d the flowers
in the chimney-place, looked at him so strange and so inquiring. He
wished to write to Manna, and tell her of all his troubles, but he
could not write.

He left the house and went into the court; here he stood for a while,
looking round dreamily. The Chevalier came out and asked him if he did
not want to do something; Roland stared at him, as if he did not
recognize who he was, and made no reply. He took his cross-bow, but he
did not draw the string. The sparrows and doves flew about hither and
thither; the handsome dogs crowded up to him and sniffed around him,
but Roland was like one bewildered.

He went to the river-bank, followed by his great dog, Devil, and there
he sat down under the huge, tall willows, putting his hat on the ground
near him, for his head seemed on fire. He bathed his brow with water,
but his brow was no cooler. He did not know how long he had been
sitting there, gazing fixedly into vacancy without any conscious
thought, when he heard some one call him by name. He involuntarily
clapped his hand upon the muzzle of the dog lying near him, scarcely
breathing himself, in order not to betray his place of concealment. The
voice grew fainter, and ceased to be heard. He still sat quiet, and
cautioned the dog in a low tone to be still also; the dog seemed to
understand him.

Roland took put of his side-pocket the letter he had written to Eric,
and read it; his eyes overflowed with tears of longing and grief, and
getting up, he hurled the letter into the river.

The night came on. Noiselessly, as a hunter who is stalking a deer,
Roland left his lurking-place, and wended his way through the narrow
path of the vineyard back from the river. He wanted to go to the
huntsman, he wanted to go to the Major, he wanted to go to somebody who
would help him. Suddenly he stopped.

"No! to nobody--to nobody!" he breathed low to himself, as if he hardly
dared trust the silent night.

"To him! to him!"

He crouched down, so that nobody should see him in the vineyard,
although it was dark. He did not stand erect, until he came to the
highway above.

CHAPTER X.

HELPING ONE'S SELF, OR BEING HELPED.

Eric turned homewards, like a man, who, coming out of a saloon
illuminated with dazzling brilliancy, to his study where burns a
solitary lamp, involuntarily rubs his eyes, which having become
accustomed to the greater degree of brightness, requir