He seated himself at the little table, opposite Moritz. Both were soon busily reading, and Goethe was so completely absorbed in his letter that he did not notice how pale Moritz had become, and how the letter trembled in his hands; nor did he hear the deep sighs that escaped his lips. "I knew these fault-finders would not understand my Clärchen; they demand another scene, explaining her relation to Egmont. Another scene! Where am I to introduce it? Where?" "Goethe," said Moritz, rising and handing the letter, which he had read again and again, to his friend, "Goethe, read this, and then laugh at my dreams and presentiments, if you can." "What is it?" asked Goethe, looking up. "But what is the matter with you, my friend? How pale you are, and how you tremble! Tears in your eyes, too! Have you received bad news?" "I have," groaned Moritz. "Marie is ill. Read!" Goethe took the letter and hastily glanced over it. It was from Professor Gedicke in Berlin; he announced that Marie Leuthen had been ill for some time; that she had, at first, concealed her illness, but now admitted it, and expressed an ardent desire to see Moritz. The physician had given it as his opinion that a reunion with her lover after so long a separation would have a beneficial effect on his patient, and infuse new life into her being; it was therefore considered desirable that Moritz should speedily return to Germany and Berlin, to restore health and happiness to his beloved. "Strange, truly strange!" said Goethe. "Your dream is being fulfilled, your presentiment has become reality." "Fearful reality!" groaned Moritz. "Marie will die, I shall not see her again!" "No, oh no," said Goethe, endeavoring to console him. "You take too gloomy a view of things; your fancy conjures up horrible visions. You will see her again. The magical influence of your presence, the heavenly fire of your love, will save her. Women are generally such sensitively constituted beings that all ordinary laws are set at defiance when they love. They die of love, and they live on love. Marie is ill because she longs to be with you; she will recover when she once more beholds you, and reads love and fidelity in your countenance." "Marie will die!" groaned Moritz. "God grant that I may, at least, arrive in time to kiss the last death-sigh from her lips!" "You are then about to take your departure? You will leave Italy and return to Germany?" Moritz shrugged his shoulders. "Truly, Goethe, in this question I see that your heart is cold and loveless. I leave here within an hour!"