Just at that moment people were coming toward the church. Hans hurried
up to them, to find out what was the trouble, while Marie waited.
"Where have you been, that you don't know? Why, yonder in the market
place the notice was read--'the Emperor is dead!'" they cried.
"The Emperor is dead?"
There stood Hans, paralyzed. All his hopes seemed shattered. As soon as
quiet reigned again, he returned to Marie, and seated himself on a
bench. Leaning his head in uncontrollable grief against the slender stem
of the rose-bush, he moaned aloud: "Oh, my Emperor, my dear, good
Emperor, why did you leave me?" Lightly Marie touched his shoulder in
sympathy.
The last rays of the setting sun had now departed. The last tones of the
dirge had died away. Everything was still and deserted, as if there
could never again be spring.
"Oh, Marie!" lamented Hans, hopelessly, "the King will never come
again."
"Bear up," said Marie, "for we have each other." And as she gazed far
off in the twilight, her eyes seemed like two exiled stars, yearningly
seeking their home.
As Hans gazed at her, standing there before him with her hands crossed
over her breast, in all her purity and humility, a great joy lit up his
countenance. He folded his hands, inspired.
"Marie," he whispered, "let us not despair. In this very moment I have
received an inspiration, and if I can bring to pass that which I now see
in my mind's eye, I shall be an artist who will need the help of no one
--not even an Emperor.
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