After a pause, Schiller gently raised up between his hands the head that was still resting on his breast; he gazed long and lovingly into the fair girl's countenance. The tears that flowed from his eyes fell on hers like glowing pearls, mingling with her own tears and trickling down her cheeks. Schiller bowed his head, and kissed the lips that responded warmly to his own. He then pressed her hands to his eyes and released her from his embrace. She turned slowly, walked toward the door, and put on her shawl and bonnet. "Farewell, Schiller!" "Farewell, Marie!" And now she stood in the doorway, her eyes fastened on him in a last lingering look. He stood silently regarding her. A grating noise broke in upon the silence; it was the closing door behind which Marie had vanished. Schiller remained standing at the same place, his eyes fixed on the door. Had it suddenly grown so dark? was the sun overcast? or was it only the tears in his eyes that made the room look so gloomy? Had a storm suddenly arisen? did an earthquake make the ground tremble beneath him? or was it only the storm of passion that was passing over his head? Why was it that his knees trembled, and that he would have fallen to the ground had not a chair stood near by, into which he sank, groaning? The hour in which a man wrestles with his agony--the hour of renunciation and conquest, is sacred; the eye of God only may witness it, but no tongue must attempt to describe it, unless indeed that of the poet whose pain is surrounded by the halo of poetry--the poet to whom the hour of renunciation has also become the hour of enthusiasm. Some one is weeping and lamenting behind that door. Is it Marie? Some one is speaking in loud and earnest tones behind this door. Is it the poet composing an inscription for the gravestone of his love? "Give me thy Laura--give me her whom love To thy heart's core endears; I tore the fond shape from the bleeding love, And gave--albeit with tears!" A loud knock is heard at the door, and then a second, and a third, in quick succession. Schiller shakes back the hair from his countenance, and hastens forward to see who is clamoring for admission. CHAPTER VI. THE SONG "TO JOY." It was the postman, who brought the poet a rosy, perfumed letter from Weimar. With eager hands, Schiller opened and unfolded the missive. His countenance beamed with joy as he recognized Madame von Kalb's handwriting. "Good and noble woman, you have not forgotten me! Do you still think of me lovingly?" No, she had not forgotten him; she still loved him, and begged him, with tender and eloquent entreaties, to come to her.