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Project Gutenberg's Regina or the Sins of the Fathers, by Hermann Sudermann

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Title: Regina or the Sins of the Fathers

Author: Hermann Sudermann

Translator: Beatrice Marshall

Release Date: October 30, 2010 [EBook #33892]

Language: English

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                                 Regina
                                   or
                        The Sins of the Fathers






                                 REGINA
                       OR THE SINS OF THE FATHERS


                                   BY
                           HERMANN SUDERMANN




                            _TRANSLATED BY_
                          _BEATRICE MARSHALL_




                   LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
                  NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY. MCMVII






                          COPYRIGHT, 1898, BY
                               John Lane.

                               *   *   *

                          COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
                           John Lane Company.






                                 REGINA
                       OR THE SINS OF THE FATHERS




                               CHAPTER I


Peace was signed, and the world, which for so long had been the great
Corsican's plaything, came to itself again. It came to itself, bruised
and mangled, bleeding from a thousand wounds, and studded with
battle-fields like a body with festering sores. Yet, in the rebound
from bondage to freedom, men did not realise that there was anything
very pitiable in their condition. The ground from which their wheat
sprang, they reflected, would bear all the richer fruit from being
soaked in blood, and if bullets and bayonets had thinned their ranks,
there was now more elbow-room for those who were left.

The yawning vacuums in the seething human caldron gave a man space to
breathe in. One great chorus of rejoicing from the Rock of Gibraltar to
the North Cape ascended heavenwards. Bells in every steeple were set in
motion, and from every altar and from every humble hearth arose prayers
of thanksgiving. Mourners hid their diminished heads, for the burst of
victorious song drowned their lamentations, and the earth absorbed
their tears as indifferently as it had sucked in the blood of their
fallen.

In glorious May weather the Peace of Paris was concluded. Lilies
bloomed once more out of lakes of blood, and from the obscurity of
lumber-rooms the blood-saturated banner of the _fleur de lys_ was
dragged forth into the light of day. The Bourbons crept from their
hiding-places, whither they had been driven by fear of Robespierre's
knife. They rubbed their eyes and forthwith began to reign. They had
forgotten nothing and learnt nothing, except a new catchword from
Talleyrand's _en tout cas_ vocabulary, _i.e_. Legitimacy. The rest of
the world was too busily engaged in wreathing laurels to crown the
conquerors, and filling up bumpers to drink their health in, to pay any
attention to this farce of Bourbon government. All eyes were turned in
a fever of expectancy towards the West, whence were to come the
conquering heroes, the laurel-crowned warriors who had been willing to
sacrifice their lives for the honour of wife and child, for justice,
and for the sacred soil of their fatherland. They had been under the
fire of the Corsican Demon, the oppressor whom they in their turn had
hunted and run to earth, till at last he lay in shackles at their feet.

When the victors began the homeward march, the German oaks were
bursting into leaf, soon to be laughingly plundered of their young
green foliage. On they came in swarms, first, joyous and lighthearted,
the pride and flower of the Fatherland, the sons of the wealthy, who,
as Volunteer Jägers, with their own horses and their own arms, had gone
forth to the war of Liberation. Their progress through Germany was one
magnificent ovation. Wherever they came, their path was strewn with
roses, the most beautiful of maidens longed for the honour of winning
their love, and the most costly wines flowed like water. Behind them
followed a stream of Kossacks, riding over the German fields with a
loose rein. A year before, when they had galloped like a troop of
furies in the rear of the hunted remnant of the Grande Armée, the whole
country had greeted them as saviours of Germany. Public receptions had
been organised in their honour, hymns composed in their praise, and all
sorts of blue-eyed German sentiment was lavishly poured out on the
unwashed Tartar horde. To-day, too, they were conscientiously fêted,
but the gaze of all true-hearted Germans was directed with intensest
longing beyond them, looking for those who were still to come, of whom
they seemed but the heralding shadows.

And at last these came, the men of the people, who had taken all their
capital, their bare lives, in their hand, and gone forth to offer it up
for the Fatherland. They advanced with a sound as of bursting trumpets,
half hidden by dense columns of dust. Not exalted and splendid
beings as they had often been painted in the imagination of the
"stay-at-homes," with a halo of diamonds flashing round their heads,
and a cloak flung proudly like a toga round their shoulders. No; they
were faded and haggard, tired as overdriven horses, covered with
vermin, filthy and in rags; their beards matted with sweat and dust.
This was the plight in which they came home. Some were so emaciated and
ghastly pale that they looked as if they could hardly drag one weary
foot after the other; others wore a greedy, brutalised expression, and
the reflection of the lurid glare of war seemed yet to linger in their
sunken, hollow eyes. They held their knotty fists still clenched in the
habitual cramp of murderous lust. Only here and there shone tears of
pure, inspired emotion; only here and there hands were folded on the
butt-end of muskets in reverent, grateful prayer. But all were welcome,
and none were too coarse and hardened by their work of blood and
revenge to find balm in the tears and kisses of their loved ones, and
to greet with hope the dawn of purer times. Of course it could not be
expected that passions which had been lashed into such abnormal and
furious activity, would all at once calm down and slumber again. The
hand that has wielded a sword needs time before it can accustom itself
to the plough and scythe, and not every man knows how to forget
immediately the wild licence of the camp in the hallowed atmosphere of
home.

Every peace is followed by a period of delirium. It was thus in Germany
in anno '14. That year, from which to this generation nothing has
descended but the echo of a unison of pæans, swelling organ-strains,
and clash of bells, was in reality more remarkable for tyranny and
crime than any year before or since. More especially was this the case
in districts where before the war the overweening arrogance and cruelty
of the French occupier had been most heavily felt. Here the beast was
let loose in man. The senses of those who stayed at home had been so
inflamed by the scent of blood from distant battle-fields, and the
smoke of burning villages, that they conjured up before their mental
eyes scenes of horror and devastation at which they had not been
present. Many thirsted for vengeance on secret wrongs, on acts of
cowardice and treachery as yet unexpiated. After all, it seemed
as if the awakened fervour of patriotism, the flowing streams of
freshly-spilled blood, could not suffice even now to wipe out the
memory of the shame and humiliation of previous years.

No one had any suspicion, then, that the Corsican vulture, set fast in
his island cage, was already beginning to sharpen his iron beak,
preparatory to gnawing through its bars, and that before his final
capture thousands of veins were yet to be opened and drained of their
blood.




                               CHAPTER II


One August day in this memorable year, a party of young men were
gathered together in the parlour of a large country house.

The oak table round which they were seated presented a goodly array of
tankards, and short, bulky bottles containing _schnaps_. Their faces,
flushed with brandy and enthusiasm, were almost entirely concealed from
view by the dense clouds of smoke they puffed from their huge pipes.

They were defenders of their country only lately returned home, and
were revelling in reminiscences of the war. There was that distinct
family likeness among them which equality in birth, breeding, and
education often stamps on men between whom there exists no tie of
blood-relationship.

Warfare had coarsened their honest, healthy countenances, and left its
mark there in many a disfiguring scar and gash. Two or three still wore
their arms in slings, and evidently none of them had as yet made up
their minds to lay aside the black, frogged military coat to which
they had become so proudly accustomed. For the most part they were
well-to-do yeomen belonging to the village of Heide and its outlying
hamlets, and though their homes were scattered they were united in a
strong bond of neighbourly friendship. Some still lived on their
fathers' patrimony, others had come into their own estate. It had never
been their lot to experience the pinch of poverty, to till the soil and
follow the plough, and so they had remained unaffected by the great
changes Stein's new code a few years before had brought about in the
position of the peasantry. In the spring, when the King's appeal to his
subjects had resounded through the land, they could afford to leave
their crops and, like the sons of the nobility, hurry with their own
arms and their own horses to enlist in the ranks of the volunteer
Jägers.

Only one member of the little group apparently belonged to another
station in life. He occupied the one easy-chair the house boasted, an
ungainly piece of upholstery, much the worse for wear.

His face was pale, somewhat sallow in colouring. The features were
refined and delicately chiselled. The brown, melancholy eyes were
shaded by long black lashes, which when he looked down cast a heavy
fringe of shadow on his thin cheeks. Though he must certainly have been
the youngest of them all, having hardly completed his twenty-second
year, he looked like a man who had long ago ceased to take any pleasure
in the mere frivolities of life.

On his smooth, square brow were lines that denoted energy and defiance,
and in the blue hollows round his eyes lay traces of a past sorrow. He
wore a grey overcoat that seemed too narrow across the shoulders, and
beneath it a woollen shirt finely tucked, and ornamented with a row of
mother-of-pearl buttons. The only military thing about him was the
forage-cap bearing the Landwehr badge, which he had pushed on to the
back of his head, to prevent the hard edge pressing on the scarcely
healed wound which made a lurid streak on his forehead, close to where
the dark hair clustered in heavy masses.

He was the cynosure of all eyes. Every one waited anxiously for him to
take the lead in conversation. Next to him, on his right, sat a
muscular youth, not much older than himself, who regarded him with
unceasing and tender solicitude. To all appearances he was the host.
There was a patch of white plaster on one of his temples, but his
round, jovial face beamed radiantly nevertheless out of its frame of
unkempt fair hair that hung about his neck and throat in wildest
confusion.

"I say, lieutenant, you are positively drinking nothing," he exclaimed,
pushing the bottle nearer him. "Because you aren't used to our beer,
and still less used to our schnaps, there's no reason why you should be
shy of swilling that red stuff of which we have plenty to spare.... We
aren't rich, as you know, but if you stopped here till Doomsday we
could supply you every day with a bottle like that. Couldn't we, lads?"

The others assented, and pressed round him eagerly to clink their mugs
and liqueur-glasses against his cracked wine-glass.

A ray of gratitude and pleasure illumined momentarily the sad, pale
face.

"I knew," he said--"I knew that if I came here you'd make me feel at
home. Otherwise I should have gone on my way."

"That would have been kind of you, I must say," cried the host---"what
did we enter into our covenant of blood for, and swear to be true till
death after our first battle, don't you remember? In the church at ...
where was it? I never can pronounce the name of the cursed hole!"

"The hole was Dannigkow," answered the young stranger addressed as
"lieutenant."

"Ah, yes, that's it!" the host went on. "And do you imagine we went
through that little ceremony with the sole purpose of letting you avoid
us in future? Was it for that we chose you for our commanding officer,
and blindly followed you into the thickest of the fight? No, Baumgart,
there's no cement like blood and powder. So the devil take it, man, you
must promise to stay with us a bit, now we've got you----"

"Don't talk nonsense, old fellow, it is impossible," the lieutenant
replied, and blew thoughtfully on the purple mirror of his wine. But
his friend was not to be silenced.

"You needn't be frightened," he continued, "that we shall plague you
with curious questions. From the first we got into the way of looking
on you as a sort of mystery. When we others used to lie by the bivouac
fire and talk of our homes and parents, our sweethearts and sisters,
your lips were resolutely sealed as they are now. And if one of us
plucked up courage to ask you where you came from, and what you had
been before the war, you always got up and walked away. We gave up
questioning you at last, and thought to ourselves, 'He has gone through
a furnace, may be, that has spoilt his life, and what concern is that
of ours?' You were a good comrade, all of us can testify to that, and
what is more, the most fearless, the bravest.... Ah, well, the fact is,
that you had only to tell one of us to cut off his right hand, and he'd
have done it without a murmur. Isn't it true, lads?"

An exclamation of assent went round the table.

"For mercy's sake, say no more," said the young lieutenant. "I don't
know which way to look because of all this undeserved praise."

"Wait, I've more to say yet," the master of the house insisted on
continuing. "Once we were really almost angry with you. You know why
that was. During the armistice, shortly before we joined forces with
the Lithuanians under Platen and Bülow, you were in the guard-room one
evening, when you suddenly made a clean breast of it and announced that
you must go away. You said, 'Don't ask me the reason, lads. But believe
me, I can't help myself. The Landwehr wants officers. I know it is not
much of an honour to leave the Jägers, for the Landwehr; but I'm going
to do it, all the same.' Those were your very words, weren't they,
Baumgart?"

The lieutenant nodded, and a bitter smile played round his lips.

"Tears were in your eyes as you spoke, otherwise one or other of us
would have asked you if that was all the thanks we were to get for the
confidence we had placed in you, to be deserted just then ... just when
we longed to show those Platen fellows what baiting the French really
meant.... We let you go without raising an objection, but our hearts
bled.... Afterwards we heard nothing of you, no news in reply to all
our inquiries; but I can tell you this much, we never ceased to talk of
you every night for months. We racked our brains to think what had
taken you away; speculated on where you were gone, and the like, till
the men who joined later and had known you got sick of it, and implored
us to give up talking about you, and to consign you to the Landwehr
refuse-heap once for all. So you see how we pined for you; and now,
after two days, you actually propose to turn your back on us again!
It's a long journey from the Marne to the Weichsel, and a solitary one
to walk, and your wounds still smarting. Stay and take a good rest, and
relate at your leisure what your adventures with the greybeards really
were, and how you came to be taken prisoner ... it must have been a
strange accident that betrayed _you_ into captivity?"

He glanced down with ingenuous pride at the iron cross which dangled
between the froggings of his coat. It had been bestowed on him in
reward for the intrepidity with which he had, unpardoned, hewn his way
out of a nest of French Hussars and regained his liberty.

The lieutenant's breast was bare of ornament. At the end of the
campaign, when a shower of decorations had rained down on the
victorious warriors, he had not been present to receive his share. A
painful sensation of being passed in the race, almost akin to shame,
swept over him. He pushed his cap farther on to his brow, and drew
himself erect in his chair, as if its fusty cushions threatened to
suffocate him.

"Thank you," he said, "for your kind intentions, but I must go to
Königsberg directly to report myself to the Commandant."

"I'm afraid you'll have some difficulty in finding him there," put in a
curly-headed young man with twinkling dark eyes, who wore his right arm
in a black sling.

"Don't you know that directly it came back the Landwehr was disbanded?"

"Even the staff is broken up," remarked another.

"Then I must try my luck with the Commissioner-General," replied
Lieutenant Baumgart. "I have more reason, perhaps, than any one else to
be extra careful that my discharge papers are in good order. At least,
I fancy so. I don't want the reproach to be fastened on me that I
sneaked out of the army secretly. So, please let me know as soon as you
can if there will be any conveyance going to-morrow to Königsberg?"

A storm of indignation arose. They all left their seats, some seizing
his hand, some forming a cordon round him, as if to prevent his
departure by physical force.

"Stay at least a little longer, lest the fête we are organising in your
honour should fall through," exhorted Karl Engelbert, the young host,
as soon as he could make his voice heard above the hubbub.

Baumgart turned to him with a quick gesture of inquiry.

"In _my_ honour?" he exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

"There's no getting out of it now," was the answer. "It was all settled
the day you turned up here. I despatched Johann Radtke at once with a
list of all the Jägers in the country round who are at home. Then, you
know, we have representatives of six or seven regiments living about
here.... Especially did I impress on him that he was to go to
Schranden, where Merckel lives. Merckel," he added, "went over to the
Landwehr, too; for if he hadn't, he couldn't have made sure of his
lieutenancy. So there was more sense in his taking the step."

Baumgart at the mention of his name winced, but quickly recovering
himself, gripped convulsively the arms of the battered easy-chair, and,
with head bowed, listened in silence to what his well-meaning friends
had to say about the gala-day arranged in his honour. He gave up
protesting further, because he saw open resistance was useless. But the
uneasy glances he cast about him seemed to indicate that he was
meditating immediate flight.

His friends, however, did not observe his restlessness. After the
excitement of war which had stirred their blood out of its normal
channel, they found it irksome to subside into the ordinary routine of
private life, and hailed with delight any excuse for varying its
monotony with a few hours' roistering and dissipation. They were now
engaged in eagerly discussing the result of their messenger's mission,
whose return from Schranden, a few miles away, they had been expecting
hourly all the morning.

"I wonder," said Peter Negenthin, the youth with the black sling, "how
the Schrandeners are getting on with that fine landlord of theirs?"

Lieutenant Baumgart started and listened with all his ears.

"They set his house on fire long ago," remarked another. "For five
years he's been roosting among the blackened ruins like an owl."

"Why didn't he build his castle up again?" asked a third.

"Why? Because the peasants and farmers down in the village would have
thrashed any one at the cart-wheel who dared to work for him. Once he
tried getting labourers over from his foreign estates, thinking that as
they couldn't understand German it would be all right; ... but there
was a free fight one day down at the inn, and heigh presto!--the Poles
were hounded back to where they came from. Since then he hasn't made
any more attempts to cultivate his land."

