"It is only a swoon, nothing else; death cannot ensue so quickly unless preceded by spasms. Poor unfortunate, forgive me for calling you back to the torment of existence; but we are men, and must not violate the laws of Nature. I must awaken you, poor youth!" He stretched out his hands to the river, filled them with water, and poured it on his pale forehead, and, as he still lay motionless, he rubbed his forehead and breast with his hands, and breathed his own breath into his open mouth. Slowly life dawned again, a ray of consciousness returned to the glassy eyes, and the trembling lips murmured a low wail, which filled the poet's soul with sadness, and his eyes with tears of sympathy. There lay the image of God, quivering in agony; the most pitiful complaint of the human creature was the anxious cry of the awakening human soul, "I am hungry! I am hungry!" "And I have nothing to allay his hunger with," said Schiller, anxiously; "nothing with which to make a man of this animal." "Woe is me," groaned the youth, "this torment is fearful! Why did you call me back to my sufferings? Who gave you the right to forbid me to die?" "Who gave you the right to die?" asked Schiller, with severity. "Hunger," groaned the youth, "hunger, with its scorpion teeth! If you compel me to live, then give me the bread of life! Bread! Give me bread! See, I beg for bread! I preferred to die rather than beg, but you have conquered me and bowed my head in the dust, and now I am a beggar! Give me bread! Do not let me starve!" "I will bring you bread," said Schiller, mildly. "But, no, you might avail yourself of my absence to accomplish your dark purpose. Swear that you will remain here until I return." The unfortunate youth did not reply; when Schiller again knelt down at his side, he saw that he was again in a swoon. "When he awakens, I will have returned," murmured Schiller. He arose, and ran rapidly to the little inn that stood at the foot of Brühls's Terrace. To his great joy, a light was still burning in the main room, and, when he entered, several guests were still sitting at the table enjoying their pipes and beer. Schiller stepped up to the counter, purchased a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine, and returned with all possible haste to the unfortunate youth, who had resumed consciousness, and was, at the moment of his arrival, painfully endeavoring to raise his head. Schiller knelt down, and rested the poor youth's head on his knees. "Be patient, my poor friend, I bring relief, I bring bread!" How hastily did his trembling hands clutch the loaf, and how eagerly did they carry it to his mouth! How radiant was his countenance when he had taken a long draught from the bottle which Schiller held to his pale lips. The poet turned away, he could not endure this painful sight. Sadly and reproachfully he looked upward.