He stood in this attitude a short time, then let his arms fall, and said softly: "The dead must be forgiven...." "And the living, father?
You have punished him terribly, and he is not a wicked man, no, indeed he is not! If he comes back again, father ?" "My apprentices shall show the Spanish mutineer the door," cried the old man in a harsh, stern tone; "to the burgher's repentant son my house will be always open." Meantime the Eletto wandered from one street to another.

He felt bewildered, disgraced.
It was not grief--no quiet heartache that disturbed--but a confused blending of wrath and sorrow.

He did not wish to appear before the friend of his youth, and even avoided Hans Eitelfritz, who came towards him.

He was blind to the gay, joyous bustle of the capital; life seemed grey and hollow.

His intention of communicating with the commandant of the citadel remained unexecuted; for he thought of nothing but his father's anger, of Ruth, his own shame and misery.
He could not leave so.
His father must, yes, he must hear him, and when it grew dusk, he again sought the house to which he belonged, and from which he had been so cruelly expelled.
The door was locked.