"Good-by, Ludwig."
There was a hand-clasp, and the mountaineer took himself off. The
clock-mender philosophically reached for his tools. He had wasted time
enough over retrospection; he determined to occupy himself with the
present only. Tick-tock! tick-tock! sang the clocks about him. All at
once a volume of musical sounds broke forth; cuckoo-calls, chimes,
tinkles light and thin, booms deep and vibrant. But the clock-mender
bent over his work; all he was conscious of was the eternal tick-tock!
tick-tock! on and on, without cessation.
* * * * *
Carmichael walked his horse. This morning he had ridden out almost to
the frontier and was now on his return. As he passed through the last
grove of pines and came into the clearing the picture was exquisite; the
three majestic bergs of ice and snow above Dreiberg, the city shining
white and fairylike in the mid-morning's sun, and the long,
half-circling ribbon of a road. He sighed, and the horse cocked his ears
at the sound.
No longer did Carmichael take the south pass for his morning rides.
That was the favored going of her highness, and he avoided her now. In
truth, he dared not meet her now; it would have been out of wisdom. So
long as she had been free his presence had caused no comment, only
tolerant amusement among the nobles at court.
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