"
"Of Adelheid--yes. I was always called Ada in my father's house. But it
is not at all remarkable that the same sounds are repeated in different
languages."
The words were spoken coldly, but the speaker did not raise her eyes
from the flowers with which her hand played.
"Not at all," agreed Hartmut. "It has often been a surprise to me to
hear the same fable repeated in different countries over and over again.
The coloring is different, to be sure, but the passion, the woe, the
happiness of our human race is alike in them all."
Adelheid shrugged her shoulders.
"I won't dispute over the matter with a poet, but doubt it,
notwithstanding. I think our German legends wear a different countenance
from the dreamy tales of India."
"Perhaps, but when you study them deeply, you will discover the same
features in both. These common features are manifest in the legend of
'Arivana,' at least. The principal character is that of a young priest
who has consecrated himself, body and soul, to the service of his
divinity, to the holy fire, but in time he is mastered by an earthly
love with all its glow and passion, till his priestly vows dissolve in
its consuming flame."
He stood opposite her, quietly and respectfully, but his voice had an
odd, covert sound, as if something of deeper significance were hidden
beneath this story.
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