hem 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:

"Sometimes it echoes like the thunder's peal,
Then soft and low through the May night doth steal;
Sometimes, on joyous wing, to Heaven it soars,
Sometimes, like Philomel, its woes deplores.
For, oh! this a song that ne'er can die,
It seeks the heart of all humanity.
In the deep cavern and the darksome lair,
The sea of ether o'er the realm of air,
In every nook my song shall still be heard,
And all creation, with sad yearning stirred,
United in a full, exultant choir,
Pray thee to grant the singer's fond desire.
E'en when the ivy o'er my grave hath grown,
Still will ring on each sweet, enchanting tone,
Through the whole world and every earthly zone,
Resounding on in aeons yet to come."

Maria read on, her heart beating more and more violently, her breath
coming quicker and quicker, and when she had reached the last verse,
tears burst from her eyes, and she raised the book with both hands to
hurl it from her and throw her arms around the writer's neck.

He had been standing opposite to her, as if spellbound, listening
blissfully to the lofty flight of his own words. Trembling with
passionate emotion, he yet restrained himself until she had raised her
eyes from his lines and lifted the book, then his power of resistance
flew to the winds and, fairly beside himself, he exclaimed: "Maria, my
sweet wife!"

"Wife?" echoed in her breast like a cry of warning, and it seemed as if
an icy hand clutched her heart. The intoxication passed away, and as she
saw him standing before her with out-stretched arms and sparkling
eyes, she shrank back, a feeling of intense loathing of him and her own
weakness seized upon her and, instead of throwing the book aside and
rushing to meet him, she tore it in halves, saying proudly: "Here are
your verses, Junker von Dornburg; take them with you." Then, maintaining
her dignity by a strong effort, she continued in a lower, more gentle
tone, "I shall remember you without this book. We have both dreamed; let
us now wake. Farewell! I will pray that God may guard you. Give me your
hand, Georg, and when you return, we will bid you welcome to o