had permitted her to share the vigil beside the corpse only
because she believed that she would be unable to resist sleep. She had
slipped a pillow between her back and that of the tall, handsome chair
which she had chosen for a seat, but Eva disappointed her expectation;
for whatever she earnestly desired she accomplished, and whilst Els often
closed her eyes, she remained wide awake. When sleep threatened to
overpower her she thought of her mother's last words, especially one
phrase, "the forge fire of life," which seemed specially pregnant with
meaning. Yet, ere she had reached any definite understanding of its true
significance, the cocks began to crow, the song of the nightingale
ceased, and the twittering of the other birds in the trees and bushes in
the garden greeted the dawning day.

Then she rose and, smiling, kissed Els, who was sleeping, on the
forehead, told Sister Renata that she would go to rest, and lay down on
her bed in the darkened chamber.

Whilst praying and reflecting she had thought constantly of her mother.
Now she dreamed that Heinz Schorlin had borne her in his strong arms out
of the burning convent, as Sir Boemund Altrosen had saved the Countess
von Montfort, and carried her to the dead woman, who looked as fresh and
well as in the days before her sickness.

When, three hours before noon, she awoke, she returned greatly refreshed
to her dead mother. How mild and gentle her face was even now; yet the
dear, silent lips could never again give her a morning greeting and,
overwhelmed by grief, she threw herself on her knees before the coffin.

But she soon rose again. Her recent slumber had transformed the
passionate anguish into quiet sorrow.

Now, too, she could think of external things. There was little to be done
in the last arrangement of the dead, but she could place the delicate,
pale hands in a more natural position, and the flowers which the gardener
had brought to adorn the coffin did not satisfy her. She knew all that
grew in the woods and fields near Nuremberg, and no one could dispose
bouquets more gracefully. Her mother had been especially fond of some of
them, and was always pleased when she brought them home from her walks
with the abbess or Sister Perpetua, the experienced old doctress of the
convent. Many grew in the forest, others on the brink of the water. The
beloved dead should not leave the house, whose guide and ornament she had
been, without her favourite blossoms.