Six weeks ago, in another city--it was a summer night, too--in what a different mood had he returned home from a walk, and in what different company! But that was passed forever. Should he wander about in the desert all his life long in sackcloth and ashes, and turn his back upon all the happiness of existence? Who would be benefited by his sacrifice? And yet, why could he not suppress this obstinate pain, this remembrance of past days that sought to fill him with disgust at the lighthearted life of this "city of pleasure?" He would not let his life be ruined by a spectre, he would carry his head high and sneer away all attacks of sentimentality. Laughing defiantly, to silence the low, far-off voice in his heart, he released his arm from the girl's, only to put it still tighter and more tenderly about her shoulder. "Zenz," he said, "you are a darling little sweetheart. It would be a sin if you should not know where to lay your head. Do you see that house over there, with the lamp burning in front? That is where I live, and no one has a key to all the doors. How would it be if we should play hide-and-seek there for a time, with all this tiresome world?" He merrily lifted her up from the ground, as if he would carry her over the street into the house; but she suddenly released herself and pointed anxiously to two riders, who were already so close upon them that they were forced to run to get by them. "You little goose!" he laughed, "surely you are not afraid of two people on horseback, and they peaceful Sunday riders--" The word died on his lips. As the light of the lantern fell on the faces of the two horsemen, he recognized in the one the lean profile and the black imperial of Lieutenant Schnetz, and in the other a little mustached gentleman, with a straw hat and a light riding-jacket. No; it must be a mistake! How came _he_ here? He had been deceived by a resemblance. It was only because he had so recently been thinking about past times, that their shadow had risen up before him. What could possibly bring the uncle of his betrothed to Munich, and in the company of the lieutenant--he who never left his niece? And yet--as he looked he heard him say a word or two to Schnetz, and then there was a merry laugh. The two rode unsuspectingly by, and long after their voices had died away, Felix stood gazing listlessly after them in the darkness without rousing himself from his thoughts. It was he--Irene's uncle. But how did he come here? True, he had distant relatives in Munich; but it was years since he had left off all intercourse with them. Did he know, perhaps, that Felix was here in the city? Was that why he had come, and had he perhaps brought his ward with him? And even if it were all an accident--even the acquaintance with Schnetz--must not he inevitably learn from the latter that the fugitive had hidden himself here under the disguise of a sculptor's blouse?