--no. I do not know. What does it matter?"

He sat up upon the wolfskin with passionate pain upon his face;
all his soul was in rebellion, and he was only a child and was
powerless.

"It is a sin; it is a theft; it is an infamy," he said slowly, his
eyes fastened on the gilded feet of Hirschvogel.

"Oh, August, do not say such things of father!" sobbed his sister.
"Whatever he does, WE ought to think it right."

August laughed aloud.

"Is it right that he should spend his money in drink?--that he
should let orders lie unexecuted?--that he should do his work so
ill that no one cares to employ him?--that he should live on
grandfather's charity, and then dare sell a thing that is ours
every whit as much as it is his? To sell Hirschvogel! Oh, dear
God! I would sooner sell my soul!"

"August!" cried Dorothea with piteous entreaty. He terrified her;
she could not recognize her little, gay, gentle brother in those
fierce and blasphemous words.