But now there rose a pillar of red vapour up on high above the hapless earth, and clung there hiding with its dun folds a battle-field's loud roar. At length the smoke parted asunder, and two bleeding men were seen lying enlocked in each other's bleeding arms. They were two grand and glorious friends, and they had sacrificed all to each other, ay! and their very selves,--but not the Fatherland. "Lay thy wounds upon mine, beloved friend. The past lies all behind us now, we can be friends again; thou hast sacrificed me to the Fatherland, as I have thee. Give me thy heart again, ere it bleeds quite away. Alas! we can only die together now." And each gave to his friend his pierced and wounded heart. But these glorious friends beamed with a lustre such that Death shrank back, and the great berg of ice, wherewith he crushes man, melted away at touching their warm hearts. And the earth _kept_ those two, who rose above her level like two lofty mountains, dowering her with streams, with healing virtues, and with lofty views, she giving only _clouds_ to them in return. Mary in her dream here glanced and bent her head towards her son, for truly he alone can read, support, and succour hearts like these. Why does she smile now, like some happy mother? Is it because the earth she loves so well, still rising nearer, seems to hover close above the border of the second world, sweet with the flowers of spring, while nightingales lie brooding, with those burning hearts of theirs pressed on the grasses and the meadow blooms,--the stormy skies all brightening into rainbows? Is it because the earth, never to be forgotten of her heart, now shows so happy and so gay bedecked in its spring dress, radiant in all its flowers, the joy hymn bursting from all its singers' throats? No, not for this alone; that happy smile breaks over her sleeping face because she sees a mother and her child. For this must be a mother who bends down and holds her arms wide open, and calls in sweet enraptured tones, "Come, darling child, come to my heart again." This is her child, we see and know, standing all innocence, within the ringing temple of the spring, by his good genius who teaches him--and now goes running up to that smiling form--thus early blest, pressed to that heart overflowing with a mother's love, scarce understanding the blissful words she speaks. "Oh, dearest child, how thou delightest me. Art thou happy too? Thou lovest me! Oh, look at me, my own, and smile for evermore." But now the very blissfulness of her dream woke Mary up; and with a tender tremor she fell upon her own son's heart, saying with tears, "None, save a mother, _knows_ what it is to love." And as she spoke the earth sank to its place (where its own æther flowed around its orb), and with it that glad mother with her arms about her child.