Blanden had not set out for his estate; he had retired to the Chief Forester's house, in the deepest woodland solitude; he felt most at home with his father's worthy friend--and he needed the comfort of friendship. It is true that the old gentleman never led the conversation to Blanden's late experiences, but in his fresh, sterling nature, in his devotion to his profession, lay a power which was capable of holding enthralled the evil spirits of a distracted life. Often they strolled together through the woods, rejoiced at the young, flourishing growth, at the tall oaks, in whose shade Romove's bloody recollections still seemed to dwell, at the sunny glades, across which stags and hinds wandered, visible from afar. But he loved best to go alone, in a tempest that whirled through the tops of the trees, broke off boughs and branches, and hurled them to the ground, and when all other voices were rendered mute before that of the hurricane, then he believed to hear in it the cry of that almighty destiny before which nothing can exist, and that pursues its own course above the head of man. But what enchained him most was the vicinity to Warnicken. He knew of Eva's illness, intelligence which had thrown him into a state of feverish excitement. The doctor, to whom he often rode over to make enquiries, prohibited him from visiting the sick bed as it would be dangerous for the patient's life. But how often Blanden stood upon the wooded cliffs, and gazed with intense anguish as they gleamed in the evening light upon the simple attic windows, behind which the beloved, to him lost, maiden lay in fever's delirious phantasies! On several occasions, as he returned home at a late hour from Warnicken, he fancied that footsteps were following him, as though the bushes behind him rustled; but he did not think of danger, and when on casting a cursory glance round he perceived nothing, he deemed it beneath him to make any exertions to discover who might dog his steps. Once he was returning home on a stormy evening, and the rustling in the forest, the groaning and cracking of the boughs accompanied his steps. He had learned from the doctor that Eva had passed all danger, and was now on the way towards recovery. He felt a sensation of pain, mingled with pleasure, at this. Did not life lie joylessly before the convalescent girl? And had he the power to alter it? His love still often rebelled with brilliant sophisms against the resolution of renunciation; it was a course of tempest's triumphant passion, which hoped to destroy as mere prejudice the resistance of an invincible feeling. But always in vain. The feeling remained impervious to all attacks.