irst that I really knew how much I
loved him--so much that I felt almost afraid of the strength of the
passion. I knew not till now how it had grown--how fast and
all-denominating it had become.

A sob broke from my lips, and his voice was silenced.

"Herr Courvoisier!" I stammered.

"Who spoke?" he asked in a clear voice.

"It is you!" I murmured.

"May!" he uttered, and paused abruptly.

A hand touched mine--warm, firm, strong--his very hand. In its lightest
touch there seemed safety, shelter, comfort.

"Oh, how glad I am! how glad I am!" I sobbed.

He murmured "Sonderbar!" as if arguing with himself, and I held his hand
fast.

"Don't leave me! Stay here!" I implored.

"I suppose there is not much choice about that for either of us," said
he, and he laughed.

I did not remember to wonder how he came there; I only knew that he was
there. That tempest, which will not soon be forgotten in Elberthal,
subsided almost as rapidly as it had arisen. The winds lulled as if a
wizard had bidden them be still. The gale hurried on to devastate fresh
fields and pastures new. There was a sudden reaction of stillness, and I
began to see in the darkness the outlines of a figure beside me. I
looked up. There was no longer that hideous, driving black mist, like
chaos embodied, between me and heaven. The sky, though dark, was clear;
some stars were gleaming coldly down upon the havoc which had taken
place since they last viewed the scene.

Seeing the heavens so calm and serene, a sudden feeling of shyness and
terror overtook me. I tried to withdraw my hand from that of my
companion, and to remove myself a little from him. He held my hand fast.

"You are exhausted with standing?" said he. "Sit down upon this ledge."

"If you will too."

"Oh, of course. I think our voyage will be a long one, and--"

"Speak German," said I. "Let me hear you speaking it again."

"And I have no mind to stand all the time," he concluded in his own
tongue.

"Is there no one else here but ourselves?"

"No one."

I had seated myself and he placed himself beside me. I was in no
laughing mood or I might have found something ludicrous in our
situation.

"I wonder where we are now," I half whispered, as the bridge was still
hurried ceaselessly down the dark and rushing river. I dared not allude
to anything else. I felt my heart was too full--I felt too, too utterly
uncertain of him. There was sadness in his voice. I, who knew its every
cad