“Forbid you to come to me?” asked Paula.  “Does she believe. . .”

“That it was for your sake that Orion....  Yes, she is only too glad to lay all the blame on you.  But now that I have talked to you I....  Look, do you see that light?  It is in her sitting-room.”

And, before Paula could prevent her, she ran to the hedge and slipped through the gap as nimbly as a weasel.

Paula looked after her with mingled feelings, and then went back to the house, and to bed.  Katharina’s story kept her awake for a long time, and the suspicion—­nay almost the conviction—­that it was herself, indeed, who had aroused that “great love” in Orion’s heart gave her no rest.  If it were she?  There, under her hand was the instrument of revenge on the miscreant; she could make him taste of all the bitterness he had brewed for her aching spirit.  But which of them would the punishment hurt most sorely:  him or herself?  Had not the little girl’s confidences revealed a world of rapture to her and her longing heart?  No, no.  It would be too humiliating to allow the same hand that had smitten her so ruthlessly to uplift her to heaven; it would be treason against herself.

Slumber overtook her in the midst of these conflicting feelings and thoughts, and towards morning she had a dream which, even by daylight, haunted her and made her shudder.

She saw Orion coming towards her, as pale as death, robed in mourning, pacing slowly on a coal-black horse; she had not the strength to fly, and without speaking to her or looking at her, he lifted her high in the air like a child, and placed her in front of him on the horse.  She put forth all her strength to get free and dismount, but he clasped her with both arms like iron clamps and quelled her efforts.  Life itself would not have seemed too great a price for escape from this constraint; but, the more wildly she fought, the more closely she was held by the silent and pitiless horseman.  At their feet flowed the swirling river, but Orion did not seem to notice it, and without moving his lips, he coolly guided the steed towards the water.  Beside herself now with horror and dread, she implored him to turn away; but he did not heed her, and went on unmoved into the midst of the stream.  Her terror increased to an agonizing pitch as the horse bore her deeper and deeper into the water; of her own free will she threw her arms round the rider’s neck; his paleness vanished, his cheeks gained a ruddy hue, his lips sought hers in a kiss; and, in the midst of the very anguish of death, she felt a thrill of rapture that she had never known before.  She could have gone on thus for ever, even to destruction; and, in fact, they were still sinking—­she felt the water rising breast high, but she cared not.  Not a word had either of them spoken.  Suddenly she felt urged to break the silence, and as if she could not help it she asked:  “Am I the other?” At this the waves surged down on them from all sides;