“Dear husband,” she began, “I must disclose to you something which has almost deprived me of my reason and has ruined my health, however trivial it may seem to be.  Often as I have told my story to you, you will remember that I have never been able, despite all the efforts I have made, to recall the name of the little dog with which I lived so long.  That evening when I told the story to Walther he suddenly said to me when we separated:  ’I can readily imagine how you fed the little Strohmi.’  Was that an accident?  Did he guess the name, or did he mention it designedly?  And what, then, is this man’s connection with my lot?  The idea has occurred to me now and then that I merely imagine this accident—­but it is certain, only too certain.  It sent a feeling of horror through me to have a strange person like that assist my memory.  What do you say, Eckbert?”

Eckbert looked at his suffering wife with deep tenderness.  He kept silent, but was meditating.  Then he said a few comforting words to her and left the room.  In an isolated room he walked back and forth with indescribable restlessness—­Walther for many years had been his sole male comrade, and yet this man was now the only person in the world whose existence oppressed and harassed him.  It seemed to him that his heart would be light and happy if only this one person might be put out of the way.  He took down his cross-bow with a view to distracting his thoughts by going hunting.

It was a raw and stormy day in the winter; deep snow lay on the mountains and bent down the branches of the trees.  He wandered about, with the sweat oozing from his forehead.  He came across no game, and that increased his ill-humor.  Suddenly he saw something move in the distance—­it was Walther gathering moss from the trees.  Without knowing what he was doing he took aim—­Walther looked around and motioned to him with a threatening gesture.  But as he did so the arrow sped, and Walther fell headlong.

Eckbert felt relieved and calm, and yet a feeling of horror drove him back to his castle.  He had a long distance to go, for he had wandered far into the forest.  When he arrived home, Bertha had already died—­before her death she had spoken a great deal about Walther and the old woman.

For a long time Eckbert lived in greatest seclusion.  He had always been somewhat melancholy because the strange story of his wife rather worried him; he had always lived in fear of an unfortunate event that might take place, but now he was completely at variance with himself.  The murder of his friend stood constantly before his eyes—­he spent his life reproaching himself.

In order to divert his thoughts, he occasionally betook himself to the nearest large city, where he attended parties and banquets.  He wished to have a friend to fill the vacancy in his soul, and then again, when he thought of Walther, the very word friend made him shudder.  He was convinced that he would necessarily be unhappy with all his friends.  He had lived so long in beautiful harmony with Bertha, and Walther’s friendship had made him happy for so many years, and now both of them had been so suddenly taken from him that his life seemed at times more like a strange fairy-tale than an actual mortal existence.