He owes me five marks. We had a bet. He swore he would keep his place.

HANS RILOW.

You are to blame for his lying there. You called him a boaster.

OTTO.

Nonsense! I, too, must grind away all night. If he had learned the history of Greek literature he would not have had to hang himself!

ERNEST.

Have you your composition, Otto?

OTTO.

First comes the introduction.

ERNEST.

I don't know at all what to write.

GEORGE.

Weren't you there when Affenschmalz gave us the theme?

HANS RILOW.

I'll fake up something out of Democritus.

ERNST.

I will see if there is anything left to be found in Meyer's Little Encyclopedia.

OTTO.

Have you your Virgil for to-morrow?----

(_The schoolboys leave----Martha and Ilse approach the grave._)

ILSE.

Quick, quick!----Here are the grave-diggers coming!

MARTHA.

Hadn't we better wait, Ilse?

ILSE.

What for?----We'll bring fresh ones. Always fresh ones. There are enough growing.

MARTHA.

You're right, Ilse!----(_She throws a wreath of ivy into the grave, Ilse drops her ap.r.o.n and allows a shower of fresh anemones to rain down on the coffin._)

MARTHA.

I'll dig up our roses. I'll be beaten for it!----They will be of some use here.

ILSE.

I'll water them as often as I pa.s.s here. I'll fetch violets from the brook and bring some iris from our house.

MARTHA.

It will be beautiful!----beautiful!

ILSE.

I was just across the brook on that side when I heard the shot.

MARTHA.

Poor dear!

ILSE.

And I know the reason, too, Martha.

MARTHA.

Did he tell you anything?

ILSE.

Parallelepipedon! But don't tell anybody.

MARTHA.

My hand on it.

ILSE.

Here is the pistol.

MARTHA.

That's the reason they didn't find it!