Maria shuddered, for deep despair looked forth with a sullen glow from the eyes that met hers.  Seized with an anxious foreboding, she exclaimed:  “What are you thinking of, Georg? for Christ’s sake! tell me what is in your mind.”

“Nothing wrong, Maria, nothing wrong.  We birds now sing differently.  Whoever can saunter, with lukewarm blood and lukewarm pleasures, from one decade to another in peace and honor, is fortunate.  My blood flows in a swifter course, and what my eager soul has once clasped with its polyp arms, it will never release until the death-hour comes.  I am going, never to return; but I shall take you and my love with me to battle, to the grave.—­I go, I go—­”

“Not so, Georg, you must not part from me thus.”  Then cry:  ‘Stay!’ Then say:  ‘I am here and pity you!’ But don’t expect the miserable wretch, whom you have blinded, to open his eyes, behold and enjoy the beauties of the world.  “Here you stand, trembling and shaking, without a word for him who loves you, for him—­him—­”

The youth’s voice faltered with emotion and sighing heavily, he pressed his hand to his brow.  Then he seemed to recollect himself and continued in a low, sad tone:  “Here I stand, to tell you for the last time the state of my heart.  You should hear sweet words, but grief and pain will pour bitter drops into everything I say.  I have uttered in the language of poetry, when my heart impelled me, that for which dry prose possesses no power of expression.  Read these pages, Maria, and if they wake an echo in your soul, oh! treasure it.  The honeysuckle in your garden needs a support, that it may grow and put forth flowers; let these poor songs be the espalier around which your memory of the absent one can twine its tendrils and cling lovingly.  Read, oh! read, and then say once more:  ‘You are dear to me,’ or send me from you.”

“Give it to me,” said Maria, opening the volume with a throbbing heart.

He stepped back from her, but his breath came quickly and his eyes followed hers while she was reading.  She began with the last poem but one.  It had been written just after Georg’s return the day before, and ran as follows: 

                   “Joyously they march along,
                    Lights are flashing through the panes,
                    In the streets a busy throng
                    Curiosity enchains. 
                    Oh! the merry festal night;
                    Would that it might last for aye! 
                    For aye!  Alas!  Love, splendor, light,
                    All, all have passed away.”

The last lines Georg had written with a rapid pen the night before.  In them he bewailed his hard fate.  She must hear him once, then he would sing her a peerless song.  Maria had followed the first verses silently with her eyes, but now her lips began to move and in a low, rapid tone, but audibly she read: