Soon there were violent quarrels, and Falkenried
recognized, too late, what his precipitancy had done for him.
He had had great faith in the power of love, notwithstanding all the
warnings he had received about Zalika's foreign birth, and the seal
which her erratic education had stamped upon her character. But he had
now to learn that she had never loved him; that it was the whim of the
hour, or, more probably, the fleeting passion of a moment, which had
made her throw herself into his arms. And she saw in him only an
uncomfortable companion, who spoiled all her pleasure in life with his
foolish pendantries and his laughable notions of honor with which he
wished to bind her hand and foot. But with it all, she feared this man,
who, in his energy and force, was striving to bend her characterless
nature to his will.
The birth of little Hartmut did nothing to relieve the strain of this
unhappy marriage, but it was a tie which, outwardly at least, still
bound them together. Zalika loved her child passionately, and she knew
her husband well enough to recognize fully, that if it ever came to a
separation between them, he would demand the boy. That thought alone
kept her by his side, while Falkenried suffered intensely, hid his
misery in his own breast, and gave a brave front to the world.
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