“She is probably spinning in her room,” replied the boy.

“Call her, I have something important to tell her.”  Adrian went away, returning with the answer that the Junker might wait in his father’s study.

“Where is Barbara?” asked Georg.

“With Bessie.”

The German nodded, and while pacing up and down beside the dining-room, thought, “I can’t go so.  It must come from the heart; once, once more I will hear her say, that she loves me, I will—­I will—­Let it be dishonorable, let it be worthy of execration, I will atone for it; I will atone for it with my life!”

While Georg was pacing up and down the room, Adrian gathered his books together, saying:  “B-r-r-r, Junker, how you look to-day!  One might be afraid of you.  Mother is in there already.  The tinder-box is rattling; she is probably lighting the lamp.”

“Are you busy?” asked Georg.  “I’ve finished.”

“Then run over to Wilhelm Corneliussohn and tell him it is settled:  we’ll meet at nine, punctually at nine.”

“At Aquarius’s tavern?” asked the boy.

“No, no, he knows; make haste, my lad.”

Adrian was going, but Georg beckoned to him, and said in a low tone:  “Can you be silent?”

“As a fried sole.”

“I shall slip out of the city to-day, and perhaps may never return.”

“You, Junker?  To-day?” asked the boy.

“Yes, dear lad.  Come here, give me a farewell kiss.  You must keep this little ring to remember me.”  The boy submitted to the kiss, put the ring on his finger, and said with tearful eyes:  “Are you in earnest?  Yes, the famine!  God knows I’d run after you, if it were not for Bessie and mother.  When will you come back again?”

“Who knows, my lad!  Remember me kindly, do you hear?  Kindly!  And now run.”

Adrian rushed down the stairs, and a few minutes after the Junker was standing in Peter’s study, face to face with Maria.  The shutters were closed, and the sconce on the table had two lighted candles.

“Thanks, a thousand thanks for coming,” said Georg.  “You pronounced my sentence yesterday, and to-day—­”

“I know what brings you to me,” she answered gently.  “Henrica has bidden me farewell, and I must not keep her.  She doesn’t wish to have you accompany her, but Meister Wilhelm betrayed the secret to me.  You have come to say farewell.”

“Yes, Maria, farewell forever.”

“If it is God’s will, we shall see each other again.  I know what is driving you away from here.  You are good and noble, Georg, and if there is one thing that lightens the parting, it is this:  We can now think of each other without sorrow and anger.  You will not forget us, and—­you know that the remembrance of you will be cherished here by old and young —­in the hearts of all—­”

“And in yours also, Maria?”

“In mine also.”

“Hold it firmly.  And when the storm has blown out of your path the poor dust, which to-day lives and breathes, loves and despairs, grant it a place in your memory.”