“Sing to me,” said I.

Then imagine my surprise—­I, who had heard nothing but German fall from her lips?—­when in a heavenly contralto she sang a chanson from “La Fille de Madame Angot,” an opera forgotten these ten years!

  “Elle est tellement innocente!”

She had risen, and she stood there before me with a halo of moonshine above her head.  The hot blood rushed to my ears.  Barmaid, Socialist, or whatever she might be, she was lovable.  In a moment I was kissing her hand, the hand so small, so white, and yet so firm.  A thousand inarticulate words came to my lips—­from my heart!  Did the hand tremble?  I thought so.  But swiftly she drew it from my clasp, all the joy and gladness gone from her face and eyes.

“No, no!” she cried; “this must not be; it must not be!”

“But I——­” I began eagerly.

“You must not say it; I command you.  If you speak, Gretchen will be Gretchen no more.  Yes, the King seeks Gretchen; but will you drive her away from her only haven?” with a choking sound.

“Gretchen, trust me.  Shall I go to-morrow?  Shall I leave you in peace?” Somehow I believed myself to be in danger.  “Speak!”

There was an interval of stillness, broken only by the beating of hearts.  Then: 

“Stay.  But speak no word of love; it is not for such as I. Stay and be my friend, for I need one.  Cannot a woman look with favor upon a man but he must needs become her lover?  I shall trust you as I have trusted other men.  And though you fail me in the end, as others have done, still I shall trust you.  Herr, I conspire against the King.  For what?  The possession of my heart.  All my life I have stood alone, so alone.”

“I will be your friend, Gretchen; I will speak no word of love.  Will that suffice?”

“It is all I ask, dear friend.  And now will you leave me?”

“Leave you?” I cried.  “I thought you bade me stay?”

“Ah,” putting out her hand; “you men do not understand.  Sometimes a woman wishes to be alone when—­when she feels that she—­she cannot hold back her tears!”

Gravely I bent over her hand and kissed it.  It seemed to me as I let the hand fall that I had never kissed a woman on the lips.  I turned and went slowly down the path.  Once I looked back.  I saw something white lying at the foot of the tree.  Heaven knows what a struggle it was, but I went on.  I wanted to take her in my arms and tell her that I loved her.  When I reached the inn I turned again, but I saw nothing.  I sat in my room a long time that night, smoking my pipe till the candle gasped feebly and died in the stick, and the room was swallowed in darkness.

I did not know, I was not sure, but I thought that, so long as I might not love Phyllis, it would not be a very hard task to love her image, which was Gretchen.  You see, Phyllis was so very far away and Gretchen was so near!