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During the first days of his new wandering life, in the first greedy whirl ained freedom, Goldmund had to relearn to live the homeless, timeless life of the traveler. Obedient to no man, depe only oher and season, without a goal before them or a roof above them, owning nothing, open to every whim of fate, the homeless wanderers lead their childlike, brave, shabby existehey are the sons of Adam, who was driven out of Paradise; the brothers of the animals, of innoce. Out of heavens hand they accept what is given them from moment to moment: sun, rain, fog, snow, warmth, cold, fort, and hardship; time does for them aher does history, or ambition, or that bizarre idol called progress and evolution, in which houseowners believe so desperately. A wayfarer may be delicate or crude, artful or awkward, brave or cowardly—he is always a child at heart, living in the first day of creation, before the beginning of the history of the world, his life always guided by a few simple instincts and needs. He may be intelligent or stupid; he may be deeply aware of the fleeting fragility of all living things, of how pettily and fearfully each living creature carries its bit of warm blood through the glaciers of ic space, or he may merely follow the ands of his poor stomach with childlike greed—he is always the oppo, the deadly enemy of the established proprietor, who hates him, despises him, or fears him, because he does not wish to be remihat all existence is transitory, that life is stantly wilting, that merciless icy death fills the os all around.The childlike life of the wanderer, its mother-in, its turning away from law and mind, its openness and sta intimacy with death had long since deeply impregnated and molded Goldmunds soul. But mind and will lived within him heless; he was an artist, and this made his life rid difficult. Any life expands and flowers only through division and tradi. What are reason and sobriety without the knowledge of intoxication? What is sensuality without death standing behind it? What is love without the eternal mortal enmity of the sexes?
Summer sank away, and autumn; painfully Goldmund struggled through the bitter months, wandered drunkenly through the sweet-smelling spring. Hastily the seasons fled; again and again high summer sun sank down. Years passed. Goldmund seemed to have fotten that there were other things oh besides hunger and love, and this silent, eerie onrush of the seasons; he seemed pletely drowned iherly, instinctive basic world. But in his dreams or his thought-filled moments of rest, overlooking a fl or wilting valley, he was all eyes, an artist. He longed desperately to halt the gracefully drifting nonsense of life with his mind and transform it into sense.
One day he found a panion. After his bloody adveh Viktor he raveled any way but by himself, yet this man surreptitiously attached himself to him and he could not get rid of him for quite some time. This man was not like Viktor. He ilgrim who had been to Rome, a still young man, wearing pilgrims cloak and hat. His name was Robert and his home was on Lake stance. Robert was the son of an artisan. For a time he had attehe school of the St. Gallus monks, and while still a boy had made up his mind to go on a pilgrimage to Rome. It was his favorite ambition and he seized the first opportunity to carry it out. This opportunity preseself with the death of his father, in whose shop he had worked as a etmaker. The old man was hardly uhe ground when Robert annouo his mother and sister that nothing could stop him from setting out on his pilgrimage to Rome, to satisfy his urge and atone for his and his fathers sins. In vain the women plained; in vain they scolded. He remaiubborn, and instead of taking care of them, he set out on his journey without his mothers blessing and with the curses of his sister. He was driven mainly by a desire to travel, and to this was added a kind of superficial piety, an ination to linger in the viity of churches and churchly rituals, a delight in masses, baptisms, burials, inse, and burning dles. He knew a little Latin, but his childish soul was not striving for learning but rather for plation and quiet adoration in the shadows of church vaults. He had been a passionately zealous altar boy. Goldmund did not take him very seriously, but he liked him. He felt a slight kinship with his instinctive surreo wandering and new places. At the time of his fathers death, Robert had tentedly set out and had indeed reached Rome, where he had accepted the hospitality of cloisters and parsonages, looked at the mountains and at the south a very happy. He had heard hundreds of masses, prayed at all famous holy places, received the sacraments, and breathed in more inse than his small youthful sins and those of his father required. He had stayed away for a year or more, and when he finally returned aered his fathers little house, he was hardly received like the prodigal son. His sister had meaakehe duties and privileges of the household. She had hired and then married an industrious etmakers assistant, and ruled over house and workshop so thhly that the returned pilgrim soon realized he was not needed. When he mentioned setting out oravels, no one asked him to stay. He did not take it too much to heart. His mave him a few pennies, and agai on pilgrims clothes a out without a goal, straight through the empire, a half-priestly vagrant. Copper souvenir s from well-known pilgrim shrines and blessed rosaries tinkled around his body.
