ture at all. Willingly I would take death from your hand.
'Do you remember our talk that last night? You see, what I promised you then, I meant. This I want you to know—before we part.'
LXI stood on the platform of the car. I had been standing there, wrapped in my cloak, all through the night. I had seen the evening shadows rise from the valleys, creep over the mountains and cover all in darkness. Now day is dawning, a pale light shines on the horizon, and quicker and quicker the train is hurrying on towards Marie's foreign town, the engine keeping time with the beating of my heart.
What strange anxiety is it which has kept me awake all night? What is the meaning of all these questions, full of fear, which my heart wants answered, while I stare meditatively into the darkness.
I have no reason to doubt Marie's love, and I doubt my own no longer.
Yet, I am going trembling to meet her, and this is the question so full of fear: 'Won't we feel strange to each other?'
The Marie I am travelling to find is not the Marie of old. She is not the heedless, loving child who, in former days, used to lie in my arms. She is not the merry willing mistress, my conquest, and my prey—yet, perhaps she is still both, but at the same time something greater and higher. That has
