She enjoyed his presence as if it were a favor granted by destiny, but only at chance moments, for she could not banish her fear for him, and of the pursuers—­her dread of uncertainty and wandering.

If snow rattled from a pine-tree, if she noticed Lopez turn his head, or if old Rahel uttered a moan, she shuddered; and this was not unperceived by her husband, who told himself that she had every reason to look forward to the next few hours with grave anxiety.  Each moment might bring imprisonment to him and all, and if they discovered—­if it were disclosed who he, who Elizabeth was. . . .

Ulrich and Ruth brought up the rear, saying little to each other.

At first the path ascended again, then led down to the valley.  It had stopped snowing long before, and the farther they went the lighter the drifts became.

They had journeyed in this way for two hours, when Ruth’s strength failed, and she stood still with tearful, imploring eyes.  The charcoal-burner saw it, and growled: 

“Come here, little girl; I’ll carry you to the sleigh.”

“No, let me,” Ulrich eagerly interposed.  And Ruth exclaimed: 

“Yes, you, you shall carry me.”

Marx grasped her around the waist, lifted her high into the air, and placed her in the boy’s arms.  She clasped her hands around his neck, and as he walked on pressed her fresh, cool cheek to his.  It pleased him, and the thought entered his mind that he had been parted from her a long time, and it was delightful to have her again.

His heart swelled more and more; he felt that he would rather have Ruth than everything else in the world, and he drew her towards him as closely as if an invisible hand were already out-stretched to take her from him.

To-day her dear, delicate little face was not pale, but glowed crimson after the long walk through the frosty, winter air.  She was glad to have Ulrich clasp her so firmly, so she pressed her cheek closer to his, loosened her fingers from his neck, caressingly stroked his face with her cold hand, and murmured: 

“You are kind, Ulrich, and I love you!”

It sounded so tender and loving, that Ulrich’s heart melted, for no one had spoken to him so since his mother went away.

He felt strong and joyous, Ruth did not seem at all heavy, and when she again clasped her hands around his neck, he said:  “I should like to carry you so always.”

Ruth only nodded, as if the wish pleased her, but he continued: 

“In the monastery I had no one, who was very kind to me, for even Lips, well, he was a count—­everybody is kind to you.  You don’t know what it is, to be all alone, and have to struggle against every one.  When I was in the monastery, I often wished that I was lying under the earth; now I don’t want to die, and we will stay with you—­father told me so—­and everything will be just as it was, and I shall learn no more Latin, but become a painter, or smith-artificer, or anything else, for aught I care, if I’m only not obliged to leave you again.”