"What the swallow sang, what the swallow sang," he murmured. "Yes, yes, it echoes through the village just as it did then:-- When I went away, when I went away, I left well-filled chests behind, But returning to-day, but returning to-day, Naught I find. "I thought I understood it--but I had only read it with my eyes, not my heart, the heart of a lonely man, who after an absence of ten years returns to the sacred scenes of his youth to find what I have found to-day--the most painful memory of that which was once mine." Up and down flew the swallows, now close to the earth, and now in a lofty curve over a loaded harvest-wagon which had turned into the principal street from an adjoining lane, and disappeared in a barn. "How does it go on," said Gotthold:-- Back the swallows dart, back the swallows dart, And the chests again run o'er; But an empty heart, but an empty heart, Fills no more. He passed his hand over his eyes to brush away the tears which constantly sprang into them, while a mournful smile played around his lips. "It would be an amusing spectacle to my Roman friends if they could see me standing here crying like a schoolboy; and what would you say, Julia? The same thing that you did when I translated the song: That is all nonsense, my dear friend. How can a heart be empty? My heart has never been empty since I knew I had one, and now it is full of love for you, as yours is for me, you German dreamer. Then you stroked the hair from my brow, and kissed me as only you can kiss. And yet, and yet! If I loved you, Julia, it was only a feeble semblance of the passion I once felt, as the pale East just gleamed with rosy light from the reflection of the sunset glow in the western sky. I have parted from you, and my heart did not quiver as it did just now when I read on her children's gravestones the name of one now dead to me." He extended his hands as if in benediction. "Sing on your sweet sad song, innocent swallows! Go and return, bringing Spring to the barren fields and empty human hearts! May Heaven watch over you, my dear native meadows and beloved birthplace! In spite of all, you are as sacred to me as the memories of my youth!" The carriage was waiting at the door of the village-inn. The coachman had merely loosened the curbs on the horses' necks, that they might eat the bread chopped into little squares more easily. He now pushed aside the movable crib, hastily gave them a drink from the half-emptied pail, and when Gotthold came up was already standing with the reins in his hand beside the door, which he opened with a friendly grin.