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.”

He felt Ruth raise her little head, and press her soft lips on his forehead just over his eyes; then he lowered the arms in which she rested, kissed her mouth, and said:  “Now it seems as if I had my mother back again!”

“Does it?” she asked, with sparkling eyes.  “Now put me down.  I am well again, and want to run.”

So saying, she slipped to the ground, and he did not detain her.

Ruth now walked stoutly on beside the lad, and made him tell her about the bad boys in the monastery, Count Lips, the pictures, the monks, and his own flight, until, just as it grew dark, they reached the goal of their walk.

Jorg, the charcoal-burner, received them, and opened his hut, but only to go away himself, for though willing to give the fugitives shelter and act against the authorities, he did not wish to be present, if the refugees should be caught.  Caught with them, hung with them!  He knew the proverb, and went down to the village, with the florins Adam gave him.