How rich the solitary man felt, how surpassingly rich! He had been entirely alone, deserted even by his mother! Now he was so no longer, and pleasant dreams blended with his ambitious plans, like golden threads in dark cloth.
When power was once his, he would build her a beautiful, cosy nest with his share of the booty.

She must leave Zorrillo, leave him to-morrow.
The little nest should belong to her and him alone, entirely alone, and when his soul longed for peace, love, and quiet, he would rest there with her, recall with her the days of his childhood, cherish and care for her, make her forget all her sins and sufferings, and enjoy to the full the happiness of having her again, calling a loving mother's heart his own.
At every breath he drew he felt freer and gayer.

Suddenly there was a rustling at the tent-door.

He seized his two-handed sword, but did not raise it, for a beloved voice he recognized, called softly: "Ulrich, Ulrich, it is I!" He started up, hastily threw on his doublet, rushed towards her, clasped her in his arms, and let her stroke his curls, kiss his cheeks and eyes, as in the old happy days.

Then he drew her into the tent, whispering "Softly, softly, the snorer yonder is the German." She followed him, leaned against him, and raised his hand to her lips; he felt them grow wet with tears.