"How does he live then?

"Who cares how he lives! Let him starve."

In the midst of laughter, mingled with growls of hate which this humane
remark had called forth from these doughty sons of the soil, the
anxiously awaited ambassador entered the room. He was a stoutly built
short man, whose straight fair hair, as yellow and bright as new
thatch, hung over his round face, which was the colour of a lobster
from exposure to the heat of the sun. Steaming with perspiration, and
breathless from his hurried ride, he seized the stone jug of monstrous
girth that stood in the middle of the table, before speaking a word,
and held it to his lips with both hands, where it remained so long that
it had at last to be torn away from his mouth by force, much to the
amusement of the company. After a fusilade of banter and jokes had been
discharged at him from all sides, he blurted forth his news. The idea
of the fête had, it seemed, been caught at with enthusiasm. Every one
in the neighbourhood was willing to lend his countenance to festivities
in honour of those who had done such splendid service in the cause of
German Unity. The only difference of opinion was as to where they were
to come off. The Schrandeners, with Lieutenant Merckel at their head,
declared that no spot on earth could be a more appropriate scene for
their celebration than their own village.

"Then you see, lads," explained the messenger, "the Schrandeners have
private reasons for being particularly gay just now. They are dancing
in front of their houses, and scarcely know whether they are standing
on their head or their heels. I'll tell you why. Perhaps you know that
little chorale that they've for the last seven years been singing in
church?

                 "_Our gracious Baron and Lord
                  Of Schrandeners' souls abhorr'd.
                  For the shame he's brought on our head,
                  O God, let the plague strike him dead._"

"Well, in a fashion their prayer has been answered. The betrayer of
their country, who never tired of cursing and damning them up hill and
down dale, and heaped on them every foul epithet he could lay tongue
to, may now lie and rot in a ditch for all they care. They have sworn
not to bury him."

Then arose excited shouts and eager questioning.

"Is he dead, the dog?

"Has the devil taken him to himself at last? Ha! ha! Bravo!"

Suddenly, above the din of voices, a grinding crunching noise was
heard. Baumgart's arm had clasped the back of his chair with such
vehemence that the long-suffering worm-eaten wood had collapsed. He sat
rigid and motionless, staring at the speaker with wide, strained eyes,
unconscious of the injury he had inflicted on the ancestral piece of
furniture. Then garrulous Johann Radtke proceeded--

"Yes, happily enough, they were the cause of his death at last. They
have never ceased to harass and torment him, and it was while they were
trying to demolish the Cats' Bridge that he had a stroke of apoplexy
from rage, and fell down foaming at the mouth."

"Lieutenant, have you ever heard of the Cats' Bridge?"

Still he neither moved nor uttered a word; only set his teeth on his
under lip, till it bled. As if turned to stone, he sat gazing fixedly
up into the speaker's face.

"It was by the Cats' Bridge that the French made the famous, or rather
I should say infamous, sortie which surprised the Prussians, and it was
the Baron who showed them the secret path which leads to it. You have
heard of the Schranden invasion, of course. It's recorded in every
calendar?"

The lieutenant nodded mechanically like a doomed man, who, swooning,
resigns himself to inevitable fate.

"The stroke took him before their very eyes," Radtke went on. "His
precious sweetheart, the village carpenter's daughter, the baggage who
lived with him, you know, threw herself on his body, for the Lord only
knows what liberties they might not have taken with it when their blood
was up."

"And now they refuse to bury him, you say?" interrupted the
good-natured Karl Engelbert, shaking his head meditatively. "Is such a
scandalous outrage as that allowed to pass unpunished in a Christian
country?"

Johann laughed scoffingly.

"The Schrandeners are like a flock of sheep. If one declines to pollute
his hands with bearing such carrion to the grave, all the rest decline
also. And who can blame them?"

"But," some one suggested, "suppose it came to the ear of the law?"

"The law! Ha, ha! Old Merckel is their magistrate, and he says, as far
as he is concerned, they might have flayed----"

He broke off abruptly, for with a smothered cry of pain, and a gesture
half threatening, half self-defensive, the young lieutenant had started
to his feet. He was whiter than the whitewashed wall behind him, and a
thin thread of crimson trickled from his blanched lips, over his chin.

"Stop, for God's sake!" he stammered in a strange muffled almost
inaudible voice, and those who caught his words shrank away in horror.

"He was my father!"




                               CHAPTER III


The moon had risen and flooded the tranquil heath with its soft bluish
radiance. Down in the marshes the alder-bushes were tipped with crowns
of light, and the white, slender trunks of the birches which flanked
the highway in interminable rows shone and shimmered, till the road
seemed to stretch away and lose itself between hedges of burnished
silver. Silence reigned everywhere. The last note of the birds' evening
chorale had long since died away. Peace, the peace of well-being,
peculiar to late summer, pervaded the wide-stretching level fields.
Even the grasshopper in the ditch, and a fieldmouse scurrying in alarm
through the tall blades of corn, hardly broke the stillness.

A traveller with staff and knapsack came along the road, gazing
absently before him, evidently oblivious of the magic of the moon-lit
landscape. It was the young lieutenant, on his way home to bury the
father whose memory was held in such universal detestation. His host
had put his best equipage at his disposal, but his comrade had firmly
refused to accept the offer, and he had been obliged to content
himself with accompanying his guest part of the way on foot. At parting
he had solemnly affirmed that the compact of eternal friendship that
they had entered into as brothers-in-arms after their first baptism
of fire would hold good now and always, "the sins of the fathers"
notwithstanding. Whenever he was in need of help and sympathy in the
future, he might rely on the good-will of him and his neighbours.

This was meant well, but brought no comfort to the young man's sore
heart. The allusion to "the sins of the fathers" stung him to the
quick. It sounded very much like an insult, yet an insult that he was
powerless to resent openly, as there was no shuffling off the incubus
of shame which, as his father's heir, now weighed on his innocent
shoulders.

Thus fiercely brooding he walked on, and pictures of the past
involuntarily rose before his mental vision. He had never loved his
father--the harsh, tyrannical man who flogged the peasants, whose
laughter was more terrible than his oaths, to whom he, his only son,
had been not much more than the pet dog that one minute was allowed to
bite his heels when he was in a good humour, only to be hurled across
the room the next with a savage kick. As long as he could remember,
the small muscular figure, the sallow face with its high cheek-bones,
coal-black goat's beard, and little keen grey eyes, had been the terror
of his childhood. His mother he had never known. She had succumbed, a
few years after his birth, to a long and tedious illness. It was
rumoured at the time, in the village, that her lord's ungovernable
passions had been the death of her--that his love was as terrible as
his hate.

Her picture had hung at the end of a long line of ghostly portraits in
the dimly-lighted picture-gallery with its vaulted roof, where one's
footsteps echoed uncannily between the stone walls, and where it was
possible to shiver with cold on the hottest summer day.... The picture
of a gentle, tired-looking woman with thin bloodless lips, and
half-closed lids that seemed to droop from sheer weariness and lack of
spirit.

Many a time, unseen, the boy had stood by the hour before this picture,
and waited--waited for the heavy lids to lift, that one warm ray of
maternal love might at last be shed into his lonely young life. He
would fold his hands in prayer, and lift a tear-stained face in eager
anticipation, while his heart beat for fear; but the picture never came
to life. Tired and slumberous as ever, as if already half-closed in
their last long sleep, the heavily shadowed, star-like eyes continued
to look down on him with a strange, cold, metallic gleam, till he could
bear it no longer, and would rush from the spot half distracted with
disappointment.

Not far from his mother's picture hung another still more
remarkable--the portrait of an exquisitely beautiful woman with
blue-black hair. The artist had represented her in the act of mounting
a horse. A red velvet cloak, embroidered with gold and bordered with
fur, hung over her left shoulder, and in her right hand, which was
covered with a long, wrinkled, gauntleted glove, she tenaciously
grasped her riding-whip. It was easy to imagine her bringing it down
with a will on the back of a _mauvais sujet_. The whole figure was
instinct with indomitable spirit and energy. Life glowed in the dark
eyes that flashed imperiously from the canvas, as if demanding the
homage of all who came within their radius. This was his grandmother in
her youth--the old lady whose shrill scolding tongue, and witch-like
appendages in the shape of gold-headed canes, liqueur-glasses, and
snuff-boxes, were indissolubly associated with the boy's earliest
memories. She had been the evil star of his house. Before her marriage,
one of the most admired beauties of the Polish Court in Saxony, she had
instilled into his father with the milk from her breast love for the
country of the Pole, so that he, a nobleman of German name and lineage,
living on German soil, grew up to hate the land of his birth, and to
set all his affections on the moribund chimera of Polish nationality.
Though he had married a German lady, he had not hesitated to give his
son a Polish name, which, to be doomed to bear at a time when the
spirit of hyper-sensitive patriotism was rampant in the land, seemed a
worse misfortune by far than being afflicted by some hereditary
disease.

But what was the innocent name of Boleslav compared with the indelible
disgrace that his father, through his insane infatuation for the Poles,
had since brought on him and his race?

And now he was dead, this father, and of the dead one should speak no
evil. Yet even as he repeated this truism to himself, the consciousness
of the stain with which he was branded, which no power on earth could
remove, overwhelmed him with acutest anguish.

Passionately he threw up his arms towards the soft, blue, star-spangled
heavens, as if he fain would demand that the soul of his father should
be instantly brought to judgment, no matter in what remote planet it
might be hiding.

Then came a reaction. His vehemence was succeeded by a gentler mood. He
flung himself on the damp, dewy grass by the roadside, and buried his
face in his hands. He felt he should like to cry. But his lids remained
dry and burning. The thought of his immediate future was almost more
than he could bear. He reflected that in a few hours he should find a
forsaken wilderness, a howling desolation, where once bathed in all the
rosy radiance of his boyish vision he had beheld a scene of sylvan
peace and beauty.

For though he had been a lonely, motherless boy, it would have been
wicked and ungrateful to maintain that even _his_ childhood had not had
its share of sunshine, and boasted its hours of unalloyed delight. Had
he not been allowed to roam where he listed, through field and forest,
untrammelled by conventions about meals and bedtime, as free to do as
he pleased as any Robin Hood or gipsy in Arcadia? When the soft May
zephyrs breathed on the shaking grasses, and the yellow butterfly
danced from flower to flower, he had lain on his back between the tall
blades and meadow-sweet, looking up into the blue sky, his day-dreams
undisturbed. He might have stayed there from morning till night; so
long as he was not hungry he did stay, and it mattered to no one.

If he took it into his head to wander off with the shepherd to the
distant moorlands, to partake of black bread from his wallet, and
quench his thirst at the babbling streams, who was there to prevent it?
He was his own master. Round the Castle, which commanded an extensive
view of the country, flowed the sparkling, merry river, in great
serpentine curves, between its wooded banks and green terraces. By the
river-side there was always something of interest going on. There the
grooms watered the horses, the tanner washed his skins, and the boys
winked from behind their fishing-rods at the servant-girls paddling
bare-legged in and out of the water. But greatest delight of all--when
the sun went down behind the alders, the stately wild deer would
venture cautiously out of the neighbouring thicket, climb down the
steep incline, through bush and briar, and thirstily lap up the
moisture with its parched tongue. Often it was necessary to lie in
ambush more than half-an-hour without moving so much as a hair to
witness this enchanting spectacle, otherwise it would have vanished
like a mirage. And what in the world could be more glorious than, when
the moon rose and cast a silver network on the ripples; when the alders
looked like white-veiled princesses, and the lively wenches sang over
their griddle snatches of plaintive song, to plunge into the depths of
the wood, and with a canopy of foliage overhead, and moonbeams dancing
round you, dream the night away, and wake to greet the dawn? He let his
hands fall from his face; and stared round him with vacant, wild eyes.
The fields lay white and still in the moonlight.

Only the tree under which he rested cast dark, jagged bars of shadow
over the peaceful landscape. A pitiful sound like the scream of a child
in distress arose in the distance. It came from a young hare that had
lost itself in the furrows, and frightened and hungry was crying for
its mother, little suspecting that every yell was but a fresh signal to
its murderers. He was thrilled with compassion for the sufferings of
dumb creation, as he rose and pursued his way.... Reminiscences still
kept pace with his footsteps.

Now it was his school-days that came vividly back to him--the time when
the old Pastor Götz had undertaken his education, and the white
parsonage among the nut-bushes became his second home. No more vagabond
roamings now, for the grey-bearded, fiery-tempered old parson was a
stern disciplinarian, and kept his pupils in good order. There were ten
or twelve of them--boys and girls together;--children of the well-to-do
farmer class. He had, of course, never associated with the children of
the peasantry, who were allowed to run wild and grow up like young
cattle. This was not to be wondered at, considering the village
schoolmaster, an ex-valet of his father's, superannuated through drink,
spent most of the time that should have been engaged in teaching the
young idea how to shoot, in the various taverns of the neighbourhood.

Felix Merckel, son of the village innkeeper, was the one of his
comrades he remembered best--a strapping, unruly lad, who, at the age
of ten, wore top-boots and carried a gun, and whose tendency to bully
kept the whole school in subjection. Even Boleslav himself, though two
years younger, and of a retiring nature that had little in common with
the elder boy's somewhat bumptious temperament, was much influenced by
him. Yet his position as the squire's son was never lost sight of, and
Felix joined with his other schoolfellows in paying him a sort of sly
homage in deference to it. Felix was his mentor in all boyish
accomplishments. He taught him to swim, to row, to snare birds, to make
fireworks, to shoot rabbits, and even to plunder the poor peasants'
garden during church time on Sunday evenings. And though the fruit in
his own garden, which he was at liberty to pick whenever he liked, was
a thousand times sweeter and more luscious than the hard, sour stuff he
clambered after at the risk of breaking his neck, he could not
withstand the allurements of those secret raids. Afterwards he was
often seized with remorse on account of them, and was so heartily
ashamed of himself that he would pay back in the morning a hundredfold
what he had stolen over-night. Such acts of reparation, nevertheless,
were only received with scowls or smiles of malice, for the unfortunate
_canaille_ were compelled by benighted feudal laws to plough and delve
on his father's estates, and were sorely oppressed; therefore it was
only natural that the boy should reap to the full the harvest of bitter
hate sown by the father.

Of his other companions, especially of the girls, he had nothing but
the haziest recollection. There was, of course, _one_ exception. Her
bright image had floated before him, through all the pain and heartache
that had gradually darkened his whole existence, pain which even the
fascinations of war could not alleviate. It was her image, that like a
lodestar had led him into the thickest of the fight, and had not faded
from him as he lay wounded, and, as he believed, dying.

Intense longing for her had become identified with that vague yearning
after happiness which still sometimes possessed him, just as if his
chances of happiness had not, by his father's misdeeds, been
irretrievably ruined.

How this love had sprung up in his breast and grown apace, becoming
stronger every day, till at last the whole world seemed filled with its
reflection, he hardly knew himself.

As a child, the pastor's small daughter had always been distant in her
manner. The fresh, neat, fairylike little creature never could be
coaxed by any of them into jumping a ditch, even if the bottom was dry,
and was very particular at hide-and-seek not to allow her frocks to be
caught hold of lest "the gathers should go." Now and then, when they
were alone together, Helene would show off with pride the glories of
her doll's house, and point out that the tiny towels had hemmed edges
and a monogram. They would be getting quite confidential till, in an
outburst of boyish spirits, he was sure to do something rough or clumsy
which brought down on his head a gentle rebuke, and he was reminded of
the limitations of their friendship. Hurt and ashamed, he would
afterwards try to keep out of her way, but a smile of forgiveness never
failed to bring him to her feet, for there was a kind of sovereignty in
her little person that was not to be resisted.

Felix resented her power. He called her affected and a mollycoddle, and
teased her as only he could tease. She, on her part, had an aggravating
trick of turning up her nose and appearing to look down on him, though
he was a good head taller, which goaded him into tormenting her the
more, and ended in her running to her father, and with streaming eyes
begging that Felix might be punished.

At twelve years old, Boleslav left his birthplace. Some relations on
his mother's side, belonging to the old Prussian official nobility,
proposed to continue his education. His father had every reason to
congratulate himself at getting rid of him. The life he had led since
his wife died was scarcely of a character to bear the scrutiny of
innocent, questioning, childish eyes. The Baron was in the habit of
bringing back to the castle from his visits to the capital curious
company, chiefly women, and many a half-opened bud, indigenous to the
soil, had fallen an unwilling victim to his unbridled lust. Not that he
carried on his intrigues openly and unashamed. It was simply that in
his private life he refused to recognise the restraint of any moral
law, and, after all, what he did was only, for the most part, what his
fathers had done before him. Such amours were a part of the traditions
of his house, and were not likely to excite surprise or comment, unless
it were from the boy, who had occasionally been an involuntary witness
of assaults on virtue and heartrending appeals for mercy.

