the silence was roaring in thunder, the trees charging and whirling in
giant combat. Her head was suddenly light and then suddenly heavy; her
breath strangled her and then failed altogether. She swayed from side to
side, her head fell backward, and Von Ibn had it borne upon him, that
instead of being in love she had fainted.

"_Qu'est-ce que vous avez?_" he cried, as he felt her reeling, and then
he knew; and knowing, recognized the fact that he was alone in the
depths of the rain-soaked forest, with a helpless woman on his hands,
and that the situation was infinitely more novel than amusing.

He was obliged to let his umbrella fall in order that he might raise her
in his arms; and when she was so raised he felt a poignant wonder as to
what to do with her next. He had no idea which direction to take, for
the night was now night in good earnest, and the Englischergarten is so
large that one may walk for two hours and a half without passing its
limits. He felt uncertain as to just where they had entered it, the
common ingress not being from Schwabing, and also uncertain as to just
how far towards the centre they had penetrated. A pale, young moon
peeped up above the tree-tops; he looked at the moon and then at Rosina,
and they both appeared unnecessarily weak and inadequate to the urgent
necessities of the moment.

"She should be laid on her back and have water thrown upon her face," he
murmured to himself in French, and then he felt his boots sinking deeply
into the mud, and recognized the impracticability of that means of
resuscitation at this particular moment.

"Why did I ever pray that I might hold her in my arms?" he thought in
German. "_Mein Gott_, what shall I do?"

Failing all other remedies, he shook her hard, and her eyes flew open on
some wax-doll-like principle. She gave him a look of complete
unrecognition, and closed them with a sigh.

"You must not faint once more," he cried, anxiously; "you cannot, you
know."

Something like physical despair swept over him as he felt her tremble
and sway again.

"What can I do?" he cried, shaking her very hard indeed, "we are far
from all. I cannot leave you to get a carriage, I cannot take you--"

"I don't care what you do," she murmured, with the usual complete
resignation of the swooning, always so exasperating to those who care
for them. He felt desperately that she was telling the truth.

There was a sound in the wilderness beyond, a sound that thrilled h