When he was beginning for the fourth
time, he suddenly remembered that he was not alone, and that
Schrotter was sitting there watching him. He folded the letter in
confusion. He had not the courage to say anything, or even to look
at his friend, but dropped his hands and his head, and cast down his
miserable eyes.
Schrotter was the first to break the silence.
"I must beg you once more to forgive me for opening the letter. Of
course, I could not have an idea--"
"No," said Wilhelm in a low voice, "it is for me to ask your
forgiveness for not having been open with you. But I had every
intention of making good my fault. It was for that I asked you to
meet me at Wittenberg."
"Spare yourself the telling of anything that might be painful to
you," said Schrotter, with kindly forethought. "I can guess the
drift of it, and now understand your last letter. I thought you
would probably be in a frame of mind to need a friend near you, and
so I came without delay."
"I will not leave you to guess anything," Wilhelm returned, and
pressed Schrotter's hand. "I will tell you all; it is an absolute
necessity to me, and will, at the same time, be a kind of
atonement."
And he began his confession in a low, dull voice, and with downcast
eyes, like a sinner acknowledging a shameful deed, and Schrotter
listened to him gravely and in silence, like a priest before whom
some poor oppressed soul is casting down its burden of guilt.
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