He met Goldmund, wandered with him for a day, exged wayfarers memories with him, disappeared in the small town, reappeared here and there, and finally stayed with him, an amiable, dependable traveling panion. Goldmund pleased him greatly. He wooed his favor with small services, admired his knowledge, his audacity, his mind, and loved his health, strength, and frankness. They got used to each other, and Goldmund was also easy to get along with. There was only ohing he would not tolerate: when his melancholy and brooding moods seized him, he remaiubbornly silent and ighe other man as though he did . During these moods one could her chat nor ask questions nor sole Goldmund; one had to let him be and remain silent. Robert was not long in learning this. He had noticed that Goldmund knew a lot of Latin verses and songs by heart. He had heard him explaione figures outside the portals of a cathedral, had seen him draw life-size figures on ay wall in rapid, bold strokes, ahought his panion was a favorite of God and practically a magi. Robert also saw that Goldmund was a favorite of women and could obtain their favors with a gland a smile; though he liked this less well, still he had to admire him for it.
One day their journey was interrupted in an ued mahey were approag a village when they were received by a small group of peasants armed with cudgels, poles, and flails. From far off the leader shouted to them that they should turn around at ond never e back, that they should run like the devil or else theyd be beaten to death. Goldmund stopped and wished to know what this was all about; the reply was a stone against his chest. He turo Robert, but Robert had already started running. The peasants advahreateningly, and Goldmund had no choice but to follow his fleeing panion. Trembling, Robert waited for him under a crucifix in the middle of a field.
"You ran like a hero," laughed Goldmund. "But what do those pigs have ihick heads? Is there a war on? To place armed sentinels outside their rotten little town, refusing to let people in—I wonder what it all means."
Robert didnt kher. But certain experiences in an isolated farmhouse the m made them guess the secret. The farm, which sisted of a hut, a stable, and a barn surrounded by a green crop with high grass and many fruit trees, lay strangely still and asleep: there were no voices, no footfalls, no children screaming, no scythes being sharpened, not a sound. In the courtyard, a cow stood in the grass, lowing furiously. It was obviously time to milk her. They stepped up to the door, knocked, received no answer, walked into the stable; it en and abahey went to t<var></var>he barn. On its straw roof, light green moss glistened in the sun—but they didnt find a soul there either. They walked back to the house, astonished and depressed by the deserted homestead. Several times they hammered against the door with their fists; no answer. Goldmund tried to open it. To his surprise he found it unlocked, and he pushed aered the pitch-dark room. "God bless you," he called loudly. "Nobody home?" The hut remained silent. Robert stayed outside. Impelled by curiosity, Goldmund advanced further. There was a bad smell i, a strange, disgusting smell. The hearth was full of ash. He blew into it: sparks still gleamed at the bottom under charred logs. Theiced someoting in the half light beside the hearth. Someone was sitting there in an armchair, asleep: it looked like an old woman. Calling did no good: the house seemed to be under a spell. With a friendly tap he touched the seated woman on the shoulder, but she did not stir and he saw that she was sitting in a cobweb, with threads running from her hair to her . "She is dead," he thought with a slight shudder. To make sure, he tried to revive the fire, scratched and blew until a flame shot up and he was able to light a long piece of kindling. He held it up to the woman and saw a blue-black cadavers fader gray hair, one eye still open, stariy and leaden. The woman had died sitting in the chair. Well, she was beyond help.
With the burning sti his hand, Goldmund searched further. In the same room, across the threshold to a ba, he found another corpse, a boy perhaps eight or nine, with a swollen, disfigured face, dressed only in a shirt. He lay with his belly across the doorsill, both hands ched in firm furious little fists. The sed ohought Goldmund. As though in a hideous dream, he walked into the ba. There the shutters were open, the daylight p in. Carefully he extinguished his tord ground the sparks out on the floor.
There were three beds in the ba. One was empty, and the straw peeked out from under cray sheets. In the sed bed another person, a bearded man, lay stiffly on his back, his head bent backward and his and beard pointing at the ceiling; it robably the farmer. His haggard face shimmered faintly in unfamiliar colors of death, one arm dangling to the floor, where ahen water jug had been pushed over. The water had run out and had not yet been pletely absorbed by the floor; it had run into a hollow and made a small puddle. In the sed bed, pletely entangled is and bla, lay a big, husky woman. Her face ressed into the bed, and coarse, straw-blond hair glistened in the bright light. With her, ed around her as though caught and throttled iousled linen, lay a half-grown girl as straw-blond as she, with gray-blue stains in her dead face.
