He wrote easily with a running pen, and sometimes he smiled as he
wrote. More than once he paused and looked across the Neuer Markt
above the trees and the roofs, towards the western sky, with a
sudden grave wistfulness. He was thinking of some one in the west.
It was assuredly not of war that this soldier wrote. Then, again,
his attention would be attracted to some passer in the street below.
He only gave half of his attention to his letter. He was, it
seemed, a man who as yet touched life lightly; for he was quite
young. But, nevertheless, his pen, urged by only half a mind that
had all the energy of spring, flew over the paper. Sowing is so
much easier than reaping.
Suddenly he threw his pen aside and moved quickly to the window
which stood open. The shoemaker had gone out, closing the door
softly behind him.
It was to be expected that he would turn to the left, upwards
towards the town and the Langgasse, but it was in the direction of
the river that his footsteps died away. There was no outlet on that
side except by boat.
It was almost dark now, and the trees growing close to the window
obscured the view. So eager was the lodger to follow the movements
of his landlord that he crept in stocking-feet out on to the roof.
By lying on his face below the window he could just distinguish the
shadowy form of a lame man by the river edge. He was moving to and
fro, unchaining a boat moored to the steps, which are more used in
winter when the Pregel is a frozen roadway than in summer.
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