Gerard, severed from her he loved, went like one in a dream. He hired a horse and a guide at the little hostelry, and rode swiftly towards the German frontier. But all was mechanical; his senses felt blunted; trees and houses and men moved by him like objects seen through a veil. His companions spoke to him twice, but he did not answer. Only once he cried out savagely, “Shall we never be out of this hateful country?” After many hours' riding they came to the brow of a steep hill; a small brook ran at the bottom. “Halt!” cried the guide, and pointed across the valley. “Here is Germany.” “Where?” “On t'other side of the bourn. No need to ride down the hill, I trow.” Gerard dismounted without a word, and took the burgomaster's purse from his girdle: while he opened it, “You will soon be out of this hateful country,” said his guide, half sulkily; “mayhap the one you are going to will like you no better; any way, though it be a church you have robbed, they cannot take you, once across that bourn.” These words at another time would have earned the speaker an admonition or a cuff. They fell on Gerard now like idle air. He paid the lad in silence, and descended the hill alone. The brook was silvery; it ran murmuring over little pebbles, that glittered, varnished by the clear water; he sat down and looked stupidly at them. Then he drank of the brook; then he laved his hot feet and hands in it; it was very cold: it waked him. He rose, and taking a run, leaped across it into Germany. Even as he touched the strange land he turned suddenly and looked back. “Farewell, ungrateful country!” he cried. “But for her it would cost me nought to leave you for ever, and all my kith and kin, and--the mother that bore me, and--my playmates, and my little native town. Farewell, fatherland--welcome the wide world! omne so-lum for-ti p p-at-r-a.” And with these brave words in his mouth he drooped suddenly with arms and legs all weak, and sat down and sobbed bitterly upon the foreign soil. When the young exile had sat a while bowed down, he rose and dashed the tears from his eyes like a man; and not casting a single glance more behind him, to weaken his heart, stepped out into the wide world. His love and heavy sorrow left no room in him for vulgar misgivings. Compared with rending himself from Margaret, it seemed a small thing to go on foot to Italy in that rude age. All nations meet in a convent. So, thanks to his good friends the monks, and his own thirst of knowledge, he could speak most of the languages needed on that long road. He said to himself, “I will soon be at Rome; the sooner the better now.”