The schoolmaster sat motionless. He scarcely heard what the man had been saying, for he was listening the whole time for a sound in the house. Would he not soon hear her steps, her voice? How he longed for them. But nothing moved. Everybody was in the fields bringing in the clover, Marianna had said when she brought the last bottle in, and then they had watched her through the window, as she, too, went off with her red skirt up to her knees and her rake over her shoulder. Bringing in the clover! Mrs. Tiralla had never helped to do that before. But this year--the man's face was distorted with jealousy--this year there were two young men there, her stepson and [Pg 225] Becker. Which of the two was it? Perhaps both. The man gave a dull groan. Two lovers. And still he could not learn anything for certain. This man was so awfully stupid, such an idiot. The compassion which Böhnke had at first felt for Mr. Tiralla was changed into anger. It was the man's own fault, it served him right; why did he not take better care of her? He gave the weeping man a rough push, "Your wife has got some good friends; I suppose you know it?" Mr. Tiralla did not fire up, but let his head remain where it was. "Leave her. Oh, little Böhnke, the only friend I possess, if you knew, if you knew." He gave several heartrending sighs, but when the schoolmaster was imprudent enough to ply him with questions in an eager, inquisitive voice, he suddenly grew silent. The other's eagerness had made him suspicious, and he obstinately closed his mouth; he would not be pumped. So they sat in silence until it was evening, and still the schoolmaster delayed his departure. He must wait, she must be coming. The table and glasses were already swaying backwards and forwards before his eyes, and still he let Mr. Tiralla refill his glass, whilst he did the same to his. What else could he do, so as to beguile the awful time of waiting? Böhnke had no idea how much he had drunk; if he had known it, he would have been terrified. He had always despised those who drank more than they could stand, and he had always known that he himself could not stand much, but he knew it no longer. She must come some time. "Your health, Mr. Tiralla!" "Much good may it do you, little Böhnke!" They clinked their glasses once more without any [Pg 226] sign of mirth or enjoyment, only for the sake of drinking; the one consumed by the pangs of jealousy, the other pursued by the fear of death. Then the crack of a whip was heard. At last! There she was--but with the others. The schoolmaster had staggered to the window, and in his haste had upset his chair with such a loud noise that Mr. Tiralla, terrified at what might betray them, screwed up his eyes, put his hands to his ears, and would have liked to creep under the table.