But no poet's word could henceforth stay the wild conflagration which raged in his heart; and every thought by which his mind strove to obtain rest and clearness proved a faint-hearted hireling soldier that takes the first opportunity of deserting to the ranks of the more potent foe. In vain did he recall the arguments by which, in a certain memorable conversation, he had tried to refute Erna's assertions--it had been a lie, a lie--or, at best, mere theoretical twaddle. His love a reminiscence merely? And of what, pray? Perhaps of that mournful aberration when his heart, his thirty years notwithstanding, was still full of faith and devoid of experience? Or of the coquettish phantom-fights and ugly caricatures of passion with which a heart that has ceased to believe, in love, endeavours to deceive itself regarding its own needs? Thee, he exclaimed, thee I have always loved. My whole life has been one unbroken longing for thee; and when now at length I have reached the land of promise, am I solely to see it, bless God, and die? I am no longer weary of life. Nay, life has never yet appeared so fair to me, and never yet have I so felt the desire and the power to enjoy it. Die we must; die, however empty life may have been; but oh, how better far to die in the full bliss of love! No, no! If I love her, my only reminiscence is one of weary deserts traversed until I reached her: if she could love me, her love should be no mere mirage of an oasis in the future; palms should rustle above her fair head, silvery brooks should run at her feet. Love surely has this potent spell: it can create a paradise on earth! And from these fairy dreams of future bliss he was startled by the thought that Erna's heart must have already once received some mighty impression. For it was surely passing strange that she knew so well how to interpret some of the mysterious symbols in the book of passion; that she evidently liked to read in that book. But since all his cautious questioning led to no result, since she spoke of the few young men whom she seemed to know at all either with indifference, or even, as in the case of her two cousins, with a perceptible touch of irony, he could not but conclude that his suspicion was unfounded, and he became more and more familiar with a fond hope, from which he at first recoiled as from a temptation to sheer madness. But he still had the full use of his senses, and they, had never been so acute as now. How was he to explain that her voice, whenever she turned to him, and particularly when they were alone, was quite different from its usual tone--softer, deeper, more intense? How was he to explain that she--surely without being aware of it--kept sometimes, at table, if he happened to speak eagerly, her gaze fixed upon him for several minutes--that strange, fixed gaze which he had never before met from any human eye, and which reminded him again and again of the gaze of the gods,--