in the magistrate’s room, did the most ardent gratitude take possession of her soul.  From this emotion, which filled heart and mind, a glowing wealth of other feelings had blossomed like buds upon a rosebush.  Everything in her nature had attracted her toward him, and the desire to devote herself to him, body and soul, shed the last drop of blood in her heart for him, completely ruled her.  His image rose before her day and night, sometimes alone, sometimes with his beautiful bride.  Not only to him, but to her also she would joyfully have rendered the most menial service, merely to be near them and to be permitted to show that the desire to prove her gratitude had become the object of her life.

When, with good counsel for the future, he dismissed her from the chief magistrate’s room, he had asked her where she was to be found in case he should have anything to say to her.  It seemed as though, from mingled alarm and joy, her heart would stop beating.  If her lodgings, instead of an insignificant tavern, had been her own palace, she would gladly have opened all its gates to him, yet a feverish thrill ran through her limbs at the thought that he might seek her among her vagabond companions, and ask in return for his kindness what he would never have presumed to seek had she been the child of reputable parents, yet which, with mingled anger and happiness, she resolved not to refuse.

During the day and the night when she expected his visit, she had become aware that she, who had never cared for any man save for the gifts he bestowed, was fired with love for Lienhard.  Such ardent yearning could torture only a loving heart, yet what she felt was very unlike the love with which she was familiar in songs, and had seen in other girls; for she by no means thought with jealous rancour of the woman to whom he belonged, body and soul—­his beautiful wife.  It rather seemed to her that she was his, and he would no longer be the same if he were separated from her, nay, as if her very love was hers also.  When she heard a noise outside of her little room she started, and eagerly as she yearned to see him, blissful as she thought it must be to sink upon his breast and offer him her lips to kiss, the bold ropedancer, who never cared for the opinions of others, could not shake off, even for a moment, the fear of wronging the fair wife who had a better right to him.  Instead of hating her, or even wishing to share the heart of the man she loved with his bride, she shrank from the approaching necessity of clouding her young happiness as though it were the direst misfortune.  Yet she felt that its prevention lay, not in her own hands, but in those of Fate.  Should it please Destiny to lead Lienhard to her and inspire him with a desire for her love, all resistance, she knew, would be futile.  So she began to repeat several paternosters that he might remain away from her.  But her yearning was so great that she soon desisted, and again and again went to the window with a fervent wish that he might come.