ng from Master
Knopf at Mattenheim, and said that he had been there with a message
from his father, asking Knopf to appear before the jury the next day,
as a witness in his defence. Roland rubbed his eyes, and looked about
him as if he were in a strange world. He asked the cooper to get into
the carriage with them. The cooper thanked him, but declined, and went
on to say how wonderful it had been, as he came over the hills from
Mattenheim, to see, just as he left the woods, the strange fires
mounting to heaven from the Rhine far below, and he had stood just
where the rocks echoed the cannon. He held out his hand to Eric, but
not to Roland.

As the two drove on again, Roland said:

"Then Claus has heard the cannon in his prison, and perhaps he saw the
fireworks too. Ah, he has not a single dog to speak to near him. I've
often been sorry that he had to wander about so constantly through the
fields by day and night, but now he must long for that old weariness.
And while he sits there in prison, everything is growing outside, and
the thieves of hares and foxes know, that no one knows their burrows so
well as he: and I do believe he is innocent. Ah, why must there be
poor, unhappy men; why can't the whole world be happy?" For the first
time, Eric saw that he must advise Roland not to say anything to his
father of these thoughts, about the huntsman, and about the poor and
unfortunate.

Eric felt quite satisfied that all the praise Roland had received for
his appearance as Apollo had done no harm.

CHAPTER XI.

A REPRESSED HEART.

"What are we, when judged by our most secret thoughts?"

So had Eric written in answer to a dainty note which Bella had written
to him. She had requested him to send the coat in which she had painted
him, as something peculiar in its cut had yet to be introduced, in
order to give the finishing touch to the portrait. The way in which she
had signed her name startled Eric; there was her name, Bella, but
instead of her surname, an interrogation point between two brackets.
She had scratched this out, as if thinking better of it, but it was
still to be perceived.

She put the coat upon the lay-figure in her studio; it affected her
strangely, and she stood there now, with her hand placed upon the
shoulder of the figure.

"What are we, judged by our most secret thoughts?" had Eric written,
and it seemed now as if the words came fro