Goldmunds eyes traveled from corpse to corpse. The girls face was already terribly disfigured, but he could see something of her helpless horror of death. In the ned hair of the mother, who had dug herself so deeply into the bed, one could read rage, fear, and a passionate desire to flee, especially in the wild hair, which could nn itself to dying. The farmers face showed stubbornness and held-in pain. He had died a hard death, but his bearded rose steeply, rigidly into the air like that of a warrior lying otlefield. His quiet, taut, stubbornly trolled posture was beautiful; it had probably not been a petty, cowardly man who had received death in this manner. Most toug was the little corpse of the boy lying on its belly across the threshold. The face told nothing, but the posture across the threshold and the ched child fists told a great deal: inprehensible suffering, unavailing struggle against unheard-of pain. Beside his head, a cat hole had been sawed into the doldmund examined everything attentively. The sights in this hut were ghastly and the stench of the corpses dreadful; still, it all held a deep attra for him. Everything spoke of greatness, of fate. It was real, unpromising. Something about it stirred his heart arated his soul.
Robert had begun calling him from outside, with impatiend fear. Goldmund was fond of Robert, but at this momehought how petty and cheap a living person could be in his childish fear and curiosity, pared to the nobility of the dead. He did not answer Roberts calls; he gave himself pletely to the sight of the dead, with that strange mixture of heart-felt passion and cold observation of the artist. He took in all the details: the sprawled-out figures, their heads and hands, the patterns in which they had frozen. How still it was in the spellbound hut, and what a straerrible smell! How sad and ghostlike was this small home, with the remains of the hearth fire still glowing, inhabited by corpses, pletely filled with death, peed by death. Soon the flesh would fall off these quiet faces; rats would eat the bodies. What other people performed in the privacy of their coffins, in the graves, well hidden and invisible, the last and poorest performahis falling apart and deg, erformed here at home by five people in their rooms, in broad daylight, behind an unlocked door, thoughtlessly, shamelessly, vulnerably. Goldmund had seen many corpses, but never an example like this of the merciless ws of death. Deeply he studied it.
Finally Roberts yelling outside the house began to disturb him, and he went out. His panion looked at him with fright.
"What happened?" he asked in a low, fear-strangled voice. "Isnt there anyone in the house? Oh, and what eyes you have! Say something!"
Goldmund measured him coolly.
"Go in.. and take a look. This is a strange farmhouse all right. Afterward well milk the beautiful cow over there. Go ahead!"
Hesitantly Robert ehe hut, discovere<samp>.9９liｂ.</samp>d the old woman sitting at the hearth, a out a loud scream when he realized that she was dead. As he came out, he was wide-eyed with fright.
"For heavens sake! A dead woman is sitting there by the hearth. How it be? Why isnt ah her? Why dont they bury her? Oh God, shes already begun to smell."
Goldmund smiled.
"Youre a great hero, Robert; but you came back out too fast. A dead old woman sitting in a chair like that is indeed a strange sight; but if youd walked a few steps farther, youd see something straill. There are five corpses, Robert. Three in bed, a dead boy lying across the threshold, and the old woman. Theyre all dead, the entire family. The whole household is gohats why nobody milked the cow."
Horrified, Robert stared at him and suddenly cried in a choking voice: "Now I uand why the peasants didnt want to let us into their village yesterday. Oh God, now its all clear to me. The plague! By my poor soul, its the plague, Goldmund, and youve stayed in there all this time, maybe you even touched those corpses! Get away, dont e near me, Im sure youre ied. Im soldmund, but I must go, I t stay with you."
He turo run but was held back by his pilgrims cloak. Goldmund looked at him sternly, with silent reprimand, and mercilessly held on to the man, who pulled and tugged.