There were many other transactions besides these going on at the castle
that were not meant for his eyes. When the great Napoleon's call to
arms roused that miserable cat's-paw of European ambitions, the
lacerated country of Poland, from its death-throes, mysterious
movements were set on foot in every quarter where the peculiar hiss of
Polish speech was heard, and even extended so far as the unadulterated
German regions of East Prussia.

Foreigners with slim, supple figures, and sharply-cut features used to
arrive at Schranden Castle, driving through the village at express
speed in small carriages, and leave again in the middle of the night.
The post brought innumerable sealed packages bearing the Russian
post-mark; and for weeks together the Baron's study was locked against
all intruders. He himself became taciturn and pre-occupied, going about
like a man in a dream, actually permitting the stripes and weals on the
backs of his serfs to heal and fade away.

It was at this time that Boleslav migrated to his relations in
Königsberg. Afterwards, years passed calmly away, years in which he
grew in stature and developed in mind under the watchful care of the
widow of a former chancellor, who stood in the place of a mother to
him. All the leading families in the town opened their houses to him,
and by degrees the old familiar scenes and faces of his home became
little more than shadowy memories. His father's rare and hurried visits
only demonstrated how estranged he had become from his son, and how
little love was lost between them.

Then came that terrible winter in which the war-fury was let loose,
devastating the old Prussian provinces, and the victorious march of
Napoleonic cohorts resounded between the Weichsel and the Memel. Scores
of provincial fugitives sought refuge from the invaders within the
walls of Königsberg. Every house, from cellar to garret, was crammed
with human beings, and in the streets smouldered the bivouac-fires of
the soldiers who were camping out in the open air.

In the midst of war's alarms, to the accompaniment of beating of drums
and bugle-blasts, it was vouchsafed to Boleslav to dream for the first
time "love's young dream."

He had lately turned sixteen, and his upper lip was already shaded with
a pencilled line of down. He knew Horace's odes to Chloe and Lydia by
heart, and the passion which Schiller, who had recently died, had
cherished for his Laura was no longer a mystery to him. One January
evening on his way home from the gymnasium, as he crossed the castle
square where Russian and Prussian orderlies were galloping hither and
thither, he caught a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes which seemed turned
on him with an expression of friendly inquiry. He blushed, but when he
ventured to look round the eyes had vanished. The same thing happened
again the next evening. Not till it happened a third time could he
summon sufficient courage to watch more carefully and discover that the
eyes belonged to a fair young face, which could boast besides a
straight little nose, delicately curved lips, which naïvely smiled at
him. The face reminded him of an old altar-piece in the cathedral
representing the Virgin Mary standing in a garden of stiff white lilies
and short-stalked crimson roses. Of something else it reminded him too,
and it puzzled him to think what. He was racking his brains to
remember, when a rosy glow tinged the girl's fair cheeks, and the
charming lips opened.

"Boleslav!" they lisped. "Is it you?"

Now, of course, he knew.

"Helene, Helene! You!" he exclaimed joyously. Had she not bashfully
evaded him, he would have embraced her then and there in the middle of
the crowded square, regardless of spectators in the shape of giggling
servant-maids and ribald soldiers. They withdrew into a more secluded
street, and she told him that on the advance of the enemy her father
had sent her for the sake of safety to board with an old aunt, who had
set up an institution for the daughters of poor clergymen. Here she was
very happy, and was making the most of her time, studying French and
music, for she hoped that in the future she might render her father
assistance with his school, for it was not likely she would ever marry.

All this she related in a quiet, old-fashioned way, which excited his
respectful admiration, casting smiling side-long glances at him as she
talked. Of his father she could not tell him much; the last time she
had met him he had looked very fierce. It was some time since she had
had any news from home, because the French were quartered there; but
Felix Merckel was in Königsberg, and she saw him now and then. He was
apprenticed to a corn merchant, and thought himself quite the fine
gentleman. He wasn't likely to come to any good though, for he smoked
cigars and wore loud Turkish neckties. She ended by giving him leave to
call on her at her aunt's on Friday--Friday being the day for visitors
at the institution.

Then she tripped lightly away, swaying her slender limbs from side
to side, and as he watched her, he felt as if the Virgin in the
altar-piece had graciously condescended to appear to him in the flesh,
and was now returning to her lilies and crimson roses.

On Friday he pulled the bell of the institution and was admitted. He
did not find her, it is true, among lilies and roses, but there were
some plants of fuchsia and geranium in the room, whose faded, dusty
leaves made a pretty background to the girlish figure. The glow of the
winter sunset came through the diamond-pane windows, and spread a rosy
veil over her face. Perhaps, too, the pleasure of meeting an old friend
made her blush a little. The aunt, a toothless, antique spinster, with
patches and a powdered toupee, exhausted herself with curtseying and
compliments, and after regaling the distinguished visitor with
chocolate, in a bowl of superb old English china, vanished as
noiselessly as if the earth had swallowed her up. That was the first of
a succession of blissful, beatific Fridays.

Troops went forth to battle and returned, but he did not even notice
them. The thunder of cannons at Eylau reverberated through the town,
but he was deaf, and heard nothing. It often seemed to him, as he
looked up at the sky, that he must be lying far down in the depths of
the blue sea, and that the world in which he had lived before was
somewhere a long way off on the other side of the azure empyrean. But
that he still in reality belonged to that world, he was forcibly
reminded one Sunday afternoon, when the door of his attic-chamber,
where he was dreaming over his books, was boisterously flung open, and
his heaven invaded.

"Hurrah! my boy!" cried the intruder, with outstretched arms. "I've
been looking for you everywhere for a year past, and it's been as
difficult as searching for a needle in a bottle of hay. Even now I
mightn't have tracked you out if that pious little girl Helene had not
given me a hint of your whereabouts."

It was the harum-scarum Felix, and the Turkish necktie of which the
beloved had spoken, flapped over either shoulder in aggressive fly-away
ends.

Boleslav returned the greeting more heartily than a few weeks ago he
would have thought possible; since his meeting with Helene, the old
home and the old life had come back to him very distinctly, and his
heart felt drawn to this once inseparable friend of his boyhood.

Felix did not stand on ceremony, but threw himself on the sofa, and as
he stretched his legs on the leather cushions looked round him in
amazed admiration. The room seemed to him the embodiment of luxury and
magnificence.

"You are domiciled here like a prince in the 'Arabian Nights,'" he
exclaimed; "that's what comes of being born a _Junker_, I suppose. I
wish I was. Such as we have to rough it, and----"

He paused in order to shoot through his front teeth a stream of
dark-brown saliva, a habit he had learnt from the sailors on the quays.
After this, he frequently visited Boleslav's sequestered retreat,
devoured the dainties his aunt sent up to him, borrowed money and
books, and initiated him in the mysteries of life at the water's edge.
In short, he conducted himself as do most "men of the world" between
fifteen and nineteen years of age, who are apt to gain an ascendency
over deeper and more thoughtful natures than their own.

Boleslav sometimes thought of making him his confidant in his love
affair, but never, when it came to the point, could find the right
words in which to express himself. So his secret remained, as he
thought, buried in his heart of hearts. But one day Felix astounded him
by saying--

"Don't think I am blind! I have discovered some time ago that you are
head over heels in love with a certain little prude. She's pretty
enough, but a bit too good for me."

The blood mounted swiftly and angrily to Boleslav's brow, and he
demanded with dignity that henceforth no disrespectful word be spoken
of the fair Helene in his presence. And Felix, though he made a
contemptuous grimace, was careful not to offend again by any jibing
allusion to his love.

Later he announced his intention of enlisting in the English navy as a
midshipman, that he might be "revenged on the tyrant of his downtrodden
Fatherland," as he expressed it, and Boleslav looked up to him in
consequence with a profounder reverence than ever.

Then a day came when this friend passed him in the street without
bestowing on him a shake of the hand, or even a nod. Only a scornful
shrug of the shoulders indicated that he had seen him at all. Utterly
disconcerted, he gazed after the rapidly disappearing figure that
seemed anxious to get out of his way as quickly as possible.

What could be the meaning of this extraordinary behaviour? The same
evening, with tears pouring down his face, he wrote asking for an
explanation. Before there was time for an answer, a messenger brought
him a parcel of books and a note that ran as follows:--


"_To His Hochgeboren Herrn_
        _Boleslav von Schranden_.

"Having become apprised of events that have recently taken place in
Schranden, I consider that it would be beneath my dignity, and contrary
to all my patriotic principles, to continue our intercourse. The books
you have lent me are therefore returned. The money will follow in due
course as soon as I have earned the same. Meanwhile the messenger will
hand you five silver groschens.--In humble submission, your
Hochgeboren's obedient servant,

                                   "Felix Merckel."


Boleslav felt as if some one had struck him a blow from behind. He was
so bitterly humiliated that for a whole day he daren't look any human
being in the face. At last he resolved to tell Helene of his trouble,
in the hope that she might be able to give him tidings that would at
least end his fearful suspense. She had forbidden him to speak to her
in the street, because she considered such meetings out of doors
unnecessary and improper, as he was allowed to call at the institution.
Yet, in spite of her veto, he waylaid her and showed her Felix's
letter. As usual, she smiled sweetly and consolingly, but could throw
little light on the matter. The last time she had heard from her
father, the letter had been full of nothing but the unfortunate
engagement which had taken place in the wood near Schranden, when the
Prussian soldiers had been completely routed. That had been in all the
newspapers. There was only one means of learning the whole truth.
Helene could walk along by the river's bank, where the clerks from the
great warehouses lounged away their spare time, and make inquiries of
Felix. This she consented to do, though reluctantly; and he, in a fever
of anxiety, waited for her return on one of the bridges.

"He does think too much of himself!" she said, as she came back slowly
from her errand, the colour deepening in her cheeks. "And so they all
do, these merchants' clerks. It's not likely that I should allow any of
them to make love to me!"

She smiled, and hid her burning face in the blue silk reticule she
always carried.

"But you needn't mind him, dear Boleslav. Since he has determined to go
as a midshipman, he has got love for the Fatherland on the brain."

"How have I interfered with his love for the Fatherland?" asked
Boleslav. "Don't I abominate that bloodhound Bonaparte as much as he
does?"

Helene was silent, and gathered the folds of her cloak closer about her
slender limbs, to keep out the bitter winter wind. Then she continued--

"You may rely on me. I will never bear a grudge against you for it."

"For what? Good God, tell me at once!"

And then at last the mystery was cleared up.

"You mustn't take it too much to heart, dearest Boleslav. At home in
the village they all say that your father showed the French the path by
the Cats' Bridge in the middle of the night, so that they might
surprise the Prussians; and that gipsy-looking Regina, the carpenter's
daughter--you remember the little curly-headed thing who was at school
with you and me--she confessed it, because it was she who really led
the way. And now the people call your father the betrayer of his
country, and refuse to work for him any more, and have burnt down his
house."

Ah! so that was it. Now he knew all. In that hour his life's budding
joys and hopes were withered like the blossoms of a tree struck by
lightning in May. How intolerable were these memories of darkest hours
of silent torture-hours in which he was oppressed with a sense of
crime, and when shame literally consumed him!

It was some time before the news of the betrayal was openly spoken
about in Königsberg. Months passed before the first signs that it had
become known manifested themselves, and during these months his whole
character underwent a complete change.

His glance became shifty and uneasy, his colour often forsook him. Shy
and awkward he withdrew himself more and more from society, and
frequented none of his old haunts. He would start and tremble at every
word unexpectedly addressed to him. Then came days when the masters
at the gymnasium began to look askance at him, and the pupils to shun
him--days in which his aunt kept her room to escape his morning
greeting, and the family sat in conclave behind closed doors, when the
servants began to set his orders at defiance, and from time to time
spat on the ground as they passed his door.

So he watched it creeping on, nearer and nearer, the cold, clammy
monster, that, snake-like, was to bind his limbs and freeze the blood
in his veins. He watched its wriggling progress, heard the gloating
hiss of its approach, and defenceless, paralysed, he stared it stonily
in the face, lacking the courage to cry out, or even to moan.

He had lost Helene too. Not through any fault of hers. She had still
allowed him to go on pulling the institution bell on Fridays as if
nothing had happened, and had been friendly as ever, and had even tried
to distract his thoughts from the painful subject on which they
incessantly brooded, with mild little jokes. But was it because he was
himself so altered that he could only see the rest of the world through
a distorting mist of shame, or had she really, since that day of the
revelation, adopted a tone of pitying compassion towards him? Anyhow,
he became more and more embarrassed in her presence, and dared not meet
her eye.

One day, instead of Helene, the old schoolmistress received him alone.
She curtseyed and grinned as usual, and assured him, a hundred times at
least, that she was his humblest servant; but what she proceeded to
unfold seemed to Boleslav the last straw. Her dear nephew, the _Herr
Pastor_, she stuttered, thought it best that the intimacy between his
daughter and the young nobleman should terminate, and in order that
there should be no further temptation to continue it, had decided to
remove her instantly from the town of Königsberg. A note sealed with
blue sealing-wax contained Helene's farewell:--


"Dear, Dear Boleslav,--My father commands me to give up my friendship
with you. I must obey him. Good-bye. I shall always be fond of
you----always. I swear it. Your

                                   "Helene."


Six hastily scribbled lines! Were these to be his food and drink
through a life of longing and renunciation? Yet had he any right to
expect more? Had she not promised to be true, and to hold to him though
everyone else had cast him off? From that time forward she became for
him transfigured and a saint. Her face became more than ever identified
in his imagination with that of the Madonna he had seen in the
Cathedral, and whenever he pictured her he beheld her adorned with an
aureole, and surrounded by lilies and roses.

Had it not been for his extreme youth, energy and self-reliance might
possibly have helped him over the abyss of enervating grief; but a
habit of childlike respect, a latent instinct of veneration, put the
idea of asking his father to explain what had happened, much less of
calling him to account for it, out of the question. It was his
unexpected appearance on the scene that at last roused in him a spirit
of revolt.

He was now seventeen, and would have been ready to pass into the
university, even if the authorities of the gymnasium had not repeatedly
hinted that his withdrawal would be in every way desirable. Even his
kindly aunt, who had carefully avoided referring to the rumour through
which she herself suffered keenly, had, as mercifully as she knew how,
spoken to him about the advisability of his going somewhere else to
finish his studies.

Under other circumstances, his pride, his zeal for fair play and his
own honour, would have rebelled against this unjust dismissal. But now,
in his unspeakable bitterness, he cherished only one wish, and that was
to hide away somewhere with his disgrace, and be seen by no human eye.

And in this mood he stood one day face to face with his father.

The baron had come to town, to call in the aid of the law in dealing
with his rebellious peasants, but had found every door shut in his
face. His fury knew no bounds; he appeared to have lost all control
over himself, and his demeanour was one of desperate defiance.

At the sight of the short, stubborn figure, the bull-neck and the grey,
fiery eyes rolling in their red sockets, Boleslav was seized with the
old boyish terror. He had to pull himself together with a tremendous
effort before he could bring the fatal question over his lips.

"Father, is it true what people are saying, that----"

Suspicion blazed up in the small grey eyes.

"Eh?--what are people saying?" he interrupted.

"That it was through you that the French found out the path by the
Cats' Bridge."

"And what if it was through me, you Hottentot? What if I did avenge the
wrongs of the down-trampled Pole on this pack of cowardly Russian
thieves? These hulking, stupid, lazy serfs, who would only get their
deserts if the great Napoleon extirpated them altogether from off the
face of the earth. Don't gape at me like that, clown! What I did was
done as a sacred duty. Heavily chained, scourged human beings cried out
imploringly to me, 'Save us, save us!' I could not save them, it is
true; that work was reserved for a greater than I--but I could at least
_help_, help him, who like an avenging angel swept over Europe and laid
it waste--help to annihilate a handful of ruffians I saw providentially
delivered into my hand."

As he held forth thus, his short figure seemed to grow. His eyes
flashed fire. The demon of fanaticism that so strongly resembles
inspiration, its angelic sister, enveloped him in its red-hot, glowing
mantle.

Boleslav shrank away, trembling. He felt keenly, how completely every
tie between him and this man was now severed.

