r
by Vendale's energy, hated him with the animosity of a fierce cunning
lower animal. He had always had instinctive movements in his breast
against him; perhaps, because of that old sore of gentleman and peasant;
perhaps, because of the openness of his nature, perhaps, because of his
better looks; perhaps, because of his success with Marguerite; perhaps,
on all those grounds, the two last not the least. And now he saw in him,
besides, the hunter who was tracking him down. Vendale, on the other
hand, always contending generously against his first vague mistrust, now
felt bound to contend against it more than ever: reminding himself, "He
is Marguerite's guardian. We are on perfectly friendly terms; he is my
companion of his own proposal, and can have no interested motive in
sharing this undesirable journey." To which pleas in behalf of
Obenreizer, chance added one consideration more, when they came to Basle
after a journey of more than twice the average duration.

They had had a late dinner, and were alone in an inn room there,
overhanging the Rhine: at that place rapid and deep, swollen and loud.
Vendale lounged upon a couch, and Obenreizer walked to and fro: now,
stopping at the window, looking at the crooked reflection of the town
lights in the dark water (and peradventure thinking, "If I could fling
him into it!"); now, resuming his walk with his eyes upon the floor.

"Where shall I rob him, if I can? Where shall I murder him, if I must?"
So, as he paced the room, ran the river, ran the river, ran the river.

The burden seemed to him, at last, to be growing so plain, that he
stopped; thinking it as well to suggest another burden to his companion.

"The Rhine sounds to-night," he said with a smile, "like the old
waterfall at home. That waterfall which my mother showed to travellers
(I told you of it once). The sound of it changed with the weather, as
does the sound of all falling waters and flowing waters. When I was
pupil of the watchmaker, I remembered it as sometimes saying to me for
whole days, 'Who are you, my little wretch? Who are you, my little
wretch?' I remembered it as saying, other times, when its sound was
hollow, and storm was coming up the Pass: 'Boom, boom, boom. Beat him,
beat him, beat him.' Like my mother enraged--if she was my mother."

"If she was?" said Vendale, gradually changing his attitude to a sitting
one. "If she was? Why do you say 'if'?"

"What do I know?" replied the o