"My dear little boy," he said in a friendly-ironie, "youre more intelligent than one might think, youre probably right. Well, well find out in the farm or village. Yes, its probably the plague. Well see if we escape it safe and sound. But, little Robert, I t let you run away now. Look, I have a soft heart, much too soft, and when I think that you might have inated yourself in there I ot let you run off to lie down somewhere in a field and die, all alone, with no oo close your eyes and dig you a grave and throw a bit of earth over you. No, dear friend, that would be too sad to bear. Listen then, and pay careful attention to what I am saying, because Im not going to say it twice: we two are in the same danger; it hit you or it hit me. Therefore we are staying together; we will either perish together or escape this cursed plague together. If you fall ill and die, Ill bury you; thats a promise. And if I die, then you do as you please: you bury me or run off; I dont care. But until then, my friend, no one runs off, remember that! We need each other. And now shut your trap; I dont want to hear another word. Now go and find a bucket somewhere iable so that we milk the cow."
They did this, and from that moment on Goldmund anded and Robert obeyed, and both fared well for it. Robert made no more attempts to flee. He only said soothingly: "Yhtened me for a moment. I didnt like your face when you came out of that house of death. I thought you had caught the plague. And even if it isnt the plague, your face has ged pletely. Was it so terrible, what you saw in there?"
"It was not terrible," Goldmund said slowly. "I saw nothing ihat does not await you and me and everybody, even if we dont catch the plague."
As they wandered on, the Black Death was everywhere they went, reigning over the land. Some villages did not let strangers in; others let them walk unhihrough every street. Many farms stood deserted; many unburied corpses lay rotting in the fields and in the houses. Unmilked cows lowed and starved in stables; other livestock ran wild in the fields. They milked and fed many a cow and goat; they killed and roasted many a goatlet let at the edge of the forest and drank wine and cider in many a masterless cellar. They had a good life. There was abundance everywhere. But it tasted only half good to them. Robert lived in stant fear of the disease, and he felt sick at the sight of the corpses. Often he was pletely beside himself with fear. Again and agaihought that he had caught the plague, and held his head and hands in the smoke of their campfire for a long time, for this was supposed to be a preventative, a his body (even in his sleep) to see if bumps were f on his legs or in his armpits.
Goldmund often scolded and made fun of him. He did not share his fear or his disgust. Fasated and depressed, he walked through the stri try, attracted by the sight of the great death, his soul filled with the autumn, his heart heavy with the song of the mowing scythe. Sometimes the image of the universal mother would reappear to him, a pale, gigantic face with Medusa eyes and a smile thick with suffering ah.
One day they came to a small town that was heavily fortified. Outside the gates defensive ramparts ran house-high around the ey wall, but there was ianding up there or at the wide-open gates. Robert refused to ehe town, and he implored his panion not to go iher. Just then a bell tolled. A priest came out of the city gates, a cross in his hands, and behind him came three carts, two drawn by horses and one by a pair of oxen. The carts were piled high with corpses. A couple of men in strange coats, their faces shrouded in hoods, ran alongside and spurred the animals on.
Robert disappeared, white-faced. Goldmund followed the death carts at a short distahey advanced a few hueps farther; there was ery: a hole had been dug in the middle of the deserted heath, only three spades deep but vast as a hall. Goldmund stood and looked on as the men pulled the corpses from the carts with staffs and boat hooks and tossed them into the vast hole. He saw the murmuring priest swing his cross over them and walk away, saw the men light huge fires all around the flat grave and silently creep bato the city. No one had tried to throw ah over the pit. Goldmund looked in: fifty or more persons lay there, piled one on top of the other, many of them naked. Stiff and acg, an arm or a leg rose in the air, a shirt fluttered timidly in the wind.
When he came back, Robert begged him almost on his ko flee this place. He had good reason to beg, for he saw in Goldmunds absent look the absorption in and tration on horror, that dreadful curiosity that had bee all too familiar. He was not able to hold his friend back. Alone, Goldmund walked into the town.
He walked through the unguarded gates, and at the echo of his steps many towns and gates rose up in his memory. He remembered how he had walked through them, how he had been received by screaming children, playing boys, quarreling women, the hammering of a fe, the crystal sound of the anvil, the rattling of carts and many other sounds, delicate and coarse, all braided together as though into a web that bore wito many forms of human labor, joy, bustle, and unication. Here, uhis yellow gate, in this empty street, nothing echoed, no one laughed, no one cried, everything lay frozen ihly silence, cut by the overloud, almost noisy chatter of a running well. Behind an open window he saw a baker amid his loafs and rolls. Goldmund poio a roll; the baker carefully ha out to him on a long baking shovel, waited <bdo>.</bdoldmund to place money into the shovel, and angrily, but without cursing, closed his little window wheranger bit into the roll and walked on without paying. Before the windows of a pretty house stood a row of earthen jars in which flowers had once bloomed. Now wilted leaves hung down over scraps of pottery. From another house came the sound of sobbing, the misery of childrens voices g. In the street Goldmund saretty girl standing behind an upper-floor window, bing her hair. He watched her until she felt his eyes and looked down, blushing, and when he gave her a friendly smile, slowly a faint smile spread over her blushing face.
