He took a handful of flowers from the table and held them between his folded hands. "You dear flowers! She is your god and your goddess! Like God she made you of nothing, and, like the goddess Flora, she strews you over the pathway of humanity; but to-day you shall receive the most glorious reward for your existence--to-day you shall adorn her, my fair Flora!" He sprang up, seized whole handfuls of violets, pinks, lilies, and forget-me-nots, and strewed them over Marie's head, in her lap, and all over and about her. "Let me strew your path with flowers for the future, my darling. May your tender little feet never more be wounded by the sharp stones! may you never again be compelled to journey over rough roads! Flowers shall spring up beneath your footsteps, and I will be the gardener who cultivates them." "You are my heaven-flower yourself, my imperial lily," said she, extending her hands. He took them in his, pressed them to his lips, and then resumed his former seat at her feet. "How handsome you are, Philip, and how strong you look, tanned by the sun of Italy and steeled by the combat with life! Misfortune has made a hero of you, my beloved. You are taller and prouder than you were." "And are you not a heroine, Marie, a victorious heroine?" "A victorious heroine!" she said, sadly. "A heroine who is struggling with death! Do not look at me with such consternation, Philip--I am well. It is only that joy and surprise have made me feel a little weak. You do not find that I look ill, and therefore I am not ill; you say I will recover, and therefore I will recover. Tell me once more that I am not ill, that I will recover!" "You will recover; you will bloom again in happiness and joy." "You say these words in a sad voice, as though you did not believe them yourself! But I will not die; no, I will not! I am too young; I have not lived long enough. Life still owes me so much happiness. I will not die! I will live--live!" She uttered this in loud tones of anguish, as though Life were an armed warrior to whom she appealed to defend her against Death, who was approaching her with a murderous dagger in his bony hand. But Life had no longer a weapon with which to defend her; it timidly recoiled before the king who is mightier than the King of Life, and whose sceptre is a scythe with which he mows down humanity as the reaper harvests the grain of the fields. "Philip, my Philip," cried Marie, her countenance quivering with pain, "remain with me, my beloved! It is growing so dark, and--There, how my breast pains me again! Alas, you have scattered flowers at my feet, but the thorns have remained in my heart! And they pain so terribly! it is growing dark--dark!--Trude!" The old woman, who had been waiting at the threshold with the humility of a faithful dog, threw the door open and rushed forward to her darling, who lay in the arm-chair, with closed eyes, pale and motionless, her head resting on Moritz's arm.