What more have I to write? I fired no shot for many days; I had no food, and did not eat at all; I sat in my shed. Eva was carried to the church in Herr Mack’s white-painted house-boat. I went there overland on foot . . .

Eva is dead. Do you remember her little girlish head, with hair like a nun’s? She came so quietly, laid down her head and smiled. And did you see how full of life that smile was? Be still, ?sop; I remember a strange saga story, of four generations ago, of Iselin’s time, when Stamer was a priest.

A girl sat captive in a stone tower. She loved a lord. Why? Ask the winds and the stars, ask the God of life, for there is none that knows such things. The lord was her friend and lover; but time went on, and one fine day he saw another and his liking changed.

Like a youth he loved his maid. Often he called her his blessing and his dove, and said: “Give me your heart!” And she did so. He said: “May I ask for something, love?” And, wild with joy, she answered “Yes.” And she gave him all, and yet he did not thank her.

The other he loved as a slave, as a madman and a beggar. Why? Ask the dust of the road and the leaves that fall, ask the mysterious God of life, for there is no other that knows such things. She gave him nothing — no, nothing did she give him — and yet he thanked her. She said, “Give me your peace and your understanding!” and he was only sorry that she did not ask his life.

And his maid was set in the tower . . .

“What do you there, maiden, sitting and smiling?”

“I think of something ten years back. It was then I met him.”

“You remember him still?”

“I remember him still.”

And time goes on.

“What do you there, maiden? And why do you sit and smile?”

“I am embroidering his name on a cloth.”

“Whose name? His who shut you up here?”