“Are you then so rejoiced to see me, Hartmut?” he asked, somewhat timorously.  “I almost feared it would not be right for me to come.”

“Not right, when I have not seen you for ten long years?” cried Hartmut, reprovingly.  And then he drew his friend toward him and began to ask questions and chatter away with such genuine heartiness, that Will soon lost his shyness and could speak as of old to him.

He explained that he had only been three days in town, and was on his way to Fuerstenstein.

“Yes, and you’re to be married soon.  I heard of your betrothal at Rodeck, and I have seen Fraeulein von Schoenau once.  I wish you great happiness, old fellow.”

Willibald took the wish for his happiness with characteristic coolness.  He sat and gazed on the floor, and said in a low tone: 

“Yes—­my mother chose a wife for me.”

“I can well believe that,” said Hartmut laughing.  “But you at least gave your ‘yes’ willingly.”

Willibald did not answer, but seemed to be studying the pattern of the carpet intently; suddenly he asked abruptly: 

“Hartmut—­how do you go to work to write poetry anyhow?”

Hartmut repressed a smile with difficulty.  “That is not easy to explain.  I really fear I cannot answer you intelligibly.”

“Yes, writing poetry is a curious thing,” sighed Willibald with a sad shake of the head.  “I tried it myself after I came out of the theatre last night.”

“What!  You’ve taken to poetry?”

“Haven’t I, though,” said Will with a lofty self-consciousness.  “But,” he added dejectedly, “I can’t make it rhyme, and it hasn’t the same sound as your verses.  I have it in my head, but I don’t suppose I have it just right.  How did you begin yours?  The commencement is the stumbling block.  It’s nothing very great or romantic, like ‘Arivana.’”

“Addressed to her of course?” hazarded Hartmut.

“Yes, to her,” Willibald admitted with a deep sigh; and now his listener laughed out loud and clear.

“Well, you are a model son, one must concede that.  It’s not unusual for a man to be engaged in response to a father’s or mother’s wishes, but your sense of duty is so strong that you fall in love with the girl and even go so far as to write verses in her praise.”

“But they are not to her,” cried Willibald suddenly, and with so sorrowful a face that Hartmut gazed at him dumbfounded.  He believed that his friend was out of his mind, and Willibald’s next statement quite overpowered him, without weakening this suspicion.

“I had a quarrel early this morning with an insolent fellow who attempted to insult a lady, Fraeulein Marietta Volkmar of the Court theatre of this city.  I struck him to the ground and I’d do it again if I had an opportunity;—­him, or any one else who came near Fraeulein Volkmar.”

He had grown so excited, and rose, as he spoke, with such a threatening air, that Hartmut seized him by the arm and held him fast.