"Let them whisper, and nudge each other as I pass," he continued, "and
make faces; what the devil do I care? They daren't do it so long as the
Corsican lion held them in his claws. And after all, who is to prove it
against me? If it hadn't been for that fool Regina, who let her father
hunt her down in the Bockshorn, every one would naturally have supposed
that General Latour, with his inventive brain, had found out the way
over the river and through the wood of his own accord. As it is, the
wretches are all at my throat.... The peasants are no longer to be
brought to heel with the knout. They've always been so fond of me, you
see. If what the papers say is true, and the king is willing to let the
mutiny continue, they'll lynch me, as sure as fate. You will have good
cause to congratulate yourself on your succession, my boy!"

Those were the last words his father had ever spoken to him, for the
conversation which had taken place in his own study, was interrupted at
this point by the entrance of his aunt.

The aristocratic old lady recoiled from the touch of the Baron's red
muscular hand as from that of some poisonous reptile. But mastering her
repugnance, she asked for a few minutes' private talk with him.

What decision they came to over his future he was never to know, for
even before the short interview had elapsed, his former life already
lay behind him like a nightmare, and he stood in the street and
reflected through which of the city-gates he should wander out into the
wide world. Finally, the goal of his travels proved to be a small
property in a remote corner of Lithuania, where he found rest in hard
work, and an opportunity of fitting himself for the duties of a landed
proprietor.

Years went by. For him they meant unremitting labour for his daily
bread--a struggle for existence full of hardships, which, however,
could be engaged in without shame, or any wounding of his _amour
propre_. For now he no longer bore the abhorred name of his fathers. If
at the same time he only could have cast off, like a soiled garment,
the host of bitter recollections with which it was associated, he would
have been happier. But consciousness of the infamy that clung to the
discarded name remained ever present. Love for his country, which
hitherto had only slumbered in his heart, now bounded into full life.
The passion of patriotism grew and grew, till it became a tormenting
demon which scourged him with scorpions, drove the blood from his face,
the sleep from his eyes, and heaped the guilt of Prussia's misfortunes
on his shoulders.

Only once during this time did news of his home reach him. That was
when he read in a Königsberg news-sheet that Schranden Castle, which
had enjoyed such an unenviable notoriety in the winter of 1807, had
been burned down with all its outlying buildings. Then he had folded
his hands, and a sound had escaped his lips like a prayer of
thanksgiving.

Expiation! expiation! must be the watchword of his soul.

But as yet nothing could be expiated. Still the unhappy Fatherland lay
crushed beneath the heel of the dictator. Then came the downfall of the
Great Army on the snow-covered plains of Eastern Europe, and the rising
of Prussia quickly followed.

Now the hour had come. His hour! He would die--give his life for the
Fatherland, and expiate his father's sin with his own blood.

In the volunteer Jäger Baumgart, who rode into Königsberg on the 5th of
March 1813, no one recognised the youthful Baron von Schranden, who,
just five years before, had fled from the town unable to face the
dishonour brought upon his name; and there were many now hailing him
with shouts and cheers of welcome, who then would have driven him out
with stones and brickbats.

He attached himself to a cluster of intrepid sons of the soil, from
whose mouths the dialect of his lost home fell familiarly and musically
on his ear. He became their friend and their leader, till suddenly a
well-known face cropped up in the camp, the sight of which immediately
drove Lieutenant Baumgart out of it.

Felix Merckel, he knew too well, would not have hesitated to betray him
to his comrades, and to inform them who it was that led them to battle.

What followed was like a ghastly confused phantasmagoria, in which
bloodshed, salvoes, and death-rattles played their part. Why had he not
died? How had he lived through it? These were the questions he asked
himself on first regaining consciousness and opening his eyes on the
world, after lying for months between life and death. For him, then, no
French sabre had been sharpened, no French bullet fired.

The one complete atonement his conscience told him it was in his power
to make had been denied him. Was a heavier one awaiting him now, as he
drew near the dusky woodlands of his birthplace in the dim, grey dawn
of day?




                               CHAPTER IV


It was eight o'clock in the morning, and already the rays of the sun
had strengthened, as Boleslav left the wild tangle of the forest behind
him, and beheld his home stretched out at his feet.

He had not set eyes on it for ten years. His first fierce impulse now
was to shake his fist at the village which lay there so hypocritically
idyllic in the calm of early morning, with its white toy cottages set
in bowers of green bushes, its curls of blue-grey smoke, and opalescent
slate church spire rising peacefully against the sky.

Beyond were the magnificent groups of old trees with dark, almost black
foliage and yellowish trunks belonging to the Castle park, which sloped
away on the eastern side of the hill. But the Castle itself, that had
crowned the hill with its shining battlemented twin-towers, and had
queened the landscape far and wide--where was it? Had the earth opened
and swallowed the imposing structure whole? For a moment he was
startled and shocked at its total disappearance. Then he remembered.
How stupid it was to have forgotten! They had burnt it down, razed it
to the ground.

Many and many a time he had thought of that deed of violence, which had
laid waste the inheritance of his fathers, with a sort of grim
satisfaction. But now, when he saw with his bodily eyes the scene of
the conflagration, he felt sullen resentment rise in his heart.

"Incendiaries! Accursed incendiaries!" he cried, and once more shook
his fist at the homesteads of his enemies. _His_ enemies? Yes, in the
flash of a moment it seemed clearly demonstrated that his father's
enemies must be his enemies. Had he not inherited them, together with
these woods and fertile valleys, with yonder smoked, blackened heap of
ruins (he now noticed it for the first time) that reared itself like
the mighty hand of a giant calling down the wrath of Heaven--together
with that awful crime, which no one on earth hated more than he did,
from which no one had suffered as he had suffered.... And though,
instead of filial love, he had cherished nothing but a sensation of
paralysing fear towards his father, though for years he had
deliberately cut himself adrift from ties of kindred, and the
performance of duties that custom and civilisation impose on those who
are destined to hand down an ancient name and inherit vast estates--in
spite of it all, the fact remained that it was his father's blood
flowing in his veins, and he felt it at this moment coursing through
them tumultuously, and rising in hot anger at the wrong that had been
done his race.

A wild gleam shone in his eyes as he fumbled with his left hand for the
leather case strung over his shoulder, from which obtruded the
burnished knobs of a pair of cavalry pistols.

"Won't bury him!" he murmured through his clenched teeth, clasping the
pistols close. "Won't bury him, indeed! We shall see!" And with a
bitter, mirthless laugh, he walked resolutely down into the village.

The one long straggling street lay before him, deserted and basking in
the brilliant sunshine. The cart-ruts in the rich clay soil shone as if
they had been glazed; bottle-glass and rags from old besoms filled the
interstices to prevent the accumulation of stones. On either side of
the road stood the thatched cottages of the peasants, shaded by limes
and chestnuts, some of whose leaves were even now beginning to look
autumnally sere and yellow. These peasants had formerly been under the
jurisdiction of the Castle, and only since the new rural laws came into
force had been relieved of their service and joined the freemen.

Here and there he saw a new fence painted in glaring colours, as if the
owner wished to mark off his recently acquired possession from the rest
of the inhabited globe. In other respects the new _régime_ had left
everything much the same. Sunflowers and herbs bloomed in the front
gardens as they had always done; damp mattresses hung out of the
windows to air just as of old. Only the number of taverns had
increased. Boleslav counted three, whereas once the Black Eagle had
reigned supreme and met all the requirements of the place.

Nearer the church were the white houses of the free artisans, burghers
as they were called, who paid to the Castle ground-rent, and therefore
enjoyed the privilege of cultivating their own vegetable plots as they
pleased. There were a couple of blacksmiths with the sign of a
horseshoe over the entrance of their forges, two or three cobblers, a
wheelwright, a basketmaker, and a----

He paused and let his eyes rest on a dilapidated tumble-down hovel, the
most wretched in the whole row. A dirty green shield hung over the
door, bearing the almost obliterated inscription--


                           "HANS HACKELBERG,
                   CARPENTER AND PARISH UNDERTAKER."


A coffin, also painted green, supported by pillars, loomed down on the
neglected garden, and gave to those who couldn't read, the necessary
information. At the sight of it an incident long forgotten occurred to
Boleslav with extraordinary distinctness. He saw again a little untidy
girl with great, dark, tearful eyes and a tangled cloud of black, curly
hair flying about her face and shoulders in wild dishevelment. She had
clung to this garden gate with one hand, while with the other she held
the corner of her blue print pinafore convulsively pressed against her
bosom. A pack of village hobbledehoys were pelting her with sticks and
stones. He was not much taller than she was, but at his approach the
little crowd made way for him, shy and awestruck. For he was the "young
_Junker_," who had only to lift his finger, they thought, to bring down
blessings or curses on their heads.

"What is going on here?" he had asked, whereupon the persecuted child
had humbly advanced, and opened her pinafore just wide enough for him
to get a glimpse inside.

"Beasts! They wanted to take it away from me!" she had exclaimed,
lifting her wet eyes to his, blazing with indignation.

A poor unfledged sparrow, which somehow or other had fallen out of the
nest, reposed in the pinafore.

"Give it to me," he had demanded, for he loved young birds; and
obediently she had held out her pinafore for him to snatch it away. As
beseemed a lordling, he had not said thank you, or troubled himself
further about the giver.

And that was _she_--the girl who, it was said, had shown the French the
path by the Cats' Bridge, and had lived with his father as his mistress
to the last.

Why had he defended her then? Why had he prevented the pack hunting her
down? One blow on the forehead from a stone might then and there have
cut short her mischievous career!

He walked on. Now and then a dull, dirty face peered at him curiously
through the small, dark window-panes, or a cur barked. But he passed
unmolested through the village. It was unlikely enough that any one
would recognise him. The parsonage came in view with its shady veranda,
trim flower-beds, and nut-trees. It looked as quiet and peaceful as on
that morning long ago, when, with a sigh of relief at escaping from
the pastor's stern rule, he had seen it for the last time from the
post-chaise, and Helene had waved him farewell with her little cambric
handkerchief. With lowering brow he now took a short cut that he might
avoid passing it. It seemed as if Helene must still be standing on the
lawn waving her handkerchief. But what if she had been there? It would
have been impossible for him to go to her. A path on his left led down
to the river, which divided the Castle domain from the villagers'
territory. As he turned into it he became aware of the frightful
ravages the fire had made. Instead of the long line of barns and
stables which had been ranged on this side of the river stood a row of
ruins, falling walls and scorched beams, grown over with celandine and
valerian. Beyond could be seen, through gaps in the walls, the
courtyard, now a weedy, grass-grown rubbish heap, and on the summit of
the hill, behind a lattice formed of the leafless branches of dead
elms, a black ruined mass of fantastically jagged brickwork--all that
remained of the once proud Castle.

His arms fell heavily to his sides. A sound escaped him like a sob, a
sob for vengeance.

He dragged his way laboriously along the banks of the river to the
drawbridge, which was the main mode of access to the island; for, since
his grandfather's time, the whole of the Castle grounds had been, by
means of an aqueduct, practically converted into an island. The
drawbridge, at least, was still _en evidence_. It looked like a remnant
of antiquity as it hung with its grey projecting timbers on its black,
clumsy buttresses, at the foot of which the ripples broke with a
gurgling sound. The rusty chains were tightened, and between _terra
firma_ and the floating edge of the bridge was a space of about three
feet, which could be jumped with ease. Some one had evidently tried to
draw it up, and failed in the effort.

Boleslav sprang over and passed through the stone gateway, whose
nail-studded doors, half-burnt, were thrown back on their hinges.
Suddenly he heard a sharp clicking sound at his feet resembling the
snap of a bowstring. He stopped, and saw, to his horror, the iron
semicircle of a fox-trap half-buried in the rubbish, and carefully
covered with birch-broom. The long pointed teeth of the iron jaw had
closed on each other in a tenacious grip. By a miracle he had escaped
an accident which might have laid him up for many weeks.

Feeling the ground with his stick, he pursued his way more cautiously
through the refuse and litter, amongst which he came across
occasionally a disused waggon or the rotten barrel of a brandy cask
held together by iron hoops. He went on, up the hill to the Castle. The
path was overgrown with brambles as tall as himself, and again he came
on traps, their wide open maws greedily eager to seize him by the leg.
The whole place seemed strewn with them--the only signs of civilisation
he had as yet encountered.

The Castle lay before him, with yawning window-frames and sundered
walls, a complete ruin. Piles of fallen tiles and plaster, between
which rank grass and weeds had sprung up, formed a mound round its
foundations. The vestibule, with its drooping rafters, had become a
perfect bower of creepers and evergreens, whose luxuriant growth seemed
almost impenetrable. A white tablet hung among the leaves, on which, in
his father's handwriting, were the words, "_Caution to trespassers_."

He shuddered at this, the first trace he had seen for six years of the
man to whom he owed his existence, and whom he had now come to bury.

In a few moments he would be standing probably beside his corpse.

But how was he to find it? What resting-place could his father have
found here while yet alive?

No door or unbroken window, no signs of a human habitation, were
visible amidst all this fearful wreckage. He turned, and walked slowly
the length of the Castle façade, past the towers which flanked the
gabled roof; here over the blackened stonework the ivy had begun to
grow afresh, enshrouding it in a peaceful melancholy. From this point
his eye caught a vista of the park, with its giant timber and wealth of
undergrowth. And then he saw a few yards off, on the grass-plot where
once had stood the statue of the goddess Diana, of which nothing now
was left but the shattered fragments and pedestal, a woman.... A
slender, strongly-built woman, with long plaits of dark curling hair
hanging down her back. Her primitive costume consisted of a red
petticoat and a chemise. She was digging energetically with a heavy
spade in the dark rich soil, and was apparently too engrossed to notice
his approach. She set her naked foot at regular intervals, as if
beating time on the hard edge of the spade, and with the slightest
possible pressure drove it deep into the earth. As she dug she sang a
song on two notes, a high and a low, which welled out of her full
breast like the sound of a sweet-toned bell. The chemise, a coarse and
roughly made garment, had slipped off her shoulders, laying bare the
strong, magnificently moulded neck. When he addressed her, she drew
herself erect with a sudden movement of surprise and alarm, and stood
before him half naked.

She turned on him a pair of lustrous, large dark eyes. "What do you
want here?" she asked, grasping the spade tighter, as if intending to
use it as a weapon of defence. Then lifting her other arm she calmly
raised the chemise over her shapely bosom.

"What do you want?" she repeated.

Still he did not answer. "So this is she," he was thinking, "the
traitress, the courtesan, who---- Should he point his pistol at her,
and drive her instantly from the island, so that the ground he trod on
might at least be clean?"

Meanwhile his bearing seemed to have convinced her of the peacefulness
of his intentions.

"This is no place for strangers," she went on. "Go away again at once.
You are lucky not to have been caught in a wolf's trap."

She stood, drawn to her full height, and waved him off. Then gradually
she became confused under his searching glance, and regarded him
nervously out of the corners of her eyes. Tossing back the black tangle
of hair from her sunburnt cheeks, she began to fidget with her
inadequate garment, seeming conscious for the first time of her
half-nude condition.

"Show me his corpse!" he asked imperatively.

She started and stared at him for a moment with astonished, questioning
eyes, then threw herself weeping at his feet.

"_Gnädiger Herr_!" she murmured, in a voice stifled with emotion.

He felt her fingers seeking his hand, and pushed her violently from
him.

"Show me his corpse!" he commanded again, "and then you may go."

She rose slowly, kicked the spade away with her foot, and led the way
down to the park. As they neared some bushes she turned round and said
timidly, "There's a trap here." He stepped quickly to one side,
otherwise he would have walked straight into the snare. She held
back the brambles of the thicket through which they were making their
way, to prevent the thorns scratching his face. They came to a clearing
in the wood where stood a small one-storied cottage with a tall
chimney, surrounded by broken hot-house frames and lime heaps. It was
the gardener's house, in which as a boy he had often played with
flower-pots, seeds, and bulbs; the one solitary building the ravages of
the fire had left untouched, because the incendiary had been unable to
find his way to it.

Again his guide warned him. "Take care! That is dangerous," she said,
pointing to a heap of earth like a mole-hill. "Whoever steps on it is a
dead man," she added half to herself. He knelt down, and with his hands
dug out the bomb that lay concealed in the soft earth, and hurled it
with all his might far away, so that it exploded with a loud report
against the trunk of a tree. She cast a shy, half-scandalised glance at
him over her shoulder, for to her what he had done was an act of
desecration.

