The tall lady, whose noble face and majestic figure were shrouded in a thick veil, was Juliane’s mother—­and she had offered the sick ropedancer a home in her wealthy household.

“If she had only known,” thought Kuni, “the injury I was inflicting upon her heart’s treasure, she would rather have hunted me with dogs from her threshold.”

In spite of the veil which floated around the stately figure of the grieving mother, she could see her bosom rise and fall with her sobs of anguish.  Kuni’s compassionate heart made it impossible for her to watch this sorrow longer, and, covering her face with her hands, she turned her back upon the procession and, weeping aloud, limped away as fast as her injured foot would let her.  Meanwhile she sometimes said to herself that she was the worst of all sinners because she had cursed the dead girl and called down death and destruction upon her head, sometimes she listened to the voice within, which told her that she had no reason to grieve over Juliane’s death, and completely embitter her already wretched life by remorse and self-accusations; the dead girl was the sole cause of her terrible fall.  But the defiant rebellion against the consciousness of guilt, which moved her so deeply, always ceased abruptly as soon as it raised its head; for one fact was positive, if the curse she had called down upon the innocent child, who had done her no intentional wrong, had really caused Juliane’s end, a whole life was not long enough to atone for the sin which she had committed.  Yet what atonement was still in her power, after the death which she had summoned had performed its terrible work of executioner?

“Nothing, nothing at all!” she said to herself angrily, resolving, as she had so often done with better success, to forget what had happened, cast the past into oblivion, and live in the present as before.  But ere she could attempt to fulfil this determination, the image of the tall, grief-bowed figure of the woman who had called Juliane her dear child rose before her mind, and it seemed as if a cold, heavy hand paralyzed the wings of the light-hearted temperament which had formerly borne her pleasantly over so many things.  Then she told herself that, in order not to go to perdition herself, she must vow, sacrifice, undertake everything for the salvation of the dead girl and of her own heavily burdened soul.  For the first time she felt a longing to confide her feelings to some one.  If Lienhard had been within reach and disposed to listen to her, he would have understood, and known what course to advise.

True, the thought that he was not looking at her when she took the fatal leap still haunted her.  He could not have showed more offensively how little he cared for her—­but perhaps he was under the influence of a spell; for she must be something to him.  This was no vain self-deception; had it not been so, would he have come in person to her couch of pain, or cared for her so kindly after the accident?