Even Ferdinanda seemed to be impatient at the long stoppage. She looked at her watch. “ already,” she murmured; “we are losing precious time.” At last came the tail of the battalion, just as the head of another left the Friedrichstrasse, with its band playing, and the crowds let free pushed and struggled vehemently against each other in the small space left between.
“Go on! go on, Johann!” cried Ferdinanda, with an eagerness which Reinhold could only attribute to the nervousness she might have felt.
They only came out of one crowd into another.
In the first great square room at the Exhibition, the so-called clock-room, the sightseeing crowds were so thickly packed that Reinhold, who had Ferdinanda on his arm, saw no possibility of getting any further.
“It is not so full in the next room,” said Ferdinanda; “but we must wait a little. They always take care to hang good pictures here. We will go separately, it is always easier to get on. How do you like this beautiful Andreas Achenbach? Is not that perfect? Wonderful! in his best and grandest style! Sky and sea—all in shades of grey, and yet how sharply the different bits stand out. And how well he knows how to bring life into what might seem monotonous by introducing that red flag in the background on the mast of a schooner, and here in the foreground by the flickering light upon the planks of the bridge as the water streams over it. Masterly! quite masterly!”
Reinhold had listened to Ferdinanda’s spirited description with the greatest enjoyment. “She can talk about that,” thought he. “Well, she certainly is an artist. I can see it all, but could not express it, and should not be able to say why it is so beautiful.”
He stood there lost in contemplation of the picture. “What would be the captain’s next manoeuvre? He certainly must tack to get before the wind, but he was about a ship’s-length too near the bridge for that: a puzzling situation!” thought Reinhold.
He turned to express his opinion to Ferdinanda, and very nearly spoke to a little fat old lady who had taken Ferdinanda’s place, and with her glass to her eyes was examining the picture together with about a dozen other people, who stood round in a half circle. Reinhold made a fruitless effort to get through them and to join Ferdinanda, whom he saw at some little distance talking to one or two ladies so busily that she never once turned round, and for the moment had evidently forgotten him. “Another advantage of being separate which I will also make use of,” thought Reinhold. A picture close by caught his attention—another sea-piece by Hans Gude, so said the catalogue—which pleased him almost better than the first had done. To the left was the open sea, where a large steamer lay at anchor; on the shore, which curved round in a great bay, were to be seen in the distance amongst the sandhills a few fishermen’s huts, out of whose chimneys smoke was rising; between the little village and the ship was a rowing-boat, while another quite in the foreground was sailing towards the shore. The evening sky was overcast with heavy clouds above the sandhills, so that the smoke could hardly rise; only to the extreme west of the horizon over the open sea was a small streak of dull red. The night would be stormy, and a sharp breeze was already springing up and blowing the flag of the steamer straight out, and on the bare sands in the foreground the breakers were coming in heavily. Reinhold could not tear himself away from the picture. It was so exactly like that evening when he had steered the boat from the steamer to the shore. There in front the two servants had packed themselves, here sat the President, one hand on the side, the other clutching at the seat, not daring to pick up the covering which had fallen from his knees; here sat the General, with the collar of his coat turned up and his cap pulled far over his face, staring gloomily before him; and here, close to the man who was steering, she sat, gazing out so bravely upon the grey waste of waters and the foaming breakers in front of her, and then looking up so frankly, so happily at him with the dear brown eyes! Reinhold had forgotten the crowd around him, had forgotten Ferdinanda, and did not even see the picture; he only saw those dear brown eyes!
“Will they manage to get to land without a compass, Captain Schmidt?” asked a voice close to him.
The brown eyes were looking at him as he had just seen them in imagination, frank and happy; and the smile, too, was happy which played over cheek and lip as, without the slightest embarrassment, she gave him her hand as to an old friend.
“When did you arrive?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Then certainly you have had no time to inquire for us and to claim your compass. Am I not honesty itself?”
“What use would it be to you?”
“Who can tell? You told me I had a great talent for navigation. But let us get out of this crowd and look for my brother, whom I have just lost. Are you alone?”
“I am with my cousin.”
“Then you must introduce me to her. I saw her Shepherd Boy downstairs; it is charming! I have only just heard from my brother that it is your cousin who is the sculptor, and that we are neighbours, and all about it. Where is she?”
“I have been looking for her in vain.”
“Now, that is delightful! Two lost children in a forest of people—I am dreadfully frightened!”
She was not a bit frightened, Reinhold could see that. She was in her own world, and was as much at home in it as he was at sea. How cleverly and gracefully she slipped past two ladies who would not make way for her! How