Then she opened the door, and he found himself in a dark passage. The
cottage had only two rooms. The one on the left of the front-door had
been the gardener's dwelling-room, the other his workshop.

From the former, the door of which stood ajar, issued a powerful death
odour.

He went in. A body veiled in white lay on a low bier in the middle of
the close, gloomy little room.

"Leave me," he said, without looking round, and he threw back the
cloth.

His father's rigid features, covered with bristles, stared up at him.
The eyes had sunk far back in his head; the brows were contracted. In
the hollows of his cheeks bushy black hair had sprouted, while the
beard had turned partially grey. The short, thick nose had shrunk, and
close to the firmly-shut lips that had not parted in death lay a deep
line, denoting intense suffering, and, at the same time, defiant scorn;
as Boleslav looked down on it, the line seemed to deepen still more,
and at last to quiver and play round the mouth that was still for ever.

He dropped on his knees, and, with folded hands, prayed a paternoster.
His tears fell fast, and rained heavily on the waxen face of the dead
man.

"Your guilt is my guilt," he whispered hoarsely. "If I don't defend
your memory, who else will? No one in all the world."

Then he covered up the body again with the white cloth, for flies were
swarming round it. As he turned away, he observed the girl's dark head
pressed against the foot of the bier. Her symmetrical neck and
shoulders shone out in relief from the shadowy background.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded roughly. She crouched down,
shivering, and raised her left shoulder, as if to ward off a threatened
blow. Her eyes flashed a warm ray through the masses of her curly hair.

"No one has ever driven me away from him before," she murmured.

"But _I_ drive you away," he answered with decision.

She rose and quietly vanished. He tore open a window, for he felt half
suffocated, and then took a survey of the apartment. It was small and
wretched enough, and was filled up without any attempt at arrangement
with the most inappropriate and heterogeneous assortment of furniture,
most of it evidently rescued in haste from the fire; a gold-legged
table harmonised ill with rickety kitchen chairs; a peasant's canopied
bed stood near gorgeous consoles of inlaid marble, and a cracked
Venetian mirror hung beside a bullfinch's simple wicker cage. But
nothing looked more out of its element than the life-size portrait of
the beautiful Pole, his grandmother, and the original cause of all the
evil that had befallen him. Her haughty, arrogant eye still pierced the
distance triumphantly; the small gloved hand still grasped the flexible
riding-whip. "Kneel, slave," the full proud lips seemed to say. Only
the diamond pin which used to glitter in her bosom like a star was
gone, for just there the colour had warped, and the grey canvas beneath
was exposed to view. The once elegant and artistically carved frame
representing a garland of gilded roses and cupids had suffered too,
being chipped and cracked in various places, where patches of coarse
orange paint had been daubed on to repair the damage.

"Probably he took every care to save that first," thought Boleslav, and
had not the presence of his father's corpse restrained him, he would
have pulled it down from the wall, and trampled it under foot.

A case containing arms stood in a corner. The newest and most costly of
shooting weapons were ranged there, including every variety of pistol,
sword, and spear. Above it was unrolled a plan of the Castle island,
showing the spots where ingeniously contrived man-traps, mines, and
spring-guns awaited the trespasser--roughly calculated, there were over
a hundred of them.

Boleslav shuddered. Surely this unhappy man had been punished enough
for his misdeeds in the life he had been compelled to lead during his
last few years on earth! Caged up like a hunted wild beast, his
murderous contrivances were a perpetual source of menace to himself,
for to have forgotten for a moment the position of one of his
death-traps must have instantly proved fatal.

When Boleslav went out at the door he stumbled over Regina, who was
cowering on the threshold. She started to her feet with a low cry of
pain, like the whine of a trodden-on dog. He felt a momentary thrill of
compassion for her, but it vanished before he had spoken the kind words
that involuntarily rose to his lips.

"What were you lying there for?" he inquired harshly.

"It's my place," she answered, always regarding him with the same
humble, luminous glance.

"Indeed? It's a dog's place as a rule."

"It's mine too."

"Your name is Regina Hackelberg?"

"Yes, _gnäd'ger Junker_."

"It was you who led the French over the Cats' Bridge?"

"Yes, _gnäd'ger Junker_."

"Why did you do it?"

"Because I was told to do it."

"Who told you?"

She cast down her eyes.

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because I was forbidden to tell."

"Who forbade you; my--_he_?"

"Yes; the _gnäd'ger Herr_."

"So that's what you call him, eh?"

"Yes, _gnäd'ger Junker_."

"Call me, if you please, _Herr_, and not _Junker_. I am not _Junker_."

"Very well, _gnäd'ger Herr_."

"_Herr_, I say--simply _Herr_. Do you understand?"

"Yes, _gnäd'ger Herr_."

"_Himmelkreuzdonnerwetter_! Didn't I say you were to call me _Herr_,
without any prefix?"

She trembled nervously at his oath; but when it dawned on her what he
meant, a smile of pleasure illumined her face.

"I see, _Herr_," she said, and nodded.

"I shall expect you to tell me everything," he went on. "Do you hear?"

"The _gnäd'ger Herr_ did not wish me to speak about it.... Not to any
one."

"Did he say not to _any one_?"

"Yes."

He bit his lip. Why should he inquire further into the matter, when it
was all as clear as daylight? This creature had been used as a tool
because she was stupid, and bad enough to let herself be so used.

"How old were you at the time the French came?"

Again she cast down her eyes. "Fifteen, _Herr_."

Once more he felt softened towards her, but almost immediately dark
suspicion stifled his pity.

"You were paid for your work?" he asked between his clenched teeth.

"Yes, _Herr_," she responded calmly.

He was overwhelmed with disgust.

"How much was it? Your bribe?"

"I don't know, _Herr_."

"What! You mean to say you did not stipulate for a certain sum
beforehand?

"She seemed unable to comprehend.

"My father took it all away from me," she answered. "He said it was the
wages of sin. It was a whole big handful of gold. I know that."

He looked at her in amazement.

The fine head, with its wealth of wild hair clustering on her neck, was
humbly bent. She appeared not to have the slightest perception of the
scorn she had aroused in him; or was she so used to it that she took
his contempt as a matter of course?

"What were you doing at the Castle when the French were quartered
there?"

A dark flush suffused her face, neck and bosom. He had struck some
chord of memory that awakened in her a spark of shame.

"I was helping with the sewing," she stammered.

"Why did you come to the Castle?"

"My father told me I must. He said I was to go up and ask the
_gnäd'ger_ Herr if there was any sewing for me to do. I was to earn my
bread somehow, he said."

"Oh, indeed!" There was a pause, then he continued: "Go and put on a
jacket, Regina."

She passed her hand over her bosom and drew her linen garment tighter
round her chest, till the string cut into the swelling flesh.

"Well, why don't you go?"

"I haven't got a jacket."

"What! Didn't he clothe you?"

"They tore my jacket off my back yesterday."

"Who?"

A gleam of burning hate flashed from her eyes.

"Who? Why, they--the people down there, of course," and she spat in the
direction of the village.

A feeling of mingled surprise and satisfaction arose within him, for
here was a being who could share his hatred; some one whom fate was to
associate with him in the coming struggle with the villagers below.

"So the people down there are your foes?" he said.

She laughed jeeringly.

"I should just think they were. They throw stones at me whenever they
get the chance--stones as big as this." She joined the hollows of her
hands together to show the size.

"For how long have they thrown stones at you?"

"It must be six years," she said after a moment's calculation.

"And how often have they hit you?"

"Oh, lots of times. Look here!" and she let the chemise slip down
again, to display a scar extending from her shoulder to the root of her
bosom, which marked the warm olive skin with a thin line of scarlet.

"But now I always take the tub with me."

"The tub?"

"Yes; the wash-tub. I hold it over my head and neck when they come
after me."

What a wretched existence was hers--worse than a dog's!

"Why have you gone on staying here when they treat you thus?" he asked.
"There are other places in the world."

She gazed at him in astonishment, as if she did not grasp his meaning.

"But I belong here," she said.

"You might at least have left the island, and betaken yourself
somewhere where your life would not always be in danger."

She gave a short laugh.

"Was I to leave _him_ to starve?" she asked; and then, growing suddenly
red, she added, correcting herself shyly, "I mean the _gnäd'ger Herr_."

He nodded to reassure her, for she looked as if she expected to be
chastised on the spot for her slip of speech, poor miserable creature!

"I don't go down there oftener than I can help. Generally I go over the
Cats' Bridge by night to Bockeldorf, three miles away. There, at
Bockeldorf, I could get flour and meat, and everything else that
_he_--the _gnädiger Herr_--wanted, if I paid double the price for it,
and be back by the morning. But sometimes it's impossible to get
there--in a snow-storm, for instance, or a flood. So when the weather
was very bad I was obliged to go down to the village, and had to pay
still more money there, and even then perhaps get nothing but blows.
So"--she laughed a wild, almost cunning laugh--"I just took what came
handy."

"That means--you thieved?"

She gaily nodded assent, as if the achievement was deserving of special
praise.

She was so depraved, then, this strange, savage girl, that she was
quite incapable of distinguishing the difference between right and
wrong!

"And what were you doing in the village yesterday?" he questioned anew.

"Yesterday? Well, you see, _he_ must be buried. It's time, _Herr_,
quite time. And I thought to myself, however much I cry, that won't get
him under the earth."

"So you cried, did you?" he asked contemptuously.

"Yes," she replied. "Was it wrong?"

"Well, never mind: go on."

"And so I took the tub and went down to the pastor's. But the pastor
said I mustn't contaminate his house by coming near it, so on I went to
landlord Merckel, who is mayor as you know, _Herr_. And there the
soldiers saw me----"

"What soldiers?"

"The soldiers who have just come from the war." She paused again.

"Go on!" he commanded.

"And the soldiers cried out 'Down with her--strike her down!' and then
the chase began, and my father joined in and called out 'Down with
her!' too, but he was only drunk, as he nearly always is.... The stones
flew about, and the women and children caught hold of me and held me
fast, that they might strike me; but I had the tub and held it with
both hands high over their heads, hacking with it right and left like
this." She illustrated her story by holding up her rounded muscular
arms in the air, and bringing them down again like a pair of clubs.

The tall, magnificent figure before him, reminded him of some antique
statue in bronze. Strange, that in spite of all the degradation and
vileness amidst which she had been reared, it should have blossomed
into such fulness of triumphant splendour. There was something classic,
too, in the mere unaffected freedom with which she exposed its charms.
But of course in reality she was nothing but a shameless hussy, long
since lost to all sense of decency.

"Perhaps you have got a shawl, if not a jacket," he suggested, turning
his back.

"Yes, I have a shawl, a woollen one."

"Then put it on at once."

She disappeared silently through the door before which they had been
standing, and after a few moments returned in a brilliant red tippet
which she had crossed over her breast and tied in a knot behind. Now
that she had awakened to the fact that her half-clothed condition
shocked him, she began to be ashamed of even her naked arms, which she
had no means of concealing. She kept them folded behind her back, and
crept into the darkest corner of the passage.

"Did they refuse to bury the _gnädiger Herr_?" he demanded.

"No-no-one said anything," she answered, "because I never asked."

"Why not?"

"Because I couldn't for the stones that were hurled at me. And then I
thought it was no good. Nobody would ever come and fetch him. I might
as well shovel him in myself, as best I could."

"_You_ proposed to do it! Without help?"

"If I could carry him from the Cats' Bridge into the house without
help, I ought to be able to bury him too."

"Where--in the churchyard?"

"The churchyard? Ha! ha! That would have been a pretty piece of
business. I should never have got him through the village and been
alive afterwards to tell the tale. It was in the garden, over by the
Castle. I was in the middle of digging the grave when the _Herr_
arrived."

Now he felt strongly inclined to praise her. Such canine fidelity,
unquestioning, unhesitating, touched him deeply. Did not the girl who
had faced death readily a thousand times for her master's sake, deserve
some sort of reward? Yes. He would repay her in coin; good hard cash
would doubtless be more acceptable than anything else, poor thing! And,
directly he had laid his father in his last resting-place, he would
dismiss her from his service. Till then she might stay where she was.

But, at all costs, his father's bones must lie with those of his
ancestors. His first duty, his bounden duty as a son, was to procure
for him a decent burial, such as was granted to every Christian human
being. No matter what difficulties might stand in the way, he
determined to accomplish the sacred task, even if he were driven to
resort to extreme measures, and call in the aid of the law. He knew at
least one magistrate in Prussia, a relative of his mother's, who would
take his side, and enforce justice with an armed contingent if the
worst came to the worst.

He was just in the act of walking off in the direction of the village,
when it occurred to him that it was impossible to take a hundred steps
on his own property without being snared into a hundred death-traps.
Without the woman he detested to guide him, he was as helpless as a
child.

"Lead me to the drawbridge," he said; "and while I am gone clear away
all the traps."

"Yes, _Herr_."

But she remained motionless, as if rooted to the spot.

"What are you waiting for?"

"I beg the _Herr's_ pardon, but he has been travelling all night, and I
thought----"

"What did you think?"

"That the _Herr_ must be very tired, and hungry perhaps; and----"

She was right He could hardly stand from sheer exhaustion. But the idea
of taking even a crust from her hands filled him with loathing. Rather
would he be fed by his enemies.




                               CHAPTER V


Meanwhile in the Black Eagle a group of Schrandeners, burghers and
burghers' sons, were enjoying their morning pint together. The
Schrandeners, who had always thought the ideal of a happy life was to
spend as much time as possible in the tavern, were now at liberty to
indulge their taste from morning to night. What work they did must have
been accomplished very early in the day, judging by the hour at which
they began their recreation.

Young Merckel presided at their carousals. He had grown up into a fine,
broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cavalry moustache aggressively
curled up at the ends, which suited his cast of countenance, and a
manner, that even in bouts of clownish dissipation retained a certain
swaggering _bonhomie_. At the conclusion of the war, instead of getting
his discharge, he had come home on leave, to consider at his ease
whether or not it would be advisable to attach himself to a standing
army. His profession was not likely to interfere with his decision one
way or the other, as practically he had none.

Till his twenty-fourth year he had been employed in "seeing life" in
different parts of the world at his father's expense, and had hailed
with joy the outbreak of war as a legitimate outlet for his energy,
which otherwise might have been turned into unworthy channels.

Like Baumgart he had entered the army as a volunteer Jäger; like him
had passed into the militia and had been promoted to the rank of
lieutenant, but unlike him, he wore as a recognition of his bravery the
iron cross dangling on his proudly swelling breast. For the time being,
he had no intention of leaving his birthplace again, where he was
perfectly content to be regarded in the light of a hero and a lion.

He drank, blustered, and helped to fan the flame of hate against the
traitor, hate which since the return of the victorious soldiers had
blazed up more fiercely than ever. At his instigation the Schrandeners
had gone forth to destroy the Cats' Bridge in order to cut the baron
off, on his island. That he would be struck dead before their very eyes
none in their boldest dreams had dared to hope, and without having
achieved their mission they had hurried back to the village to proclaim
the glad tidings.

It was a foregone conclusion that the man who had betrayed his country
would be refused Christian burial. This would put the crown on their
work of vengeance. They gloried in reflecting on it. The mayor was on
their side; the parson appeared to shut his eyes to what was going on;
and there was no reason to be afraid of the interference of higher
authority.

That a champion of the dead would arise at the eleventh hour was the
last thing any one expected.

For the _Junker_--God alone knew what had become of the _Junker_--had
he not totally disappeared, probably to die of shame in a distant
land?...

"There's some one coming, wearing a Landwehr cap," said Felix Merckel,
looking out through a crack in the blinds on to the market-place, which
lay glaring and dusty in the heat of the mid-day sun.

The sounds of revelry subsided, in expectation of the advent of a
stranger. Felix Merckel stretched out his legs and began to toy
indifferently with his medal.

The door swung back. The new-comer brought a momentary stream of
sunlight into the cool, darkened room. Without a word of greeting he
walked to the buffet, behind which a barmaid sat knitting a stocking,
and inquired if he could speak a few words with the mayor. The mayor
was not at home; he had just gone out into the fields, the barmaid told
him.

Herr Merckel was fond of leaving the inn in charge of his son, for he
found the beer disappeared twice as fast from the barrels when he was
not present. Felix adopted a method of stimulating customers to drink,
which would not have been becoming in the host. He couched his
invitations in military slang and in figures of speech learnt in the
camp; to resist them would, the Schrandeners held, be casting a slight
on their lieutenant, so it followed that Felix was the means of adding
treasure to his father's exchequer.

