she left the
hall. His brother took her home. He followed them at as great a
distance as he thought necessary to prevent her seeing him. When his
brother came back from accompanying her he stepped away from the door.
He felt naked with shame. His brother had noticed him nevertheless. He
said: "She won't hear of you yet; I don't know whether she means it,
or whether it is just airs. I shall meet her again. No tree falls at
one stroke. But I must confess, you have good taste. I don't know
where my eyes have been up to now. She's away ahead of Beate; and
that's saying a good deal!"

From then on his brother had danced untiringly with Walter's
Christiane and spoken for Apollonius and always, after he had taken
her home, he came and gave our hero an account of his efforts on his
behalf. For a long time he was uncertain whether it was only
affectation, or whether she really looked with disfavor on our hero.
He repeated conscientiously what he had said in our hero's praise, and
how she had answered his questions and assurances. He still had hope
after our hero had already given it up. And her behavior toward the
latter would have compelled him to realize that he could expect no
return of his affection, even if he had not known what answers she
gave his brother. She avoided him wherever she saw him as assiduously
as she had formerly seemed to seek him. And had it really been he whom
she had sought before, if indeed she had sought any one?

A hundred times his brother urged him to waylay her and press his own
suit. He exerted all his inventive power to procure him an opportunity
of speaking to her alone. Our hero refused to be urged or to accept
his offers. After all, it was useless. All that he might accomplish
would be to make her still more angry.

"I can't stand by any longer and see you growing thinner and paler all
the time," said his brother one evening, after he had reported how
unsuccessfully he had spoken for him again that day. "You must go away
from here for a while; that will have good results for you in two
ways. When I tell her that it is on her account that you have gone out
into the world, perhaps she will turn. Believe me, I know the
long-haired tribe, and I know how to treat them. You must write her a
touching letter for good-by; I will deliver it, and I'll manage to
soften her heart. And if it can't be accomplished, it will do you good
to be away from here where everything reminds you of her, for a
year--