"You have no right to say that; you are not so!" said Johanna. "What interest of yours has been served by the countless kindnesses you have shown me since we first knew each other?" "My dear Fräulein, can we flatter our subtle selfishness more delightfully than by rendering the services of friendship?" asked the young man. "But this has not been the question between you and me. All that I have apparently done for you was in truth contrived in opposition to another; whether from hatred, from revenge, or from a desire to shield goodness and purity, I do not know." It had grown so dark that Johanna, although she was seated opposite to him, could not distinguish the expression of his face; but a slight tremor in his voice betrayed his emotion. "You do not understand me," he went on, after a pause. "Let me tell you a short story. A few years ago my father adopted a poor orphan, a girl sixteen years old, the daughter of a distant relative. Sara was beautiful and good. She soon occupied my heart and thoughts. I was, however, not free. We Jews, like the children of princes and of peasants, are betrothed by the mutual agreement of heads of families. My betrothed, who loved another, was bolder than I, and afterward married the man of her choice. But at this time I felt myself fettered by what I might call the bashful sense of filial piety, which causes so many of my race to cleave outwardly to traditions which they have really outlived. Only a Jew can feel and understand this. I controlled myself with all my force, and I do not think that I ever betrayed myself, that Sara ever suspected how happy and how miserable she made me. She was not only worthy of love, she craved love. One day a dashing young soldier came to visit his family, whose estates were in our neighbourhood. He constantly had money-transactions with my father. Chance brought him into contact with Sara. How shall I tell the rest? She found favour in his eyes. And why not? She was a poor Jewish girl; he might trifle with her as he chose; it involved no responsibility for him. The next time I paid a visit at my home I soon saw how matters stood. I saw that my poor Sara was lost. But I struggled against this conviction; at least I would make an attempt to rescue one so dear to me. I thrust myself into her confidence with fire and sword. I left her no illusions with regard to the man to whom she was ready to sacrifice all, perhaps had already sacrificed all. I had controlled my love; I gave my jealousy free play. Sara's despair wrung my heart, but I thought I was doing right. Then, with my consent, she had an interview with the scoundrel. On the evening of the same day she was taken drowned from the canal which runs at the foot of my father's garden. The neighbours said she must have fallen in while getting water, which she always did herself when she was watering her flowers; my father believed this, and I would gladly have believed it.