He was piqued at the stranger in the Landwehr cap not vouchsafing him a
salute, although he must have seen the officer's badge on his coat, and
determined to ignore him.

"Can I wait here till the mayor comes back?" the stranger asked.

"Of course. This is the tap-room," the barmaid replied.

He took a seat in the farthest corner from the topers, with his back
turned to them, put down his knapsack, and bowed his head in his hands.

Herr Felix regarded such conduct as a kind of challenge to himself.
Like the true son of his father, he was indignant at a stranger coming
in and ordering nothing to drink.

"Ask the gentleman, Amalie, what he will take," he called out, bursting
with a sense of his own importance. Apparently the stranger didn't
hear, for he took no notice. The barmaid stood behind his chair and
stammered something about the excellent quality of Schrandener beer.

"Thank you; I will drink nothing," he replied, without looking up.

Herr Felix twisted with vigour the ends of his moustache. It was clear
that a rebuke must be administered to the stranger for his churlish
behaviour. He therefore rose to his feet, and swinging his tankard,
began in a somewhat blatant tone to address his boon-companions.

"Dear comrades and fellow-burghers and every one present, Prussia's
glorious battles have been fought. Our beloved Fatherland has risen
from the dust in new and unsuspected splendour. Most of us have bled on
the field of glory, and felt the enemy's bullets pierce our breast.
Whoever is a true Prussian patriot will now drink with me his country's
health and honour!"

With high-pitched hurrahs, the mugs with one accord were lifted to the
revellers' mouths, but before they could drink, an incisive "Halt!"
from the lieutenant stopped them.

"I see there is some one here," he cried, "who seems inclined to shirk
this sacred duty;" and he rose and walked with clanking spurs across
the room to the stranger's table.

"Sir," he asked aggressively, "do I understand you don't wish to drink
to Prussia's fame and glory?"

"I wish to be left in peace," answered the stranger, not turning round.

"What, sir? You who wear the honourable symbol of a defender of your
country in your cap, decline----"

A sudden movement on the part of the stranger, who grasped his pistols,
made him break off. The next moment he saw firearms gleam in his hand,
saw him spring up, and stood aghast, staring into a pale, overcast face
that he knew well, but from which two such angry eyes had never blazed
at him before.

He understood the situation at once; he stood face to face with a man
desperately resolved to go to any extremity if necessary.

"Look at me, Felix Merckel," said the stranger, who was stranger no
longer, "and learn that I wish to have nothing to say to you. But
understand that if you or any of your friends come too near, they will
rue it. The first who approaches within an inch of me I will shoot down
like a dog."

Felix Merckel quickly regained his composure.

"Ah! the _Herr Baron_!" he exclaimed, with a profound bow. "Now I am
not surprised that Prussia's----"

The click of the double trigger of the cavalry pistol made him stop
short again.

"I warn you once more, Felix Merckel. I am an officer as well as
yourself."

And the reiterated warning had its effect.

"Certainly, it is not my concern," Felix said, and with another low
bow, went back to his place; this time the clatter of his spurs was
scarcely audible.

The Schrandeners put their heads together and whispered, and then old
Merckel entered the room. His round, sleek, clean-shaven face beamed
with prosperity and self-satisfaction. As beseemed the village
patriarch, he passed by the common drinking-table with a dignified
gait. A heavy silver watch-chain hung on his greasy satin waistcoat,
suspended from a gold keeper in the form of a Moor's head, to which was
also attached an amber heart.

"The _Herr_ wished to speak to me?" he asked, with a profound
obeisance, which, however, he seemed to repent, when his little grey
lynx eyes remarked that the stranger had no glass before him. To be
obsequious to a non-drinker was a waste of time.

The Schrandeners kept their ears open. Felix had jumped up as if to
seize this favourable opportunity of going for his whilom friend with
his fists.

"I say, father, it's the young _Herr Baron_," he exclaimed, with a
discordant laugh.

Old Merckel withdrew a few steps. His benevolent smile died on his
lips; his fleshy fingers fumbled nervously with the Moor's-head keeper.

"Can I speak to you alone?"

"Oh! _Herr Baron_--of course, _Herr Baron_--is the _Herr Baron_ going
to stay?"

He flung wide a side door, which opened into the little best parlour
reserved for gentry. A sofa, covered with slippery oil-cloth, and a few
velvet, bulky arm-chairs, were ready for the reception of distinguished
customers. Over a cabinet containing tobacco hung a placard with the
inscription, "Only wine drunk here."

Before the host closed the door behind Boleslav, he made a reassuring
sign to his fellow-burghers as if to allay their anxiety. Then from
under his drooping lids he took a rapid survey of the newly-returned
young aristocrat's person, which seemed to fill him with satisfaction,
for again his smug, slimy smile played about his fat lips.

"How the _Herr Junker_ has grown, to be sure!" he began. "Wonderful!"

Boleslav fixed his eyes on him silently.

"And the _Herr Junker_--pardon, I ought to say Herr Baron--has come
home to find the old Herr Baron no longer alive. A pity he was not in
time to close the eyes of the sainted dead----"

He broke off, and caught violently at his amber heart, for Boleslav's
piercing, threatening gaze began to make him feel uneasy. What if this
was a desperado, who would think nothing of taking him by the throat?

"At any rate I have come in time," Boleslav burst forth at last, "to
repair the shameful scandal that has been perpetrated here in refusing
my father the last honour due to his position."

"Shameful scandal, my _Herr Baron_?"

"I advise you, my worthy man, not to put on that air of saint-like
innocence. I can read you through and through. Something has come to my
ears concerning you, for which you deserve to be thrashed on the spot."

"_Herr Baron_!" and he showed signs of taking flight through the door.

"Stay where you are!" commanded Boleslav, barring the way. Thank God
that in confronting this scum he felt the old inherited instinct of
conscious power come back to him. "Is this the gratitude you show my
house, to whose favours you owe everything?"

This was true enough. The present landlord of the Black Eagle had once
hung about the Castle in search of a situation, and had finally, as its
ubiquitous commissionaire, amassed a considerable fortune, although he
now chose to adopt an attitude of injured virtue, and rubbed his hands
self-righteously.

"Dear _Herr Baron_," he said, a paternal kindliness suffusing his broad
countenance, "I willingly pardon the insults you have just heaped on
me, and will give you the best advice, as if nothing had happened. Now,
you will surely understand how friendly are my intentions."

"I decline your friendship," thundered Boleslav. "As mayor of the
village of Schranden, you will answer my questions. Beyond that, I have
no dealings with you."

"The Schrandeners, dear _Herr Baron_, are really terrible people. I
always have said so. I said so many times to my dear wife. You knew
her, _Herr Baron_. Why, of course, she often took the little _Junker_
in her arms, little thinking that----"

"Keep to the point, if you please," Boleslav interrupted.

"'Marianne,' I used to say, 'these Schrandeners, when once they get an
idea into their heads, nothing will move them.' Once they took it into
their heads not to drink my brandy. Good, pure, beautiful Wacholder,
_Herr Baron_. In the same way they've now got it into their heads not
to bury the old noble lord, and--well, upon my word, no God and no
devil will force them to do it. It's no good _your_ trying either,
_Herr Baron_. I'll tell you why. The hearse belongs to the corporation,
and they won't let you have it. Horses, too, they wouldn't let out....
As for bearers--dear God! Go round the village and see if you can find
one, and if you can, see if he is not well flogged for it quarter of an
hour afterwards. Oh! these Schrandeners! And then there is the _Herr
Pastor_--who really in the end has the most voice in the matter. Go to
the _Herr Pastor_, and hear what _he_ says. Putting ceremonials and
paternosters out of the question, you won't even get the coffin made."

"We shall see," said Boleslav, gnashing his teeth. He felt his spirit
of resistance rise, the more clearly he saw the web that hatred and
malice were weaving around him.

"You _shall_ see," exclaimed old Merckel in badly concealed triumph,
"if you wish it, _Herr Baron_."

He opened the door of the tap-room, from whence proceeded a low hum of
many voices. Half the village seemed to have collected there during
Boleslav's interview with the mayor.

"Hackelberg! come here!" he called, and then hurriedly banged the door
to again, for he saw hands laid on it that threatened to tear it off
its hinges.

"If he has got over his debauch of yesterday, _Herr Baron_, he will
certainly come and himself give you his views on the subject." For a
moment the little lynx eyes sparkled with malignant joy. Then resuming
his benevolent patriarchal smile, he went on, twisting the amber heart.

"You have repudiated my friendship, young man. You have insulted me,
and shown no respect for my grey hairs--I don't resent it. You wouldn't
have done it if you had known how I, at the risk of my life--for if the
Schrandeners had got wind of it they would have done me to death--how I
saved many a time the noble baron, of blessed memory, from starvation.
Ask the _Fräulein_.

"What _Fräulein_?"

"The pretty, faithful _Fräulein_ Regina--your deceased father's best
beloved. She is a pearl, _Herr Baron_; you ought to hold her in high
esteem, and take her away with you on your travels. Often in the
darkness of the night have I stuck a loaf and a sausage in her apron,
_Herr Baron_, and sometimes a pound of coffee, _Herr Baron_, while I
have made my own breakfast off rye-bread for fear of the embargo, _Herr
Baron_."

"Weren't you paid for your trouble?"

"Well; yes, yes. When one risks one's life one expects to be paid.
There is still a little bill due, however, _Herr Baron_, left standing
from last winter; if the _Herr Baron_ will have the goodness to----"

"Write out your account, and the money shall be sent you."

"There's no hurry, _Herr Baron_. I have confidence; can trust you,
_Herr Baron_. What I wish to say is, take the advice of an old and
experienced man, and go home now without more ado; dig a grave behind
the Castle, and lay the deceased _Herr_ in it--do it at night, mind, on
the quiet, quite on the quiet--_Fräulein_ Regina will assist you--then
make the turf perfectly smooth, so that no one will know where you've
laid him, and before the dawn of another day ride away again with
_Fräulein_ Regina on your saddle to where----"

He paused suddenly, for Boleslav's hand was on the butt-end of his
pistols. Then the devilish mockery beneath this suave old hypocrite's
counsel was goading him into drastic measures. While he listened to it,
a new thought had flashed across his brain with vivid distinctness. The
funeral would after all only be the first step in the work that it was
incumbent on him to complete. Never would he slink away under cover of
night like a criminal, and abandon what remained of the inheritance of
his ancestors to utter ruin. No! he would stay and endure all things.
Set at defiance all these malicious hyenas, the worst of whom stood
before him, now grinning, with greedily gleaming eyes, only awaiting
his opportunity to pounce on the masterless unowned possessions.

Endure! Endure!

Renunciation for the sins of the fathers must ever be his lot. And did
not the foul act that had laid waste his property deserve retributive
justice? He would be a deserter and renegade, indeed, were he now to
turn his back on his native place, and on the beloved, who, though she
seemed lost to him eternally, might still be cherishing timid hopes of
meeting him once more. No! for the future his flag should wave over the
ruins of Schranden Castle, with the single word "Revenge" blazoned on
it in fiery characters. And who but a cowardly cur would leave his flag
in the lurch?

He stepped nearer the mayor, and with a threatening glance that seemed
to penetrate him through and through, almost roared in his ear--

"Who set fire to the Castle?"

Herr Merckel winced as if his conscience pricked him. Every Schrandener
did the same when any question arose as to who it was had perpetrated
the crime. Every Schrandener except one, and he was the criminal
himself.

Herr Merckel was gathering up his strength for a glib answer when the
suppressed murmur in the tap-room gave place to a sound which had a
louder and more riotous note in it.

The landlord made a movement in the direction of the door, to bolt it
on coming events, but before he could take the precaution it was
stormed and burst open. A troop of wild-looking creatures led the
assault, at the head of whom was a man of puny stature, in rags and
tatters, with straight, black hair hanging in oiled ringlets to his
shoulders, a grey, stubbly beard, and a pair of glassy, besotted eyes
that rolled under red, lashless lids. He beat the air with his fists
and cried--

"Where is the fellow--the brute? Let me catch the brute and I'll
strangle him!"

Then he beheld Boleslav's tall, resolute form, and swallowed his words
with a gurgling hiss. Behind him was a phalanx of angry, heated,
inquisitive faces all turned on Boleslav as on a recently captured
beast of prey.

"Every man's hand is against me!" he thought, and his blood rose.

"Are you the carpenter Hackelberg?" he asked, holding the drunkard in
thrall with his searching glance.

He was associated with one of the dark memories of his childhood. Once
his pitiable howls had frightened him out of his quiet, boyish
slumbers, and on looking from his window he had seen him being whipped
round the courtyard for poaching. Now he stood shaking his fists,
grunting and spluttering with rage.

"You supply the village with coffins, I understand?"

The carpenter shook his head, stared vacantly in front of him, and then
answered in a sepulchral voice--

"I am at work on only two coffins--one for myself, and one for my poor
erring daughter."

The Schrandeners laughed in their sleeve. This formula was so familiar.
When any one died in the village the carpenter had to be fetched by
force, locked up with a bottle of brandy and the necessary boards, and
not let out till the coffin was finished. Taken all in all, this
Hackelberg was a dangerous fellow, and no one knew it better than the
Schrandeners, who never let him out of their sight for long. He was
watched and shadowed, and many an arm was ready to strike him down when
the right moment should offer itself.

Nevertheless they courted his society in the tavern, made him drunk,
and humoured him. Sometimes they hung on his lips, at others, stopped
his mouth. Either they put him under lock and key, or allowed him to
bully them. It was as if they had endowed their own bad conscience with
flesh and blood, and allowed it to run wild amongst them in the shape
of this unkempt, half-crazed sot.

"Who else makes coffins in the village besides you?" Boleslav asked
again.

The Schrandeners burst into jeering laughter. They knew how difficult
he would find it to get any direct answer to his question.

"My poor, wretched child," he growled, fastening his glassy eyes on
Herr Merckel's amber heart, which appeared to possess a fascination for
him. Then suddenly rousing himself once more from the half-stupor into
which he had collapsed, he threatened Boleslav with his fists, and
cried out excitedly--

"What do you want from me, _Herr_? A coffin? Is that what you want?
For whom do you want it? For the scamp, the dog, who betrayed his
country--who seduced my child? Do you think I'd make a coffin for
_him_? Look at me, _Herr_. Did you ever see such a spectacle?" He
wrenched open his shirt, and exposed to view his shaggy breast. "I'm a
beauty--mere offal, that dogs would turn up their noses at. And whose
fault is that, my dear young nobleman? Why, the _Herr Baron's_, your
deceased father's. He it was who reduced me to this, and made me an
unhappy, forsaken, childless old man, such as you see." He wiped his
eyes with the ragged sleeve of his corduroy jacket, while the
Schrandeners applauded, and backed him up in his maudlin oration. "My
child, my only child, was torn from my bosom. He robbed me of my
child----"

"I believe you yourself sent her to the Castle," Boleslav interposed,
without, however, making the least impression.

"He made my child a prostitute, but what's worse, young sir--what most
lacerates my father's heart--for though I'm a blackguard, I'm a
patriot; for in Prussia even blackguards love their country--if there
_are_ any blackguard Prussians ... but my child ... ah! do you know
what he did with my child?... forced her with the lash to go out in the
dark night and---- But since then do you think I'd own her? No ... she
is my child no longer. I've cursed her--cast her off! I said to her,
'You are my own flesh and blood no longer.' That's what I said,
and----"

"But you took the wage of her sin all the same," Boleslav was on the
point of interrupting, but recollected in time that in saying so he
would be admitting his father's guilt to this pack of wolves.

"'And you are free,' I said. 'You may go where you like, and whoever
you meet may kill you outright for all I care. Go to your _gnädigen
Herrn_,' I said, 'and ask him to protect you.' I said----"

At this juncture the shouts of the other Schrandeners became so much
louder that they drowned the carpenter's speech. They closed round him,
and he was lost in the crowd; only his rasping laugh was still audible.

"What did I prophesy, _Herr Baron_?" asked old Merckel, with his
unctuous smile.

Boleslav leant against the end of the sofa, and regarded the crew of
Schrandeners pressing ever nearer with clenched teeth and unflinching
eye.

"If one strikes me," he thought to himself, "the rest will tear me to
pieces."

He felt how imperative it was to remain calm.

"Come, you people," he said, making a passage through their ranks with
his hands, "let me pass."

And whether it was his commanding air of cool determination, or the
cross which shone in his military cap, that awed the tumultuous throng,
not one of them attempted to impede his progress. He passed into the
thick of the mob, expecting every moment to be struck a fatal blow from
behind; but nothing of the sort happened--unchallenged he found himself
in the open air. Felix Merckel had kept in the background.

