On the drawbridge the two meet. Trude, her head covered by a dark shawl, has been standing for a long time beneath the alders, seeking shelter from the rain, and has hurried to meet him as she saw the outline of his figure appear on yonder side of the weir. "Trude, is it you?" he asks hurriedly, looking searchingly into her face. She is silent and clings to the rail. The foam is dancing before her eyes, in blue and yellow colors. "Trude," he says, while he tries to catch hold of her hand, "I have come to bid you farewell for life. Are you going to let me go forth to a strange land without one word?" "And I have come for the peace of my soul," says she, shrinking back from his groping hand. "Hans, I have borne much for your sake; I have grown older by half a lifetime; I am weak and ill. Therefore take pity on me: do not touch me--I do not want to return again guilt-laden to your brother's house!" "Trude--did you come here to torture me?" "Softly, Hans, softly--do not pain me! Let us part from one another with clean and honest hearts, and take peace and courage with us--for all our lives.... We must surely not rail at each other--not in love and not in hatred," She stops exhausted; her breath comes heavily; then, pulling herself together with an effort, she continues: "You see, I always knew that you would come long before I got your note to-day; and, a thousand times over I thought out every word--that I was going to say to you. But of course--you must not unsettle me so." His eyes glow through the darkness; his breath comes hot; and with a shrill laugh he says: "Don't make a halo round us. It is no good--we are both accursed anyway in heaven and on earth! Then let us at least--" He stops abruptly, listening. "Hush! I thought--I heard--there in the meadow!" He holds his breath and hearkens. Nothing to be heard or seen. Whatever it was, the storm and the darkness have engulfed it. "Come down to the river's edge," he says, "our figures are so clearly defined up here." She leads the way; he follows. But on the slippery woodwork she loses her footing. Then he catches her in his arms and carries her down to the river. Unresisting, she hangs upon his neck. "How light you have got since that day," he says softly, while he lets her glide down, then raises her up. "Oh, you would hardly recognize me if you saw me," she replies equally softly. "I would give anything if only I could!" he says, and tries to draw away the shawl from about her face. A pale oval, two dark, round shadows in it where the eyes are--the darkness reveals no more. "I feel like a blind man," he says, and his trembling hand glides over her forehead, down to her cheeks, as if by touch to distinguish the loved features. She resists no longer. Her head drops upon his shoulder. "How much I wanted to say to you!" she whispers. "And now I no longer can think of anything--not of anything at all."