His glance, which had been directed in his confusion toward the floor, now passed shyly over to his father, who was pacing slowly to and fro through the room. Was it the light? Was it that he saw him differently today? His father appeared to him to be ten years older--for the first time seemed to him an old man. With the feeling of love and reverence, which he had always cherished for him, was mingled one almost of pity; he wanted to fall at his feet, embrace his knees and exclaim, "Forgive me for the mistakes I have made!" But he felt riveted to the spot; his limbs would not move; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; he could say nothing but--"You still have Else." The General had stopped in front of the life-size portraits of his father and mother, which hung on the wall--a superior officer in the uniform of the Wars of the Liberation, and a lady, still young, in the dress of the time, whom Else strikingly resembled about the forehead and eyes. "Who knows?" he said. He passed his hand over his forehead. "It is late in the night, two o'clock, and the morrow will have its troubles, too. Will you be good enough to put out the gas lights above you? Have you a light out there?" "Yes, Papa." "Very well! Good-night!" He had extinguished one of the lamps in front of the mirror, and taken the other. "Can you find the door?" Ottomar wished to exclaim, "Give me thy hand!" but he did not venture to do so, and went toward the door saying, "Good-night!"--which had a sound of resentment, because he had almost broken into tears. His father stood at the door of his bedroom. "One thing more! I forgot to say that I reserve the right to take the next step myself. As you have so long hesitated to take the initiative, you will have to grant me this favor. I shall keep you informed, of course. I beg you to take no further step without my knowledge. We must act in conjunction, now that we understand each other." He had said the last words with a melancholy smile that cut Ottomar to the heart. He could bear it no longer, and rushed out of the room. The General, too, already had his hand on the latch; but as Ottomar had now vanished he drew it back, took the lamp to the writing-desk, a drawer of which he unlocked, and drew out, where, among other ornaments of little value belonging to his deceased wife and mother, he kept also the iron rings of his father and mother from the Wars of the Liberation. He took the rings. "Another time has come," he muttered, "not a better one! Whither, alas! have they vanished? And your piety, your fidelity to duty, your modest simplicity, your holy resignation? I have honestly endeavored to emulate you, to be a worthy son of a race which knew no other glory than the bravery of its men and the virtue of its women. What have I done that it should be visited on me?"