The whole mob, now including women and children, surged after him down
the road.

As he reached the parsonage garden, whose white walls blazed in the
rays of the mid-day sun, he was aware of an aching sensation at his
heart, that rose in a lump to his throat. His last hope rested in the
hands of the old pastor. Would he too spurn him from his threshold? But
at this moment that was not his only anxiety. How could he help feeling
anxious as to what _her_ reception of him would be, she in whose power
it was to exalt him from the mire of shame and misery into a world of
peace and purity. If she saw him in his present condition, dirty and
dishevelled, with this escort of hooting ruffians behind him, would she
not recoil in horror?

And she did.

A terrified hand threw back the glass door of the veranda. It was
she--it must be she! For a moment he saw the glimmer of a white,
slender figure; saw her raise an arm, as if to wave off the approach of
him and the mob: and then, before Boleslav could give one questioning,
imploring look at the beloved features, she vanished with a faint cry
of alarm.

There was a mist before his eyes. Half stunned, he went up the steps of
the veranda, closed the door behind him, and awaited the next turn in
the course of events.

The Schrandeners blockaded the veranda, and some flattened their noses
against the glass in order to see better what passed within. A pane
fell out; one of them had pushed his neighbour through it, whereupon
the revered voice of the old pastor was heard raised in remonstrance.
He appeared on the veranda flourishing a thick, notched walking-stick.
His white hair blew about his lofty temples. The nostrils of his
hawk-like nose dilated furiously as if they snorted battle. Beneath the
snow-white shaggy projecting brows his eyes glowed like fiery torches.
Such was the venerable Pastor Götz, who, in the March of the year 1813,
had gone from house to house, holding the big cross from the altar in
his hand, followed by a drummer, and had beaten up recruits for the
holy war. And had he not been left fainting by the roadside on the
march to Königsberg, in all probability he would have accompanied his
soldier-parishioners into the field of action.

The Schrandeners stood in no little dread of his discipline, and no
sooner did they catch sight of his formidable stick than they retreated
quickly from the windows, and tried to regain the garden gate.

"You hell-hounds, craven sheep!" he shouted from the glass door. "Come
to God's house on Sunday and I'll give you a dressing."

Then turning on Boleslav, he measured him from head to foot with a
scowling glance. His eye rested on the military cap he held in his
hand.

"You were in the campaign?" he asked.

"Yes."

"If it were not for the cross I see on the brim of your cap, I should
ask was it for or against Prussia?"

Boleslav, whose thoughts had followed the fleeting vision of light he
had seen on the veranda, at first did not understand him; then he met
the insinuation with signs of passionate resentment. But the old pastor
was not the man to be easily intimidated, and while they both glowered
at each other, he cried--

"Boleslav von Schranden, am I, or am I not, justified in cherishing
such a suspicion?"

Then Boleslav's eyes fell before the condemnation in those of his
former master. He opened the door of his study, where between the
book-shelves hung pipe-racks and fire-arms, and said--

"Out of respect for the cap I will not refuse you entrance here. But
make what you have to say as brief as possible. In this house no
Schranden is a welcome guest."

He put his stick in a corner, and drawing his flowered dressing-gown
close about his loins, paced up and down the room.

Boleslav cast about for words. He felt like a criminal in the presence
of this man, whose speech was like molten brass. Of a truth it was no
easy matter, this taking the guilt of another on to one's own guiltless
shoulders.

"_Herr Pastor_," he began, stammering, "can't you forget for a moment
that I bear the name of Schranden?"

The old man laughed bitterly. "That's asking a little too much," he
murmured; "a little too much."

"Regard me simply in the light of a son who wishes to bury his father,
and who is prevented from fulfilling that most sacred duty by the
wickedness and malice of the _canaille_."

For answer the old parson contracted his shaggy brows without speaking.

"I appeal to you as a priest of the Christian Church. Will you suffer
such a scandal in your parish?"

"Such a thing cannot happen in my parish," the old man declared.
"Wherever it is my duty to lead souls to God, every one must be granted
a decent burial."

"And yet they dare----"

"Stop! Whose burial is in question!"

"My father's."

"The Freiherr Eberhard von Schranden?"

"Yes."

"That man has been dead for seven years."

"_Herr Pastor_!"

"For seven years he lived ostracised from the society of his
fellow-creatures. Seven years he practically rotted in the earth.
Therefore, don't trouble me about him further."

"_Herr Pastor_, I was once your pupil. From your lips I first learnt
the name of God. I always thought you a brave, upright man. I retract
that opinion now; for what you have just been saying are lying,
cowardly quibbles."

The old man drew himself up. His beard worked; his nostrils expanded.
With lurid eyes he came nearer to Boleslav.

"My son," he said, "do I look like a man who would countenance a lie?"

Boleslav maintained his defiant attitude. But, much as he struggled
against it, he felt the old, long-forgotten sentiment of respect for
the schoolmaster awaking in him once more.

"My son," went on the old man, "a word from me, and the rabble that
waits for you on the other side of that hedge would lynch you, but, as
I said before, for the sake of the cap you wear, I will be merciful. If
you like, I can prove that what I said just now is no lie."

He went to a cupboard, where stood a long line of ragged folios,
containing church and parish documents, took out a volume, and, opening
it, pointed to a page dated 1807.

"Here, my son, read this."

And Boleslav read--

"On March 5th, died Hans Eberhard von Schranden. _Ex memoria hominum
exstinguatur_."

Beneath were three crosses.

"That is a forgery!" exclaimed Boleslav.

"Yes, my son," the old man answered solemnly, "that is a palpable,
shameless forgery; a stain on my office; and if you choose to report it
to the magistrates, I shall be suspended and end my days in prison. Do
exactly as you think fit. My fate lies in your hands."

A shudder of mingled horror and reverence passed through Boleslav. He
had himself experienced too often the wild _élan_ and reckless delight
of making sacrifices for the love of his country, not to understand
what impulse had driven the old clergyman to this insane confession.

"With those crosses," he continued, "I buried the man seven years
ago--the man who, in spite of his cruelty and ungovernable passions,
had till then been my friend. From that day, whoever dared to breathe
so much as his name in my house was sent out of it. Then came that
night of arson, when these walls were illumined by the reflection of
the burning Castle. I jumped out of my bed, and, throwing myself on my
knees, prayed God to forgive the incendiaries, for it began to burn at
all four corners at once, a sure proof that the fire was not an
accident. Now, I thought, not only the deed, but the scene of it, will
be erased from men's minds. I didn't concern myself in the least about
the spectre that was doomed to haunt the ruins of Castle Schranden. And
now you come, my son, and tell me that that spectre was no spectre, but
a living creature, who only a few days ago gave up the ghost, and now
awaits interment. Well, I forbid it Christian burial, on the strength
of this register. I never bury any one twice. Report me, and--and I
shall be tried for my offence. But you know I am prepared. Do as you
like. Bury the corpse with all the honours you consider due to it; have
a procession grander and more imposing than an emperor's, but kindly
leave me out of the show."

He settled himself in his green-cushioned armchair, supported his face
with his wrinkled, muscular hands, and stared vacantly at the open
register. There was nothing to hope from this iron-willed man of God.
It would be madness to keep up any illusion on the subject, and that
other illusion, that the loved one might still be won on earth after
long waiting and renunciation, must be abandoned too. All the shy
dreams and hopes that he had yet dared to cherish in his embittered
heart now seemed finally wrecked.

"So this is the divine grace, the forgiveness of sins, you preach!" he
cried, tears of wrath filling his eyes.

The old man rose slowly and let his hand fall heavily on Boleslav's
shoulder.

"Because of your cap, my son, I will reason with you, although the
sight of you is hateful to me. Listen! It is a year and a half now
since there came here from Russia a rabble of ragged French beggars,
starving and frost-bitten. The Schrandeners would have felled them to
the earth with their scythes and pitchforks, and perhaps would have had
right on their side, for they were mere carrion-serfs in the pay of
Napoleon. But I opened the church door to them that they might take
refuge in the shelter of God's altar. I kindled a fire for them on the
flagstones, and had a hot supper cooked for them and gave them straw to
lie on. I told the Schrandeners that, though they were enemies, they
were human beings like themselves, bearing the cross of human suffering
as the Saviour once bore it on His shoulders. I told them to go home
and pray that God might spare them as they had spared those miserable
Frenchmen. So you see I can be pitiful and show mercy.... To return to
the subject of the funeral. I have never refused any sinner his lawful
resting-place. If I could have my will, even suicides should not be
excluded from the churchyard. That those who have been unhappy in their
lifetime should be comfortable in death has always been my principle.
And if the body of a man who had murdered his mother was brought here
from the scaffold, I would go to his graveside in full canonicals and
pray the King of kings 'to forgive him, for he knew not what he did.'
Yes, I'll extend mercy to all, only not to your father. For he who sins
against his country outrages every law human and divine; he disgraces
the mother who bore him and the children he propagates. Such a one is a
social outcast. He is like the leper who brings death and corruption
with him wherever he goes, or a mad dog who spurts poison from his jaw
on every living thing that comes in his way. And do you realise the
extent of your father's guilt, the mischief it has worked? It is not so
much the lives of those two or three hundred Pomeranian youths whose
bones lie buried there on the common that are to be reckoned against
him. They would probably have met death somewhere, later. The grass
grows high on their graves; even their parents have long since become
reconciled to their loss. No, it is not on their account that I bear
the grudge. But----come here, my son----"

He clutched Boleslav's hand and led him to the window.

"Look out--what do you see on the other side of the garden hedge? A
gang of turbulent wild animals thirsting for the blood of their prey,
and yet too craven-hearted to spring on it, even when they have it
within their reach. And look at me, my son. I am here, appointed by God
as His minister to preach the gospel of love, and I preach hate. Words
sweet as honey should flow from my lips, and instead, scorpions spring
out of my mouth directly I open it, for I too am become a wild animal.
And this is what your father's crime has made us. There is no goodness
left in Schranden; the venom of your father's hate ferments in us, is
inoculated into our children and children's children. So will it ever
be till the Lord not only wipes the scene of infamy, but your accursed
name with it, from off the face of His blessed earth. Amen!"

He stood with raised hands like some anathematising prophet of the Old
Testament, and foam rested in the corners of his mouth.

Boleslav, half-dazed and horror-stricken, turned in silence to the
door. The old man did not call him back. As he crossed the hall he
started violently, for he was sure he heard the rustle of a woman's
dress behind a half-opened door. But not for the world would he meet
her now. Not in this dark hour, when he was completely overpowered by a
sense of having had the remnants of all that was good and noble in him
shattered and laid in the dust.

"If _they_ are become wild beasts, I can become one too," he thought,
as he thrust his hand in the breast-pocket that held his pistols, and
walked towards the Schrandeners. The old pastor was right. Though they
danced, whooped, and jostled around him with the lust of murder
gleaming in their savage eyes, they dared not lay a finger on him.


                           *   *   *   *   *


When he reached the drawbridge, behind the palings of which a girl's
figure crouched, awaiting his return, he was full of a desperate
resolve. His father should be carried to his last resting-place by an
armed force.

"Are you ready to earn another large sum of money?" he asked the girl,
who flushed and stood up quickly at his approach.

She looked at him for a moment in reflective surprise, and then, as his
meaning dawned on her, she shook her head violently.

"Why not?" he demanded.

She began to tremble. "What's the good of money to me, _Herr_?" she
asked, in subdued, bitter tones. "They would only take it away from
me."

"Who?"

"People--those people. Please, oh please, give me no money."

"Her mind is clearly unhinged," thought Boleslav.

"Besides, there is money enough," she continued in a whisper, glancing
round her timidly, "in the cellar--great boxes full--where the wine is.
I used to take what I wanted from there--for him, I mean--the _gnäd'ger
Herr_. For myself I never want any, unless it's to buy a new jacket
with."

"Will you earn a new jacket?"

"There's no need to earn it, _Herr_. Next time I go to Bockeldorf--for
the _Herr_ must have food--I can get one."

So, unreasoning as a beast of burden, she performed her duties, and
expected no return except her food!

"Will you, then, without earning anything, go a long way for me this
very night?"

"Oh, won't I, _Herr_, if you wish it?"




                               CHAPTER VI


The next day the village of Schranden received an unexpected visitation
that proved no small shock to its inhabitants. At about five o'clock in
the afternoon two coaches appeared in the village street each of which
contained half-a-dozen occupants, young fellows in Jäger uniforms, with
their muskets slung over their shoulders from wide leather belts.

In the first coach there was also a female occupant, who, the moment
the horses' heads turned in the direction of the space opposite the
church, alighted with a wild leap, and scudded away towards the Castle.

Every Schrandener recognised in her the deceased Baron's sweetheart,
but all were too much taken aback to think of following her.

The coaches halted before the Black Eagle, the windows of which were
eagerly opened, and before the strangers had moved from their seats, an
enthusiastic welcome was extended to them.

"The Heide boys--Hurrah!" shouted Felix Merckel, who had many a time
fought side by side with these comrades of the Sellinthin squadron, and
he stretched a foaming jug out of the window.

His father threw open the door of the little room reserved for
"gentry," where only wine was drunk, in the hopes that at least some of
these wealthy yeomen would patronise it. But, without answering the
warm greetings, they proceeded in gloomy silence to unharness the
horses, and to take out of their vehicles all manner of tools, such as
hatchets, files, and spades.

The Schrandeners were astounded.

"Good gracious! have you lost your tongues?" Felix Merckel called from
the window. "And why haven't you brought your paragon, Lieutenant
Baumgart, with you?"

Still no answer.

The Schrandeners began to think these strangers must be playing off a
joke on them, and burst into extravagant laughter.

Then Karl Engelbert, who evidently had the command of the expedition,
came under the window from which Felix's broad-shouldered form obtruded
itself, and, greeting him with a half-military salute, said--

"With your permission, Herr Lieutenant, we have come here not to take
part in any festivities or anything of that sort. We are a funeral
party."

"But here in Schranden no one is going to be buried," cried Felix
Merckel, still laughing, but his face appreciably lengthened.

"Indeed, Herr Lieutenant! Nevertheless, we have been invited to a
funeral."

"Who has invited you?"

"Our former officer, Lieutenant Baumgart."

"Nonsense! There's no Lieutenant Baumgart here. I thought you were
going to bring him with you."

"Pardon, Herr Lieutenant, he is here already."

"Where is the fellow hiding, then?"

"Probably you know him better under another name--Herr von Schranden."

The stone jug in Felix's hand fell and crashed to pieces at Engelbert's
feet. The beer splashed his legs up to the knee.

A tumult arose inside the inn. As if in preparation for battle, windows
were speedily closed, and Johann Radtke, driven by thirst to ascend the
steps to the main entrance, found the door banged in his face.

"Hunted from the threshold like tramps!" grumbled the dark-haired Peter
Negenthin, and clenched his fist in his sling.

"Do you wish to perjure yourself?" asked Engelbert in a low voice,
coming close to him. "If so, then go back. What is required of us we
must do. Whoever forgets the church at Dannigkow is a cur!"

"And if we are dry we must wet our whistles with holy water, I
suppose," added Radtke with a sigh.

Engelbert shouldered his musket and gave the orders to move on. The
procession filed off in the direction of the Castle, a handful of
natives, out of respect for the muskets, bringing up the rear.

Boleslav stood on the bridge to receive his friends.

He rushed towards them in delight, and could hardly articulate, for
emotion, the words of gratitude that rose to his lips.

Engelbert held out his hand in silence. Boleslav was going to embrace
him, but he drew back. In his excitement Boleslav did not notice the
rebuff.

"I knew you'd come," he stammered forth at last--"knew that I had
friends who would not leave me undefended to the tender mercies of this
pack of wolves."

No one made any response. They stood drawn up in an unbroken line,
their eyes looking beyond rather than at him, in embarrassment.
Engelbert was the first to break the silence.

"You have summoned us, and we have come--but our time is short; tell us
what you want us to do."

For a moment Boleslav wondered at being addressed in this curt,
somewhat surly fashion, by the comrade who, of all others, had been his
favourite. But it was only for a moment. Why should he doubt them? Had
they not come? And then, incoherently enough, he related how his
father's disgrace had descended on him, and what he had resolved to do,
with their help.

All the time a pair of shining eyes watched him from the other side of
a rubbish heap, and a woman's figure that sat cowering there trembled
like an aspen.