"Soon through bing?" he called up. Smiling, she leaned her light face out of the darkness of the window.
"Not sick yet?" he asked, and she shook her head. "Then leave this city of death with me. Well go into the woods and live a good life."
Her eyes asked questions.
"Dont think it over too long. I mean it," Goldmund called up to her. "Are you with your father and mother, or are you in the service of strangers? Strangers, I see. e along then, dear child. Let the old people die; we are young ahy and want to have a bit of fun while theres still time. e along, little brown hair, I mean it."
She gave him a probing look, hesitant and surprised. Slowly he walked on, strolled through a deserted street and through another. Slowly he came back. The girl was still at the window, leaning flad to see him return. She waved to him. Slowly he walked on, and soon she came running after him, caught up with him before the gates, a small bundle in her hand, a red kerchief tied around her head.
"Whats your name?" he asked.
"Lene. Ill go with you. Oh, its so horrible here iy; everybody is dying. Lets leave. Lets leave."
Not far from the gates Robert was croug moodily on the ground. When Goldmund appeared, he jumped to his feet and stared when he caught sight of the girl. This time he did not give in at once. He whined and made a se. How could a man bring a person with him from that cursed plague hole and impose her pany on his panion? It was not only crazy, it was tempting God. He, Robert, was not going to stay with him any longer; his patience had e to an end.
Goldmu him curse and lament until he found nothing more to say.
"There," he said, "now youve sung your song. Now youll e with us, and be glad that we have such pretty pany. Her name is Lene and she stays with me. But I want to do you a favor too, Robert. Listen: for a while well live in pead health and stay away from the plague. Well find a nice place for ourselves, ay hut, or well build one, and Ill be the head of the household and Lene will be the mistress, and youll be our friend and live with us. Our life is going to be a little pleasant and friendly now. All right?"
Oh yes, Robert was delighted. As long as no one asked him to shake Lenes hand or touch her clothes …
No, said Goldmund, no one would ask him to. In fact, it was strictly forbidden to touch Lene, even with a finger. "Dont you dare!"
All three walked on, first in silehen gradually the girl began to talk. Hoy she was to see sky and trees and meadows again. It had been so gruesome in the plague-stri city, more horrible than she could tell. And she began to clear her heart of all the sad, horrible things she had seen. She told so many awful stories: the little town must have been hell. One of the two doctors had died; the other only looked after the rich. In many houses the dead lay rotting, because nobody came to take them away. In other houses looters stole, pillaged, and whored. Often they pulled the sick from their beds, threw them onto the death carts with the corpses, and down into the pit of the dead. Many a horror tale she had to tell, and no oerrupted her. Robert listened with voluptuous terroldmund silent and unruffled, letting the horrors pour out and making no ent. What was there to say? Finally Lene grew tired, the stream dried up, she was out of words.
Goldmund began to walk more slowly. Softly he began to sing, a song with many couplets, and with each couplet his voice grew fuller. Lene began to smile; Robert listened, delighted and deeply surprised. Never before had he heard Goldmund sing. He could do everything, this Goldmund. There he was singing, strange man! He sang well; his voice ure, though muffled. At the sed song Lene was humming with him, and soon she joined in with full voice. Evening was ing on. Black forests rose up far over the heath, and behind them low blue mountains, which grew bluer and bluer as though from within. Now gay, now solemn, their song followed the rhythm of their steps.
"Youre in such a good mood today," said Robert.
"Of course Im in a good mood today, I found such a pretty love. Oh, Lene, how hat the ghouls left you behind for me. Tomorrow well find a little house where well have a good life and be happy to have flesh and boill together. Lene, did you ever see those fat mushrooms in the woods in autumn, the edible ohat the snails love?"
"Oh yes," she laughed, "Ive seen lots of them."
"Your hair is that same mushroom brown, Lene, and it smells just as good. Shall we sing another song? Or are you hungry? I still have a few good things in my satchel."
