He went home, and there was Corydon preparing supper. He went to her and caught her in his arms and kissed her. “I love you, sweetheart!” he whispered. And as she yielded to his embraces, he kissed her again and again, upon her lips and upon her cheeks and upon her neck. Ah, she loved him--else how could she let him kiss her like that! But it was not so quickly that the inhibitions of a lifetime could be overcome. A sudden fear took hold of Thyrsis. What was he doing? No, she must have no idea of this--at least not until he had reasoned it out, until he had made up his mind that it was right. So he drew back--and as he did so he noticed in her eyes a look of surprise. He did not often greet her in that way! “I’m hungry as a bear,” he said, to change the subject; and so they sat down to their supper. Thyrsis had important writing to do that evening, and he tried his best, but he could not put his mind upon anything. He was all in a ferment. He pleaded that he had to think about his work, and went out for a long walk. A storm was raging, and the icy gale beat upon him. It buffeted him, it flung him here and there; and he set himself to fight it, he drove his way through it, lusty and exultant. And music surged within him, lusty and exultant music. All the pent-up passion of his lifetime awoke in him, the blood ran hot in his veins; from some hidden portion of his being came wave after wave of emotion, sweeping him away--and he spread his wings to it, he rose to the heights upon it, he laughed and sang aloud in the glory of it. He had known such hours in his own soul’s life, but never anything like it with Corydon. He cried out, what a child he had been! He had taken her, he had sought to shape her to his will; and he had failed, she was not yet his--and all because he had left unused the one great power he had over her, the one great hold he had upon her. But now it would be changed--she should have him! And as he battled on with the elements there came to him Goethe’s poem of passion: “Dem Schnee, dem Regen, Dem Wind entgegen!” Section 8. So for hours he went. But when he had come home, and stood in the vestibule, stamping the snow from him, there came a reaction. It was Corydon he had been thinking of--Corydon, the gentle and innocent! How could he say such things to her? How could he hint of them? Why, he would fill her with terror! It was not to be thought of! He went upstairs, and found that she was asleep. So he crept into his little bunk; but sleep would not come to him. The image of her haunted him. He listened to her breathing--he was as close to her as that, and still she was not his!