Georg shook his head, and answered with increasing warmth: 

“You read my soul.  Our hearts know each other like two faithful friends, as the earth knows her moon, the moon her earth.  What is one without the other?  Why must they be separated?  Did you ever walk along a forest path?  The tracks of two wheels run side by side and never touch.  The axle holds them asunder, as our oath parts us.”

“Say rather—­our honor.”

“As our honor parts us.  But often in the woods we find a place where the road ends in a field or hill, and there the tracks cross and intersect each other, and in this hour I feel that my path has come to an end.  I can go no farther, I cannot, or the horses will plunge into the thicket and the vehicle be shattered on the roots and stones.”

“And honor with it.  Not a word more.  Let us walk faster.  See the lights in the windows.  Everyone wants to show that he rejoices in the good news.  Our house mustn’t remain dark either.”

“Don’t hurry so.  Barbara will attend to it, and how soon we must part!  Yet you said that I was dear to you.”

“Don’t torture me,” cried the young wife, with pathetic entreaty.

“I will not torture you, Maria, but you must hear me.  I was in earnest, terrible earnest in the mute vow I swore, and have sought to release myself from it by death.  You have heard how I rushed like a madman among the Spaniards, at the storming of the Boschhuizen fortification in July.  Your bow, the blue bow from Delft, the knot of ribbons the color of the sky, fluttered on my left shoulder as I dashed upon swords and lances.  I was not to die, and came out of the confusion uninjured.  Oh!  Maria, for the sake of this oath I have suffered unequalled torments.  Release me from it, Maria, let me once, only once, freely confess—­”

“Stop, Georg, stop,” pleaded the young wife.  “I will not, must not hear you-neither to-day, nor tomorrow, never, never, to all eternity!”

“Once, only once, I will, I must say to you, that I love you, that life and happiness, peace and honor—­”

“Not one word more, Junker von Dornburg.  There is our house.  You are our guest, and if you address a single word like the last ones to your friend’s wife—­”

“Maria, Maria—­oh, don’t touch the knocker.  How can you so unfeelingly destroy the whole happiness of a human being—­”

The door had opened, and the burgomaster’s wife crossed the threshold.  Georg stood opposite to her, held out his hand as if beseeching aid, and murmured in a hollow tone: 

“Cast forth to death and despair!  Maria, Maria, why do you treat me thus?”

She laid her right hand in his, saying: 

“That we may remain worthy of each other, Georg.”

She forcibly withdrew her icy hand and entered the house; but he wandered for hours through the lighted streets like a drunken man, and at last threw himself, with a burning brain, upon his couch.  A small volume, lightly stitched together, lay on a little table beside the bed.  He seized it, and with trembling fingers wrote on its pages.  The pencil often paused, and he frequently drew a long breath and gazed with dilated eyes into vacancy.  At last he threw the book aside and watched anxiously for the morning.