CHAPTER XIII.

Spring was past, and again the summer led me and Ann back into the green
wood. Aunt Jacoba's sickness was no whit amended, and the banishment of
her only and comely son gnawed at her heart; but the more she needed
tending and cheering the more Ann could do for her and the dearer she
became to the heart of the sick woman.

Kunz was ever in Venice. Herdegen wrote right loving letters at first
from Padua, but then they came less often, and the last Ann ever had to
show me was a mere feint which pleased me ill indeed, inasmuch as, albeit
it was full of big words, it was empty of tidings of his life or of his
heart's desire. What all this must mean Ann, with her clear sense and
true love, could not fail to see; nevertheless she ceased not from
building on her lover's truth; or, if she did not, she hid that from all
the world, even from me.

We came from the forest earlier than we were wont, on Saint Maurice's
day, forasmuch as that Ann could not be longer spared and, now more than
ever, I could not bear to leave her alone.

Uncle Christian rode to the town with us, and if he had before loved her
well, in this last long time of our all being together he had taken her
yet more into his heart. And now, whereas he had given her the right to
warn him against taking too much wine, he was fain to call her his little
watchman, by reason that it is the watchman's part to give warning of the
enemy's onset.

But while Ann was so truly beloved at the Forest lodge, on her return