hard, red cheeks, shaded her pleasant eyes with her hand.

The play began. It depicted the rising in the Tyrol of 1809: the village
life, dances and yodelling; murmurings and exhortations, the warning
beat of drums; then the gathering, with flintlocks, pitchforks, knives;
the battle and victory; the homecoming, and festival. Then the second
gathering, the roar of cannon; betrayal, capture, death. The impassive
figure of the patriot Andreas Hofer always in front, black-bearded,
leathern-girdled, under the blue sky, against a screen of mountains.

Harz and Christian sat behind the others. He seemed so intent on the
play that she did not speak, but watched his face, rigid with a kind of
cold excitement; he seemed to be transported by the life passing before
them. Something of his feeling seized on her; when the play was over she
too was trembling. In pushing their way out they became separated from
the others.

"There's a short cut to the station here," said Christian; "let's go
this way."

The path rose a little; a narrow stream crept alongside the meadow, and
the hedge was spangled with wild roses. Christian kept glancing shyly
at the painter. Since their meeting on the river wall her thoughts had
never been at rest. This stranger, with his keen face, insistent eyes,
and ceaseless energy, had roused a strange feeling in her; his words had
put shape to something in her not yet expressed. She stood aside at a
stile to make way for some peasant boys, dusty and rough-haired, who
sang and whistled as they went by.

"I was like those boys once," said Harz.