Nothing is left of the world save these two and
the night which maternally conceals them--he and she, naught else, like
Adam and Eve, when they were the only human dwellers in Paradise.
A damp branch of the bushes often brushed Ada's shoulders like an
affectionate, caressing hand, as she slowly passed along. Now and then
a bird whose nest was in the underbrush, disturbed in its sleep,
fluttered up before them, and, stupid with slumber, flew to a
neighboring bough. Ada sometimes plucked a flower, or cautiously
touched with her finger one of the little glow worms, which in great
numbers edged the path with their greenish light. They went down to
the Main and back again to the park fence, facing Marktbreit. Just as
they reached it the clock struck one, and the night watchman blew his
horn, and again solemnly intoned his old-fashioned melody:
"One thing, Lord God of truth, we want;
A happy death to us all grant."
The full magic of the moment held them both in its thrall. Bergmann
passionately clasped Ada's head between his hands, and pressed a long,
ardent kiss on her golden hair and her white brow.
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