In the mean time Oswald had spent some sad, anxious hours at Bruno's bedside. He had noticed of late Bruno's excited state of mind, and felt deeply concerned about it. Explosions of violent passion, such as Oswald had witnessed when he first came, but which had then almost entirely disappeared for a time, had now again become more frequent and violent than ever. A contradiction, a failure, a slighting remark at table from the baroness, were sufficient to unchain the demon. In vain had Oswald begged and besought him to control his temper, which exposed him to the attacks of his adversaries and prevented his friends from defending him--"I cannot help it," was his invariable answer; "it is a power I cannot resist. It boils up within me, it gnaws at my heart, it beats in my temples, and then I do not know any longer what I am saying or doing."--If Oswald replied that he was not in earnest with his efforts to control himself, Bruno answered angrily: Well, scold me as the rest of them do; make common cause with them. I do not want lukewarm friends; he who is not for me is against me.--Then, when he saw how he had hurt Oswald's feelings by such speeches, he would throw himself passionately into his arms and beg his pardon amid burning tears.--Have pity on me, he said. You do not know how thoroughly wretched I am.--In vain that Oswald urged him to tell him what it was that oppressed him.--I do not know myself, Bruno replied; I only wish I were far, for away from here, never to return any more; and then, again, I do not want to go, not for anything in the world; I do not know what it is; I believe I should like best to be dead.

Oswald tried his best to find out what could be the cause of this strange state of mind; but, though often on the point of discovery, he never found out the real mystery, which the poor boy concealed in his innermost heart, perhaps from himself as much as from others. It is a well-known fact, that even clever men often commit the strangest blunders in their judgment of those who are nearest to them, while others, at a distance, see clearly and distinctly. Impossible! exclaims a father, who is told what a bad son he has; impossible! cries a brother, when he first hears that his sister has engaged herself to his best friend. At times we are blinded by affection, at other times by antipathy; here it is indifference which makes us ignore a miracle that happens before our eyes; there it is noble shame which makes us cast down our eyes in order not to see a cheek blushing with guilt. No prophet is accepted in his own country, and in most cases the heart of one brother is to the other a book sealed with seven seals.

Thus it was the case here. Oswald consoled himself with the thought that the years of transition from boyhood to manhood were always an age of storms, within and without, and that strong, passionate characters like Bruno's must, of course, suffer more than others. He knew, from frequent conversations on such subjects, that Bruno's mind was a noble one, and that his heart was pure "as the heart of waters." He was, therefore, quite reassured on this score; but he did not suspect that Bruno, noble and pure as he was, loved his beautiful cousin with all the power of his strong heart, with all the fire of youthful passion, with the unbounded happiness of a first attachment, with the silent despair of a first passion which is not returned and cannot be returned.

He had never before seen Helen. When he was brought to the house of his relatives, three years ago, the young girl had already been sent to the boarding-school. They mentioned her very rarely in the family, and when they did so, it was with a few cool words only--a circumstance which probably excited Bruno's attention. With that sympathy which the poor have for the poor, and the forsaken for the forsaken, he felt instinctively that she was, like himself, a sufferer and an outcast. Gradually he formed in his mind a kind of ideal form of the absent beauty, an image of all that his fancy could suggest. The very name of Helen had something intoxicating for him, like the perfume of a hyacinth, and contributed still farther to make this ideal image dear to him. Then there had come a time when Aunt Berkow had for a while usurped the throne in his heart, becoming to him the personification of all that is highest and fairest in woman; when a kind word of Melitta, a simple: You dear boy! or a passing caress from her soft white hand could have sent him to brave every kind of deadly danger. It was just at the time when Oswald first came to Grenwitz, that this enthusiasm for Aunt Berkow had been at its highest. He had treated Melitta's son like a younger brother, as he was in the habit of treating the mother, in her youthful beauty, like an elder sister. Melitta used in those days to come quite frequently to Grenwitz, and to bring Julius, and Bemperlein, always mindful of his pupil's interests and pleasures, did all in his power to foster this intercourse; thus Bruno had constant opportunities of seeing Aunt Berkow, of rendering her a hundred little services, to wait on her like a page, when she mounted her horse or wanted somebody to hold her hat, her gloves, or her riding-whip. Aunt Berkow was in those days incessantly on his lips, and Oswald had had no objection to his telling him countless stories, in which Aunt Berkow invariably played the principal part Melitta had no doubt contributed largely to the rapid development of the boy, who passed in a few months through stages which detain less fiery characters for years. It is a very common error which women commit, to fancy that they can treat boys, who are almost men already, still as children, and permit them certain liberties which, a year hence, would be utterly inadmissible. They do not bear in mind that a young man's heart is, at that age, in a state of morning dawn, which may be disturbed by the slightest touch--a slow fire, glimmering almost unseen in the green wood, which the least puff of wind may fan into a blaze. They would be distressed if they were told that they had, in all innocence, destroyed the innocence of a friend, and yet that is but too often what they are doing.

