that the arrow I had shot at him, and which had entered his heart, was taken from his own quiver—
I realized that I had heard him reproach himself in an ironical tone on this very account,
and that now I had maliciously turned one of his own reproaches against him like a resharpened arrow.
He felt it instantly, and was silent. I looked at him with terror in my heart and saw that he had become very pale.
After a long, heavy pause he put some wood on the fire and said quietly: "You are quite right, Sinclair.
You’re a wise fellow. I will spare you all this antiquarian business."
He spoke very quietly, but his tone told me how deeply he had been wounded. What had I done! I was on the point of tears.
I wanted to beg his pardon with all my heart, to assure him of my affection and gratitude.
Moving words came into my mind—but I could not utter them.
He was silent as well, and so we lay there, while the flames leaped up and then sank,
and with each flame that paled fell something beautiful and fervid that ceased to glow and had vanished—never again to come back.
"I fear you have misunderstood me," I said at last, much crushed, and with a dry, hoarse voice.
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