And so the pretty Lieschen, with feminine instinct of ruse, had affected to treat her lover with indifference; and to compensate him and herself for this restraint, she had been in the habit of escaping from home once or twice a week, and spending a delicious hour or two at night in the company of her lover and his mother.  Kerkel and his mother lived in a cottage a little way outside the town.  Lehfeldt’s shop stood not many yards from the archway.  Now, as in Nuremberg no one was abroad after ten o’clock, except a few loungers at the cafes and beer-houses, and these were only to be met inside the town, not outside it, Lieschen ran extremely little risk of being observed in her rapid transit from her father’s to her lover’s house.  Nor, indeed, had she ever met anyone in the course of these visits.

On the fatal night Lieschen was expected at the cottage.  Mother and son waited at first hopefully, then anxiously, at last with some vague uneasiness at her non-appearance.  It was now a quarter past eleven—­nearly an hour later than her usual time.  They occasionally went to the door to look for her; then they walked a few yards down the road, as if to catch an earlier glimpse of her advancing steps.  But in vain.  The half-hour struck.  They came back into the cottage, discussing the various probabilities of delay.  Three-quarters struck.  Perhaps she had been detected; perhaps she was ill; perhaps—­but this was his mother’s suggestion, and took little hold of him—­there had been visitors who had stayed later than usual, and Lieschen, finding the night so advanced, had postponed her visit to the morrow.  Franz, who interpreted Lieschen’s feelings by his own, was assured that no postponement of a voluntary kind was credible of her.  Twelve o’clock struck.  Again Franz went out into the road, and walked nearly up to the archway; he returned with heavy sadness and foreboding at his heart, reluctantly admitting that now all hope of seeing her that night was over.  That night?  Poor sorrowing heart, the night was to be eternal!  The anguish of the desolate “never more” was awaiting him.

There is something intensely pathetic in being thus, as it were, spectators of a tragic drama which is being acted on two separate stages at once—­the dreadful link of connection, which is unseen to the separate actors, being only too vividly seen by the spectators.  It was with some interest that I, who believed in Kerkel’s innocence, heard this story; and in imagination followed its unfolding stage.  He went to bed, not, as may be expected, to sleep; tossing restlessly in feverish agitation, conjuring up many imaginary terrors—­but all of them trifles compared with the dread reality which he was so soon to face.  He pictured her weeping—­and she was lying dead on the cold pavement of the dark archway.  He saw her in agitated eloquence pleading with offended parents—­and she was removed for ever from all agitations, with the peace of death upon her young face.