Melitta saw herself, at last, that she could no longer put Bruno on the same footing with Julius, or even with Malte, as she had done heretofore, and when she now was speaking of the "boys," she meant exclusively the latter two. She had commenced treating Bruno like a friend or a younger brother; like a page who for the present does woman's service, but who at need may be called upon to show his brave heart and his strong arm. And indeed Bruno was so powerfully built that in any personal conflict the odds would have been with him as a matter of course. The classic statue of a Mercury, a Bacchus, or a youthful Faun could not have been more symmetrically formed or more delicately modelled than Bruno's lithe and yet powerful figure. His mere walk was a pleasure to an experienced eye. Oswald, whom nature had endowed with a keen sense of the beautiful, was delighted when he saw Bruno, before taking his bath near the sea-shore, leap lightly from rock to rock, with an accuracy which admitted of no doubt or fear, and then plunge headlong into the waves from the last projecting cliff. Bruno, in fact, knew no danger, and refused to see it where others trembled. Whenever a venture, was to be risked, from which everybody shrank, when a runaway horse was to be checked, a cherry to be reached on the topmost branch of a tree, or a ditch to be leaped which seemed to be impassable--Bruno would undertake it at once; he trembled with eagerness, his cheeks burnt, he cast imploring glances at those he loved, and they could not refuse him. They let him go, for they knew he could do more than others. Such was Bruno: a youth rather than a boy, with a fire in his heart that could have warmed a world.

Thus he saw Helen.

And all the melodies that had been slumbering within him awoke, and all that he dreamt of as most lovely and beautiful, stood bodily before him. The boy hardly trusted his own eyes; he was dazzled, almost intoxicated; he was like a person who awakes from a beautiful dream to a still more beautiful reality, and dares not speak, or breathe, in order not to lose what he thinks may be merely an illusion of his senses. Thus when the family first returned he went about the house as in a dream, mild and kind towards everybody, contrary to his usual manner. But then the blissful dream vanished, and his delight at the glorious reality became almost painful. He had never been at peace with himself, and his heart had ever been heavy; now he became the victim of unceasing restlessness, which deprived him of sleep, and hunger and thirst, which burnt within him like a fierce fever, and his poor heart felt like a man who carries what is dearest to him on earth on his shoulders, trying to escape from the enemy, and dreading every moment to be overtaken and spoilt. He dared not utter Helen's name for fear of betraying himself; he dared not open his eyes before her, and yet he saw everything that happened, and the plan of the baroness was no secret to him. His hatred of Felix was boundless, and he took no pains to conceal his feelings. He defied the rouÉ on every occasion by scornful or satirical remarks, always hoping Felix would at last take up the gauntlet; but the ex-lieutenant, like most people who despise the world and themselves, submitted to much, and replied to the boy's sarcasm with more or less clever witticisms, so that he always kept the laugh on his side. And then he had, on the other hand, far too good an opinion of himself to enter into a serious contest with an adversary whom he thought so far beneath himself. Matters would not have come to a point, even on the preceding night, if he had not been so very angry with Bruno, or if Bruno had expressed himself a little less violently.

And Felix might have congratulated himself that he had escaped so well from the encounter. He had been nearer to death than he thought. Bruno had been maddened by the events of the last days, and Felix's brutal treatment made the vessel of his indignation and hatred to overflow. And now that the lava stream had once broken through the crater, what could stop it on its destructive course? While Bruno was for a moment contending with Felix, and as he knelt on his breast, there was but one bloody red thought in the darkness of his soul: that Felix must die by his hand; that God had delivered him into his hand so that he might, at any cost, free the woman he worshipped from the monster he abhorred. A few minutes, a few seconds, perhaps, and Felix would never have risen again.

Just then Bruno had been startled in his terrible thoughts by a cry close by him. Looking up, he had caught a glimpse of a female figure, which he had at first taken for Helen. He had released his victim and risen. The person had moved away; he had followed her till she had vanished in the direction of the offices, and he had found out his mistake. To fall once more upon his enemy, after having abandoned him, seemed to be unmanly to him; he saw how Felix rose at last, after several painful efforts. That had contented him; he had stolen away to his chamber and his bed, his soul free from the guilt of murder. And yet he was as much excited as if he had shed blood. His heart was beating, his pulse went quick, and burning heat and cold chills alternated with each other. The confused image of the scene of his conflict ever presented itself to his mind, and the triumph of having conquered his deadly enemy was sadly embittered by the recollection that, after all, Helen was not free yet. This caused him far more suffering than the violent pains he felt in his side as soon as he became quiet again; they would not cease; on the contrary, they grew worse and worse, and seemed to spread from the small point where they had first commenced in all directions.

