ore melodious every time I play on it.
And now this occurrence! Moreover I cannot speak of it to any one, and
above all before my friend, before Morrik, I must appear as if nothing
had happened. Is it not all some fearful dream! Has that poor man, I
may say that madman, though he vehemently protested against the
suspicion, really spoken words to me that I could not understand,
accompanied by looks that I shudder to think of, for they seem to me to
have been more expressive than his words. I ought to have listened to
the secret misgivings which warned me against the solitary road on the
Kuechelberg, since that scene on the bridge. But I knew that Morrik was
not on the Wassermauer, and did not like to be there without him,
particularly as the band was to play on that day.

I had walked on so totally absorbed in my own thoughts that I had
passed through the gate towards Vintschgau before I knew what I was
doing: it is still as warm there as summer is at home, and one may
saunter on through the leafless vineyards and find every now and then a
bench inviting to rest. Where my thoughts were I know not, when
suddenly he seemed to emerge from the ground, and stood by my side
holding my hand. My fright was so great that I could not utter a sound
but I fixed my eyes firmly on his face and saw that he opened his lips
with an effort. He began first in broken German, and then fluently and
vehemently in French, to excuse himself for the scene on the bridge. He
had been blinded by pain and jealousy, and would willingly cut off the
hand that had seized the bridle of my mule, if by so doing he could
obtain my forgiveness. While he spoke I vainly tried to free my hand
from his grasp. I looked around but no one was to be seen, the road was
deserted. This roused my pride, and my courage; I drew back my hand,
and could at last ask him what authorized him to speak in that way to a
stranger. He was silent for some time, and a violent conflict seemed to
rage within him. Every nerve of his face twitched convulsively. What he
at last said I _will_ forget, I listened to it as if it were not
addressed to me. _Could_ it be addressed to _me_, whom he did not know,
with whom he had never exchanged a word? Is a passion that is roused by
a figure gliding past like a shadow, by one who is inwardly dead, and
only outwardly has a semblance of life; is not that passion but a freak
of madness; and is a madman responsible for the words he utters? Only
when h