ere I creep like a snail--because it is
your will."

"It is not my wish," replied Maria. "You are dear to me, that I may
be permitted to confess--and to see you thus fills me with grief. But
now--if I am dear to you, and I know you care for me--cease to torture
me so cruelly. You are dear to me. I have said it, and it must be
spoken, that everything may be clearly understood between us. You are
dear to me, like the beautiful by-gone days of my youth, like pleasant
dreams, like a noble song, in which we take delight, and which refreshes
our souls, whenever we hear or remember it--but more you are not, more
you can never be. You are dear to me, and I wish you to remain so, but
that you can only do by not breaking the oath you have sworn."

"Sworn?" asked Georg. "Sworn?"

"Yes, sworn," interrupted Maria, checking her steps. "On Peter's breast,
on the morning of his birthday--after the singing. You remember it well.
At the time you took a solemn vow; I know it, know it no less surely,
than that I myself swore faith to my husband at the altar. If you can
give me the lie, do so."

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 th