It was a long, painful night for the unfortunate boy, this short summer night. Towards morning his exhaustion made him fall into a state which only differed from waking by the increased horrors that filled his brain. He started up, aroused by pain; he tried to rise in order to wake Oswald, who slept next door (Malte had been sleeping down stairs for some weeks), but he could not. At last--his pride resisted for a long time--he called Oswald's name. A few moments more and Oswald was by his bedside.

He started as he saw the boy, whose face was sadly disfigured by his sufferings. His black hair hung in dishevelled locks over his pale face; his dark eyes had sunk deep into the head and were burning with fever.

"Give me some water!" said Bruno, as soon as he saw Oswald.

"For heaven's sake, what does this mean, Bruno?" cried Oswald, while the boy was eagerly draining the glass he had handed him. "Why did you not call me before? you never yet have had so bad an attack."

"It is not one of my usual attacks," said Bruno; "but it will soon pass; I am better already. Don't trouble yourself, Oswald; when I am lying on my side I feel it much less, hardly at all. It was only so bad during the night; now that you are here, and the sun shines, it will be better directly."

"Somebody must go for Doctor Braun directly," said Oswald, starting up.

"No, no!" Bruno begged; "don't do that. You know how I dislike that. Nobody is up yet in the house, I am sure; you would only have your trouble for nothing, and then--I want to ask you something. Come, sit down again on the bed. I feel I shall not be able to get up, and this letter must reach Helen at once."

Oswald thought Bruno was delirious; he felt his pulse instinctively.

Bruno smiled. It was a sad smile.

"No, no!" he said. "Don't fear; I am perfectly conscious; just listen, and you will see that what I say is quite clear and coherent."

Bruno then reminded Oswald that he had said from the beginning Felix had come to win Helen. Until yesterday he had had no absolute proof of this, but since yesterday he was sure of it. He told him then how he had in the afternoon sauntered down to his favorite place in the garden, the old chapel, where he was wont to indulge in his reveries, and how voices near by had roused him from the slumber into which he had fallen during the heat of the day. He explained to him the manner in which he had obtained possession of the letter, and how his desire to return it at night to Helen, when she was, as usual, playing near the open window, had brought about his encounter with Felix.

These passionate but clear and convincing words made naturally a profound impression on Oswald. To-morrow, then, the fearful sacrifice was to be made, and yet she herself knew probably nothing of it. They evidently wished to take her by surprise--to force her to make a promise which she would afterwards be too proud to take back again. And what could this letter mean, which was evidently directed in Helen's handwriting, and had been sealed with her signet ring--how could the baroness lose her daughter's letter? It was not difficult to see that there was treason in this, and that it was absolutely necessary to return the letter to Helen, so that she might know the weapons with which she was to be attacked, and might be enabled to prepare herself for the impending crisis. The only question was, how the letter could reach Helen? Bruno wanted Oswald to carry it himself to her, and to tell her at the same time what Bruno had heard during the conversation of the baroness with Felix. But Oswald declared such a thing utterly out of question; Bruno, as a near relative and acknowledged favorite, might risk such an indiscretion, but he, a stranger, could not possibly venture to allude to such delicate matters.

"But," cried Bruno, "I thought you were her friend, I thought you were fond of her? And yet here her whole life and happiness are at stake, and you refuse to help her because it is not etiquette to do this and that! Just think of it--if they make her say yes! It will drive me mad; I shall not survive it."

"And yet, Bruno, I cannot speak about such a matter,--not I."

"Why not you?"

"Because--I told you, because I am a stranger; because she might say to me: Sir, what is that to you? I will give her the letter; it is her property, and she has a right to expect that the finder should restore it to her as soon as possible. Don't you see, too, that this one fact speaks volumes? She will know at once what she may expect from the other side, and the attack will find her forewarned."

"Then you will give her the letter?"

"Yes, I will, and at once. I presume she will come down to take her usual morning walk. But how are you?"

"Better, much better!" said Bruno, suffering agonizing pain, but fearing Oswald might lose his opportunity to see Helen, "much better! If I press my hand to my side thus, I hardly feel any pain. Make haste and go into the garden and listen! Give her my love and don't tell her I am sick! Say I am a little unwell--you know I am not really sick."

The boy sank back on his bed and tried to smile at Oswald. But it was a smile full of pain, and when the door had closed behind Oswald, Bruno hid his face in the pillows to smother his deep groans, the effect of his heart's anguish as much as of his bodily pain.