High up in the mountain forest, near the log-hut where the woodcutters lived from Monday morning till Saturday night, Anton sat this Sunday morning. About him lay axes, and wedges of iron or ash, as if resting themselves. For the men who used them had all gone down to the valley to spend the Sunday at home with their families, or perhaps at the celebration in the city. No sound was heard save the occasional twitter of the wren who was just brooding. All the other birds were mute, and the hawks circled in silence over the treetops. A drowsy odor of pitch from the felled trees and split wood rose from the ground on which the weary, tried young man had slept. A cannon thundered, and Anton awoke and felt at his side for his gun. He imagined for a moment that he was lying in the field before the enemy; but he smiled sadly as he reflected that the enemy he had to combat was no visible one, who could be mortally wounded. It was not a cannon which had awakened him, but a mortar from the city, where the flag was being dedicated. Anton drew a deep breath and his face lighted up as though he were being greeted by hundreds and hundreds of his old comrades, as though he held the many faithful hands that were stretched out toward him. But he soon looked sadly down before him. He had not only destroyed the celebration for himself, but had robbed his companions of a great part of their pleasure, by sending a messenger early in the morning to say he could not be with them. What did his companions' love profit him, when the love of the one for whom his heart beat was wanting? What did he care for a joy or an honor that Thoma did not share? He stood up. There is yet time. He can yet hasten to join his comrades, and though late, he will be gladly welcomed. He rejected the thought, and gave himself up to painful questionings and fancies. Would he find happiness in anything again? He had humbled himself before Thoma, and she had scornfully spurned him. He had done what he could to set matters right again. Perhaps Thoma will be softened when she sees that for her sake he avoids the most enticing pleasures. She knows what he suffers, but what must she suffer! Thoma was not in the solitude of the forest, she was solitary and forsaken in her father's house. She, too, heard the report of the mortar, and she asked herself if Anton was at the celebration, honored and happy. No, it cannot be. She mourned deeply that she had been forced to destroy and fill with sadness this day, and all the coming days of his life. She remembered in terror that she had yesterday said to Anton: "I cannot rejoice in stolen goods." Is it then so hopeless? Had not the words escaped unguardedly from the depth of sorrow? She almost envied her mother, who could sleep all day long. She must stay awake, and harbor such bitter thoughts in her soul.