“I am at your service,” replied Georg, and went out into the street with the young wife.

For a time both walked side by side in silence, each fancying he or she could hear the beating of the other’s heart.  At last Georg, drawing a long breath, said: 

“Three long, long months have passed since my arrival here.  Have I been brave, Maria?”

“Yes, Georg.”

“But you cannot imagine what it has cost me to fetter this poor heart, stifle my words, and blind my eyes.  Maria, it must once be said—­”

“Never, never,” she interrupted in a tone of earnest entreaty.  “I know that you have struggled honestly, do not rob yourself of the victory now.”

“Oh! hear me, Maria, this once hear me.”

“What will it avail, if you oppress my soul with ardent words?  I must not hear from any man that he loves me, and what I must not hear, you must not speak.”

“Must not?” he asked in a tone of gentle reproach, then in a gloomy, bitter mood, continued:  “You are right, perfectly right.  Even speech is denied me.  So life may run on like a leaden stream, and everything that grows and blossoms on its banks remain scentless and grey.  The golden sunshine has hidden itself behind a mist, joy lies fainting in my heart, and all that once pleased me has grown stale and charmless.  Do you recognize the happy youth of former days?”

“Seek cheerfulness again, seek it for my sake.”

“Gone, gone,” he murmured sadly.  “You saw me in Delft, but you did not know me thoroughly.  These eyes were like two mirrors of fortune in which every object was charmingly transfigured, and they were rewarded; for wherever they looked they met only friendly glances.  This heart then embraced the whole world, and beat so quickly and joyously!  I often did not know what to do with myself from sheer mirth and vivacity, and it seemed as if I must burst into a thousand pieces like an over-loaded firelock, only instead of scattering far and wide, mount straight up to Heaven.  Those days were so happy, and yet so sad—­I felt it ten times as much in Delft, when you were kind to me.  And now, now?  I still have wings, I still might fly, but here I creep like a snail—­because it is your will.”

“It is not my wish,” replied Maria.  “You are dear to me, that I may be permitted to confess—­and to see you thus fills me with grief.  But now—­ if I am dear to you, and I know you care for me—­cease to torture me so cruelly.  You are dear to me.  I have said it, and it must be spoken, that everything may be clearly understood between us.  You are dear to me, like the beautiful by-gone days of my youth, like pleasant dreams, like a noble song, in which we take delight, and which refreshes our souls, whenever we hear or remember it—­but more you are not, more you can never be.  You are dear to me, and I wish you to remain so, but that you can only do by not breaking the oath you have sworn.”