The gold was still in the sky, the clearness in the air, and the man who looked at me over the battlements was as definite as a picture in a frame. There was a fire there, but the hall was still dark. The rain-laden trees of the avenue evoked in him, as always, memories of the girls and women in the plays of Gerhart Hauptmann; and the memory of their pale sorrows and the fragrance falling from the wet branches mingled in a mood of quiet joy. A traitor, an adulterer! The priests were right to abandon him.