awake, she had desired only to speak to him of her saint and of
his duty to overthrow the foes of the Church, she had wished while gazing
at the moon from the stairs, and in front of the house door, to whisper
sweet words of love, listen to his, and in so doing forget herself, the
world, and everything which did not belong to him, to her, and their
love.

And she remembered this longing and yearning in a way very unlike a mere
dream. It seemed rather as if, while the moon was attracting her by its
magic power, something, which had long slumbered in the depths of her
soul, had waked to life; something, from which formerly, ere her heart
and mind had been able rightly to understand it, she had shrunk with
pious horror, had assumed a tangible form.

Now she dreaded this newly recognised sinful part of her own nature,
which she had imagined a pure vessel that had room only for what was
noble, sacred, and innocent.

She, too--she knew it now--was only a girl like those on whose desire for
love she had looked down with arrogant contempt, no bride of heaven or
saint.

She had not yet taken the veil, and it was fortunate, for what would have
become of her had she not discovered until after her profession this part
of her nature, which she thought every true nun, if she possessed it,
must discard, like the hair which was shorn from her head, before taking
the vow of the order.

During this self-inspection it became more and more evident that she was
not one person, but two in one--a twofold nature with a single body and
two distinct souls; and this conviction caused her as much pain as if the
cut which had produced the separation were still bleeding.

Just at that moment her eyes fell upon the image of the Virgin opposite,
and the usual impulse to lift her soul in prayer took possession of her
even more powerfully than a short time before.

With fervent warmth she besought her to release her from this newly
awakened nature, which surely could not be pleasing in the sight of
Heaven, and let her once more become what she was before the unfortunate
ramble in the moonlight.

But the composure she needed for prayer was soon destroyed, for the image
of the knight rose before her again and again, and it seemed as if her
own name, which he had called with such ardent longing, once more rang in
her ears.

Whoever thus raises his voice in appeal to another loves that person.
Heinz Schorlin's love was great and sincere and, inst