“Yes; I was to be your friend.”

“This time it is for me to ask whether I go or stay.”

“Stay, Gretchen!” But I was a hypocrite when I said it.

“I knew that you would say that,” simply.

“Gretchen, sit down and I’ll tell you the story of my life, as they say on the stage.”  I knocked the dead ash from my pipe and stuffed the bowl with fresh weed.  I lit it and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.  “Do you see that, Gretchen?”

“Yes, Herr,” sitting down, the space of a yard between us.

“It is pretty, very; but see how the wind carries it about!  As it leaves my throat it looks like a tangible substance.  Reach for it and it is gone.  That cloud of smoke is my history.”

“It disappears,” said Gretchen.

“And so shall I at the appointed time.  That cloud of smoke was a fortune.  I reached for it, and there was nothing but the air in my hand.  It was a woman’s love.  For five years I watched it curl and waver.  In it I saw many castles and the castles were fair, indeed.  I strove to grasp this love; smoke, smoke.  Smoke is nothing, given a color.  Thus it is with our dreams.  If only we might not wake!”

Gretchen’s eyes were following the course of the languid river.

“Once there was a woman I thought I loved; but she would have none of it.  She said that the love I gave her was not complete because she did not return it.  She brought forth the subject of affinities, and ventured to say that some day I might meet mine.  I scoffed inwardly.  I have now found what she said to be true.  The love I gave her was the bud; the rose—­ Gretchen,” said I, rising, “I love you; I am not a hypocrite; I cannot parade my regard for you under the flimsy guise of friendship.”

“Go and give the rose to her to whom you gave the bud,” said Gretchen.  The half smile struck me as disdainful.  “You are a strange wooer.”

“I am an honest one.”  I began plucking at the bark of the tree.  “No; I shall let the rose wither and die on the stem.  I shall leave to-morrow, Gretchen.  I shall feel as Adam did when he went forth from Eden.  Whatever your place in this world is it is far above mine.  I am, in truth, a penniless adventurer.  The gulf between us cannot be bridged.”

“No,” said Gretchen, the smile leaving her lips, “the gulf cannot be bridged.  You are a penniless adventurer, and I am a fugitive from—­the law, the King, or what you will.  You are a man; man forgets.  You have just illustrated the fact.  His memory and his promises are like the smoke; they fade away but soon.  I shall be sorry to have you go, but it is best so.”

“Do you love any one else?”

“I do not; I love no one in the sense you mean.  It was not written that I should love any man.”

“Gretchen, who are you, and what have you done?”

“What have I done?  Nothing!  Who am I?  Nobody!”