ann's Kinderscenen. Harz stood still to listen.
The notes came twining, weaving round his thoughts; the whole night
seemed full of girlish voices, of hopes and fancies, soaring away to
mountain heights--invisible, yet present. Between the stems of the
acacia-trees he could see the flicker of white dresses, where Christian
and Greta were walking arm in arm. He went towards them; the blood
flushed up in his face, he felt almost surfeited by some sweet emotion.
Then, in sudden horror, he stood still. He was in love! With nothing
done with everything before him! He was going to bow down to a face! The
flicker of the dresses was no longer visible. He would not be fettered,
he would stamp it out! He turned away; but with each step, something
seemed to jab at his heart.

Round the corner of the house, in the shadow of the wall, Dominique, the
Luganese, in embroidered slippers, was smoking a long cherry-wood pipe,
leaning against a tree--Mephistopheles in evening clothes. Harz went up
to him.

"Lend me a pencil, Dominique."

"Bien, M'sieu."

Resting a card against the tree Harz wrote to Mrs. Decie: "Forgive me, I
am obliged to go away. In a few days I shall hope to return, and finish
the picture of your nieces."

He sent Dominique for his hat. During the man's absence he was on the
point of tearing up the card and going back into the house.

When the Luganese returned he thrust the card into his hand, and walked
out between the tall poplars, waiting, like ragged ghosts, silver with
moonlight.

VIII

Harz walked away along the road. A dog was howling. The sound seemed
too appropriate. He put his fingers to his ears, but the lugubrious
noise passed those barriers, and made its way into his heart. Was there
nothing that would put an end to this emotion? It was no better in the
old house on the wall; he spent the night tramping up and down.

Just before daybreak he slipped out with a knapsack, taking the road
towards Meran.

He had not quite passed through Gries when he overtook a man walking in
the middle of the road and leaving a trail of cigar smoke behind him.

"Ah! my friend," the smoker said, "you walk early; are you going my way?"

It was Count Sarelli. The raw light had imparted a grey tinge to his
pale face, the growth of his beard showed black already beneath the skin;
his thumbs were hooked in the pockets of a closely buttoned coat, he
gesticulated with his fingers.

"You are makin