"Immortelles," said Botho. "They are old Frau Nimptsch's passion. Of course we must take those, we need them. And now we must tie up our little bouquet." "Very well. But what shall we tie it with? We will wait till we find a strong grass blade." "No, I will not wait so long. And a grass blade is not good enough for me, it is too thick and coarse. I want something fine. I know what, Lena, you have such beautiful long hair; pull out one and tie the bouquet with that." "No," said she decidedly. "No? And why not? Why not?" "Because the proverb says 'hair binds.' And if I bind the flowers with it you too will be bound." "But that is superstition. Frau Doerr says so." "No, the good old soul told me herself. And whatever she has told me from my youth up, even if it seemed like superstition, I have always found it correct." "Well, have it so. I will not contradict you. But I will not have the flowers tied with anything else but a strand of your hair. And you will not be so obstinate as to refuse me." She looked at him, pulled a long hair from her head and wound it around the bunch of flowers. Then she said: "You chose it. Here, take it. Now you are bound." He tried to laugh, but the seriousness with which Lena had been speaking, and especially the earnestness with which she had pronounced the last words, did not fail to leave an impression on his mind. "It is growing cool," said he after a while. "The host was right to bring you a jacket and a plaid. Come, let us start." And so they went back to the boat, and made haste to cross the stream. Only now, as they were returning, and coming nearer and nearer, did they see how picturesquely the tavern was situated. The thatched roof sat like a grotesque high cap above the timbered building, whose four little front windows were just being lit for the evening. And at the same time a couple of lanterns were carried out to the veranda, and their weird-looking bands of light shone out across the water through the branches of the old elm, which in the darkness resembled some fantastically wrought grating. Neither spoke. But the happiness of each seemed to depend upon the question how long their happiness was to last. CHAPTER XII It was already growing dark as they landed. "Let us take this table," said Botho, as they stepped on to the veranda again: "You will feel no draught here and I will order you some grog or a hot claret cup, shall I not? I see you are chilly." He offered several other things, but Lena begged to be allowed to go up to her room, and said that by and by when he came up she would be perfectly well again. She only felt a trifle poorly and did not need anything and if she could only rest a little, it would pass off.