,
think of her now?

She felt as if she were disgraced, stained with shame. Yet it was through
no fault of her own, and overwhelmed by the terrible conviction that
mysterious, supernatural powers, against which resistance was hopeless,
were playing a cruel game with her, she had felt as if the stormy sea
were tossing her in a rudderless boat on its angry surges.

Unable to seek consolation in prayer, as usual, she had given herself up
to dull despair, but only for a short time. Els had soon returned, and
the firm, quiet manner with which her prudent, helpful friend and sister
met her, and even tried to raise her drooping courage by a jest ere she
sent her to their mother's sick room, had fallen on her soul like
refreshing dew; not because Els promised to act for her--on the contrary,
what she intended to do roused her to resistance.

She had been far too guilty and oppressed to oppose her, yet indignation
concerning the sharp words which Els had uttered about the knight, and
her intention of forbidding him the house, perhaps forever, had
stimulated her like strong acid wine.

Not until after her sister had left her did she become capable of clearly
understanding what she had felt during her period of somnambulism.

While her mother, thanks to a narcotic, slept soundly, breathing quietly,
and in the entry below something, she knew not what, perhaps due to her
father's return, was occurring, she sat thinking, pondering, while an
impetuous throng of rebellious wishes raised their voices, alternately
asking and denying, in her agitated breast.

How she had happened to rise from her couch and go out had vanished
utterly from her memory, but she was still perfectly conscious of her
feelings during the night walk. If hitherto she had yearned to drain
heavenly bliss from the chalice of faith, during her wanderings through
the house she had longed for nothing save to drink her fill from the cup
of earthly joy. Ardent kisses, of which she had forbidden herself even to
think, she awaited with blissful delight. Her timorous heart, held in
check by virgin modesty, accustomed to desire nothing save what she could
have confessed to her sister and the abbess, seemed as if it had cast off
every fetter and boldly resolved to risk the most daring deeds. The
somnambulist had longed for the moment when, after Heinz Schorlin's
confession that he loved her, she could throw her arms around his neck
with rapturous gratitude.

If, while