"Right, Hanna, thus we both separate, firmly and gladly and happily, whatever happens."
"Yes," she replied quietly, "thus we separate, firmly and gladly and happily."
Now there was something strong and resolute in her face again, which had attracted his attention at the time of their first meeting here in the pipe leaf arbor and which he had so loved in her since then. No further syllable was spoken, no kiss exchanged, the hour was too holy, too serious for that. Nothing had happened but that in this difficult, holy time, the young tendrils had entangled themselves into a great love, firm and untearable, in faithfulness until death.
But even when they spoke about death, as lovers always do and as these days brought about as something natural, in truth, neither thought about death. Nothing was in them but a warm, insurmountable feeling of life,
---204---
nothing but the blissful consciousness of one being in the other and remaining in him, even if he went into the bloody war to-morrow or the day after to-morrow and she cared for her wounded here in the quiet parsonage.
He had lowered himself onto a bench; the standing had weakened him even more than he wanted to let himself notice. "Everything will be well once I am out there again," he said, "especially now when I feel so strong, so happy."