The day they found what they were looking for: a log in a small birch forest. Perhaps some woodcutters had built it. It stood empty, and the door was soon broken open. Rreed that this was a good hut and a healthy region. On the road they had met stray goats and had taken a fine one along with them.
"Well, Robert," said Goldmund, "although youre no carpenter, you were once a etmaker. Were going to live here. You must build us a partition for our castle, to make two rooms, one for Lene and me, and one for you and the goat. We dont have very much left to eat; today we must be satisfied with goats milk, no matter how little there is. Youll build the wall, and well make up beds for all of us. Tomorrow Ill go out to look for food."
Immediately everybody set toldmund and Leo find straw, fern, and moss for their sleeping places, and Robert sharpened his knife on a piece of flint and cut small birch posts to make a wall. But he could not finish it in one day and that evening he went outside to sleep in the open. Goldmund had found a sweet playmate in Lene, shy and inexperienced but deeply loving. Gently he took her to his bosom and lay awake for a long time, listening to her heart, long after she had fallen asleep, tired and satiated. He smelled her brown hair, led close to her, all the while thinking of the vast flat pit into which the hooded devils had dumped their carts of corpses. Life was beautiful, beautiful and fleeting as happiness. Youth was beautiful and wilted fast.
The partition of the hut was very pretty. All three worked at it finally. Robert wao show what he could do and eagerly talked about all the things he wao build, if only he had a planing bend tools, a straight edge and nails. But he had only his knife and his hands and had to be satisfied with cutting a dozen small birch posts and building a coarse sturdy fen the hut. But, he decreed, the openings had to be filled in with plaited juhat took time, but it became gay and pretty; everybody helped. Iween, Leo gather berries and look after the goat, and Goldmund scoured the region for food, explored the neighborhood, and came back with a few little things. The region seemed uninhabited. Robert was especially pleased about that: they were safe from ination as well as from quarrels; but it had one disadvahere was very little to eat. They found an abandoned peasant hut not far away, without corpses this time, and Goldmund proposed to move to the hut rather than stay in the log , but Robert shudderingly refused. He didnt like to see Goldmuer the empty house, and every piece he brought over had first to be smoked and washed before Robert touched it. Goldmund didnt find much—two posts, a milk pail, a few pieces of crockery, a hatchet, but one day he caught two stray chis in the fields. Lene was in love and happy. All three enjoyed improving their small home, making it a little prettier each day. They had no bread, but they took anoat into servid also found a small field full of turnips. The days passed, the wall was fihe beds were improved, they built a hearth. The brook was not far and had clear sweet water. They often sang as they worked.
One day, as they sat together drinking their milk and praising their settled life, Lene said suddenly in a dreamy tone: "But what will we do when winter es?"
No one answered. Robert laughed; Goldmund stared strangely ahead of him. Eventually Leiced that her of them thought of wihat her seriously thought of remaining such a long time in the same place, that this home was no home, that she was among wayfarers. She hung her head.
Then Goldmund said, playfully and encingly as though to a child: "Youre a peasants daughter, Lene; peasants always worry. Dont be afraid. Youll find your way bae ohis plague period is over; it t last forever. Then youll go back to your parents, or to whomever is still alive, or youll return to the city and earn your bread as a maid. But now its still summer. Death is rampant throughout the region, but here it is pretty, and we live well. Thats why we stay here for as long or as short a time as we like."
"And afterwards?" Lene asked violently. "Afterwards it is all over? And you go away? What about me?"
Goldmund caught her braid and pulled at it softly.
"Silly little girl," he said, "have you already fotten the ghouls and the abandoned houses, and the big hole outside the gates where the fires burn? You should be happy not to be lying in that hole with the rain falling on your little nightshirt. Think of what you escaped, be glad that your dear life is still in your veins, that you still laugh and sing."
She was still not satisfied.
"But I dont want to go away again," she plained. "Nor do I want to let you go. How one be happy when one knows that soon all will be finished and over with!"
Once moldmund answered her, in a friendly to with a hidden threat in his voice.
"About that, little Lehe wise men and saints have wracked their brains. There is no lasting happiness. But if what we now have is not good enough for you, if it no longer pleases you, then Ill set fire to this hut this very minute and each of us go his way. Let things be as they are, Lene; weve talked enough."
She gave in and thats where they left it, but a shadow had fallen over her joy.
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