in bed and very feverish.  She was then on her way to the cool hall when she heard her mother’s voice—­not in grief, but angry and vehement—­so, thinking it would be more becoming to keep out of the way, she wandered off into the pillared vestibule opening towards the Nile.  She would not for worlds have met Orion, and was terribly afraid she might do so, but as she went out, for it was still quite light, there she found him—­and in what a state!  He was sitting all in a heap, dressed in black, with his head buried in his hands.  He had not observed her presence; but she pitied him deeply, for though it was very hot he was trembling in every limb, and his strong frame shuddered repeatedly.  She had therefore spoken to him, begging him to be comforted, at which he had started to his feet in dismay, and had pushed his unkempt hair back from his face, looking so pale, so desperate, that she had been quite terrified and could not manage to bring out the consoling words she had ready.  For some time neither of them had uttered a syllable, but at length he had pulled himself together as if for some great deed, he came slowly towards her and laid his hands on her shoulders with a solemn dignity which no one certainly had ever before seen in him.  He stood gazing into her face—­ his eyes were red with much weeping—­and he sighed from his very heart the two words:  “Unhappy Child!”—­She could hear them still sounding in her ears.

And he was altered:  from head to foot quite different, like a stranger.  His voice, even, sounded changed and deeper than usual as he went on: 

“Child, child!  Perhaps I have given much pain in my life without knowing it; but you have certainly suffered most through me, for I have made you, an innocent, trusting creature, my accomplice in crime.  The great sin we both committed has been visited on me alone, but the punishment is a hundred—­a thousand times too heavy!”

“And with this,” Katharina went on, “he covered his face with his hands, threw himself on the couch again, and groaned and sighed.  Then he sprang up once more, crying out so loud and passionately that I felt as if I must die of grief and pity:  ’Forgive me if you can!  Forgive me, wholly, freely.  I want it—­you must, you must!  I was going to run up to him and throw my arms round him and forgive him everything, his trouble distressed me so much; but he gravely pushed me away—­not roughly or sternly, and he said that there was an end of all love-making and betrothal between us—­that I was young, and that I should be able to forget him.  He would still be a true friend to me and to my mother, and the more we required of him the more gladly would he serve us.

“I was about to answer him, but he hastily interrupted me and said firmly and decisively:  ’Lovable as you are, I cannot love you as you deserve; for it is my duty to tell you, I have another and a greater love in my heart—­my first and my last; and though once in my life I have proved myself a wretch, still, it was but once; and I would rather endure your anger, and hurt both you and myself now, than continue this unrighteous tie and cheat you and others.’—­At this I was greatly startled, and asked:  ‘Paula?’ However, he did not answer, but bent over me and touched my forehead with his lips, just as my father often kissed me, and then went quickly out into the garden.