"They are here--they are in the village!" she had called out to him in
timid excitement, as she had flown into the yard like a Mænad. At first
he had not recognised her in a light cotton skirt, a bed-jacket
buttoned over her panting bosom, and a handkerchief of many colours on
her head, tied under the chin, according to a fashion of the peasant
girls in the neighbourhood.

"They gave me these things to put on," she had added apologetically, on
observing his puzzled looks.

And then in pleasure at the news that his friends had arrived, he had
forgotten her, till, while waiting for them on the bridge, he had
caught sight of her hovering about the ruins. The head-dress had fallen
on her neck, and the wild black tresses escaped, and waved in confusion
about her sunburnt face. She seemed to be smiling absently to herself.

He was ashamed to think his friends had seen this woman, and decided to
pay her off and dismiss her on the spot, so that they should not
encounter her again.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

She started.

"Nothing, _Herr_," she replied, guiltily lowering her eyes.

"Why did you smile?"

"Ah, _Herr_," she murmured, "I was so glad."

"Why?"

"Because I had got safely back here again."

What strange fascination had this spot of earth for the abandoned
creature who had suffered on it nothing but shame and degradation and
endless misery? He remembered to have heard of domestic cats who, when
the house to which they belong is deserted by its inhabitants, prefer
to starve beneath its mouldering roof than to take up their abode
elsewhere. And if this cat-like propensity were incurable in her--what
then? After all, perhaps it would be cruel at this moment to pass
sentence of banishment upon her. She might as well stay till to-morrow
morning, so long as she kept out of his way.

"Go," he had commanded, "and don't come near me and my visitors again."

And she had hung her head humbly, and vanished behind the rubbish heap,
and there she cowered now, in terror of being discovered.

When Boleslav had finished his story, Engelbert exchanged significant
glances with his friends, then said--

"We have brought the requisite tools with us. If you can supply us with
the wood, we will knock you up a coffin in a very short time."

"Naturally it won't be a very grand one," remarked Peter Negenthin with
a stony smile.

Engelbert looked at him reprovingly. A subdued growl passed from
mouth to mouth through the little party, which Boleslav, in his most
light-hearted confidence in his friends' good will, did not hear.

"Do you remember," he exclaimed, "that coffin we made for the young
Count Dohna in the dark? We took two hours over it, though we couldn't
see an inch before our noses."

But his reminiscences met with no response.

"One of you hold the horses," said Engelbert, "and the rest of us will
go and look for wood. All must be ready before nightfall."

Boleslav bethought him of the wine in the cellar, which the fire had
spared, where also was the frugal larder, containing bread and salt
meat, but not enough with which to entertain his friends.

"I have next to nothing to offer you to eat," he said, "but I wish you
would at least refresh yourselves with a bottle of wine before setting
to work."

The friends were silent, and their faces clouded.

"Never mind refreshment," said Engelbert, trying to assume a facetious
tone. "Wine makes a man lazy, and we haven't a minute to spare."

He stooped to test some scorched rafters that lay about among the
stable ruins.

"This will do," he said, "but we won't saw off the blackened part; that
will serve us instead of paint."

And he walked on farther with Boleslav to look for more rafters.
Something white rose suddenly out of the earth in front of them, and
disappeared in a twinkling behind a neighbouring wall.

Boleslav instinctively balled his fists, for he had recognised Regina.

"I ought to apologise," he said, "for not being able to send you a
better messenger. I had no one else to send."

Engelbert was about to speak, but seemed to think better of it.

"You were obliged to supply her with clothes, I understand?"

"Yes," answered Engelbert, his natural loquacity getting the upper
hand. "I found her lying on the doorstep with scarcely a rag to her
back. She was dead beat. I got up in the night to see what the dogs
were barking at."

"What? Was it in the night?"

"Two o'clock in the morning. Here is a sound rafter. We can use
that.... She ran the twenty miles in seven hours. I should never have
thought it possible; she lay like an otter that has been shot down--so
straight and fair--and gasped for breath. Your sheet of paper she clung
to with both hands. She tried to stand up, but fell backwards. Then I
fetched her brandy, rubbed her temples, and gave her----"

One of his companions who were following behind, now came up, and gave
him such a look of astonishment and reproach that he broke off in the
middle of a sentence.

For the next few hours an industrious sawing and hammering proceeded
from the Castle island, which sounds fell disagreeably on the ears of
the fierce and much perturbed Schrandeners on the opposite bank of the
river. It seemed to portend that their nicely-laid plans were at the
last moment to be frustrated.

Old Hackelberg appeared in the street with his gun, which, as a rule,
lay buried in a dung-heap, because he was afraid that it might be taken
away from him, as had once happened when he amused himself by shooting
bats in the market-place, declaring that they followed him in swarms
wherever he went. With this famous gun he used in old days to go out
poaching every night, but since his once unerring hand had become weak
and tremulous from drink, he had been obliged to give up the trade.
Only when he had drunk even more than usual did the old sporting
instinct rise strongly within him, and he would rush to the shed,
unearth his gun, and bring down a swallow in full flight through the
air.

Now he was on the war-path, and with the babbling rhetoric peculiar to
him, shouted--

"Schrandeners, duty calls! Arm yourselves against the traitors. I am an
unhappy father. Robbed of my child. I'll shoot him dead, the brute."

"But he _is_ dead," some one interposed.

"Is he? Well, it doesn't matter--the other must be shot--all must be
shot down."

Meanwhile Felix Merckel was ramping about the parlour of the Black
Eagle like a bull of Bashan. He remembered enough about the Heide
youths to know that when once irritated or attacked they would go any
length. The inevitable result of offering them opposition would be such
bloodshed as the rioters outside had no conception of. And then--what
then? Would not he as ringleader be the first object on which the wrath
of the outraged law would expend itself?

On the other hand, did the swindler who had dared under a false name to
obtain a lieutenancy and abuse the confidence of his comrades,
thereby incurring the contempt and abhorrence of every honourable
brother-in-arms--did he deserve to be allowed to score such a triumph?

While his son was debating thus, Herr Merckel, senior, was also
troubled with anxiety from another cause. It struck him as a pity that
such a quantity of noble enthusiasm should be seething about aimlessly
in the open air, and determined to put an end to the nuisance.

He stepped into the porch, and addressed the rabble in his suavest,
most paternal tones.

"I, as your local functionary, cannot bear to see you, my children,
turning our public square into a bear-garden. Go under cover, and then
you may make as much noise as you please."

Of course, "under cover" could only mean the parlour of the Black
Eagle; and, five minutes later, the consumption of inspiriting
stimulants left nothing to be desired.

Felix had bowed his curly head between his hands, and stared gloomily
into his glass.

Surely no Prussian patriot who had ever worn a sword ought silently to
look on at what was coming to pass this night? Rather die! Rather!----

He jumped up, and began to speak inspiringly to the crowd.

His speech was not without effect. One after the other stole out and
returned with some sort of weapon, a flint-gun, a bent sabre, or a
scythe.

"Calm, and patriotic, my children!" exclaimed old Merckel, grinning,
and counting the empty tankards with his argus eye.

Night had come. The two flaring tallow candles in the bar illumined the
overcrowded, oppressively hot room, and were reflected in the polished
blades of the scythes. Then two or three boys, who had been stationed
as spies on the drawbridge, burst in, shouting at the top of their
voices--

"They're coming! They're coming!"

There arose a howl of fury. Every one pressed to the door. Felix
Merckel hurried into his bedroom to take his sabre out of its scabbard,
but he did not come back. Probably the sight of the weapon he had so
often wielded in honourable warfare brought him to his senses.

His father continued to exhort the rioters to calmness and caution,
especially those who had not yet paid for their drinks.

"Forwards!" spluttered old Hackelberg, "avenge my poor child. Mow them
down!"

Outside, in the market-place, the whole population of the village was
assembled. Even babies in swaddling-clothes had been snatched out of
their cradles, and their squalling mingled with the babel of many
tongues. The moon came out from behind some clouds, and shed a pale
twilight on the scene. The church tower rose dark and forbidding
against the sky, and the parsonage, too, remained silent and dark. The
old veteran had kept his word. He heard and saw nothing of what was
passing. A dark-red fiery glow appeared behind the cottages that lined
the road to the river. Above the low roofs rose columns of thick black
smoke. Like the reflection from a conflagration the purple vapour
encroached on the pale dusk of the summer night.

With one accord the rabble took the path to the churchyard, which, a
few yards from the last straggling houses, lay close to the street.
There by the gate they would best be able to bar the way to the
invaders. Those who had been in the war fell into rank and stood ready
for action. As far as they were concerned, it would be a case of
soldiers pitted against soldiers.

"Where is Merckel?" one of them exclaimed in astonishment, expecting to
hear the lieutenant's word of command. "Where is Merckel?" was echoed
in consternation from all sides.

But the feeling that he must be coming, and had only gone to arm
himself, allayed any momentary suspicion of his having shirked the
business at the last. The lurid glow drew nearer and nearer. Soon the
eye could distinguish something black and square, framed as it were in
flames.

"The coffin--the coffin!" the crowd exclaimed, and involuntarily
shuddered. Then, suddenly--who began it no one knew--it was as if it
had flashed across every brain at the same instant, in a booming chorus
the mob set up the weird chorale--

                 "_Our noble Baron and Lord
                  Of Schrandener's souls abhorred;
                  For the shame he has brought on our head,
                  O God, let the plague strike him dead_."

And the coffin advanced. Already the light from the torches shone on
the faces of the singing mob, and women and children retreated
screaming.

The crowd opened wide enough for the procession to pass on, and closed
again behind it. Six men carried the coffin on their shoulders and
swung flaming pine-branches in their disengaged hands, which scared the
throng and made it draw to one side. Six others followed with loaded
muskets. At their head Boleslav, with his pistols cocked in his hand,
his military cap on the back of his head, piercing his antagonists with
his burning gaze, cleared a road for his father's corpse. Deeper became
the rent in the human vortex, thinner the space that divided the
procession from the armed Schrandeners, who looked uneasily from side
to side, conscious that they were leaderless.

When Boleslav stood face to face with them they were about to make a
forward dash, but a short military "Halt!" such as they had often heard
in the campaign, compelled them to take a step backwards instead, for
in spite of themselves, their limbs insisted on complying with the old
habit of obedience. Boleslav, who had intended the order for the
bearers, saw its effect on the armed line in front of him, and suddenly
a new idea occurred to him.

"As you were!" he commanded again. No one moved a hair. His manner, his
voice mastered them. "Which of you have been soldiers? Which of you has
helped his king to make his country free?"

An indistinct, half-resentful murmur went through the ranks, but there
was no answer.

"The king sent you home," he continued, "because he is now at peace
with his enemies. Do you suppose that he would be pleased to hear you
had taken it upon yourselves to break the peace once more in his realm?
Bah! he wouldn't believe it of you! He might believe it of Poles, but
not of Prussians! So make room, my good people. Let us pass!"

The line wavered and began to break in places. For one moment the
churchyard gate lay clear before Boleslav's eyes, but the next, fresh
figures had moved up from behind and filled the breach.

Again the clamour arose, and mingling with it a loud, gurgling laugh of
derision. In another instant something round, black, and polished was
levelled at Boleslav's head, and behind it sparkled a pair of malignant
eyes. He had only a second in which to realise what was going to
happen, before a figure, supple as a panther's, shot past him and
plunged into the midst of the Schrandeners' troops, which again showed
signs of giving way. In the hiatus thus made, Boleslav saw two forms
wrestling on the ground, one that of a woman, the other a man's. The
woman overpowered her antagonist, and wrested from his hand the
gleaming bore of a gun.

It was the carpenter Hackelberg and his daughter. She must, stealthily
and unobserved, have followed the funeral cortege, for since her
disappearance on the other side of the stable ruins Boleslav had seen
nothing of her. The crowd pushed forward, curious to find out who was
struggling on the ground, and Boleslav, promptly taking advantage of
the general confusion, passed the combatants and gained the churchyard
gate, the coffin following close at his heels.

Behind was heard the report of the gun, which exploded in the
hand-to-hand struggle.

"Guard the entrance!" he called to the six who followed the coffin,
while the bearers made their way between the mounds and tombstones to
the burial vault of the Barons von Schranden.

Karl Engelbert stationed himself as sentinel beneath the gateway, and
saw, by aid of the last flicker of the torches as they moved away, how
the crowd closed round the wrestling father and daughter.

Three piercing shrieks escaped the girl's lips. Evidently the mob
intended to wreak its thwarted fury on her. There seemed little doubt
that she would perish at its hands, unless some one came quickly to her
help.

"Leave her alone!" cried Engelbert, striking out right and left with
his powerful fists. And then the figure, that had been so pitifully
mauled and in such dire extremity till he interfered, emerged from the
midst of her persecutors. She glided past him, dived into the dry ditch
that skirted the churchyard wall, and then disappeared like a shadow,
into the darkness. The Schrandeners began, with whoops and hoots, to
pursue her.

"How about the burial?" cried one.

"The devil take the burial!" exclaimed another, and cast a shy glance
at the men standing on guard by the churchyard gate--men who looked as
if they were not to be trifled with. Certainly it was better sport to
give chase to a defenceless creature than to risk one's skin in an
encounter with them.

And the Schrandeners started off like bloodhounds. The carpenter
Hackelberg tried to do likewise, but staggered instead into the ditch,
where he lay full length and fell asleep.




                              CHAPTER VII


The last of the stone slabs that covered the vault had crunched back in
its place with a resounding crash. Hans Eberhard von Schranden lay
with his ancestors. In the little chapel, the men who had acted as
grave-diggers bared their heads and said a short prayer. The torches
that had burnt down to their sockets smouldered on the smooth surface
of the flagstones, and cast a lurid glow as they flickered out over the
stern faces of the worshippers.

Then without looking round at Boleslav they left the chapel. He stood
in a remote corner with his hands before his face, brooding fiercely on
the future that lay before him. The echoing footsteps roused him, and
silently he followed his friends, letting the iron gate of the chapel
that had been broken open when they came in, swing back in the lock.

The moon had again pierced the clouds, and illumined with a weird
radiance the mounds and crosses that stood in regular rows, like
columns drawn up for battle.

"Do you wish to bait me too?" Boleslav murmured as he contemplated the
graves for a moment with a bitter smile. At the gate he overtook his
friends. They joined the men on guard, who now had nothing to watch,
for, with the exception of a group of women and old men who stood
gossiping by the hedge, the street was empty. Hoots were heard
proceeding from the distant fields, where the mob apparently were still
in full pursuit.

"God have mercy on her, if they catch her!" said Karl Engelbert with
folded hands. Then two of his comrades, one of whom was Peter
Negenthin, came up to him and whispered earnestly in his ear.

Boleslav was too lost in thought to notice their strange and unnatural
behaviour towards himself, and was not even aware, as they walked
through the village, that he was always left to walk alone, though now
and then he stepped confidentially to the side of one or other of them.
He had accomplished the first chapter of his work. His father was laid
to rest as befitted his rank, and yet it seemed as if the real work was
only just beginning. He beheld all he had to do towering like a great
inaccessible mountain in front of him. The mouldering ruins must be
built up again; what was now a waste overgrown by weeds must be
restored to a waving sea of golden corn; he must strive to endow his
neglected property with new wealth, and his tarnished name with new
honour: and then he saw, as the goal of all this striving, the face of
the beloved beckoning him onwards. If he was too bowed down now with a
consciousness of shame and disgrace to look into her pure, maidenly
eyes, _then_ he would be able to go to her and say, "Now, all is
expiated. I am worthy to lay myself at your feet." Yes, he would
struggle tooth and nail--work day and night--to attain this end.

At first it seemed almost madness to think of such a gigantic
undertaking.... But he had his friends to help him.... After all, it
would not be a single-handed struggle. Had not they to-day helped him
to achieve the impossible? Would not they, true to their sacred oath,
continue to stand by him in need with their advice and sympathy? And
perhaps their noble example would in time break down the barrier that
divided him from his fellow-creatures, and lead to his father's sin
being at last consigned to the limbo of forgotten history.

Higher and higher rose his hopes as he meditated thus. They had left
the village street behind them, and now reached the drawbridge, where
the vehicles had been put up. The horses, each with its nose in a
bundle of hay, waited patiently by the fence to which they were
tethered. Immediately, without a moment's delay, the comrades set to
work to harness them.

This frightened Boleslav out of his dream.

"What!" he exclaimed. "Off already, before I have thanked you?"

No one spoke.

"Won't you take a glass of wine now the job is finished? And I wanted
to ask your advice about other matters."

Peter Negenthin strode up, and looking him straight in the face, drew
his clenched fist from the sling.

"We would rather die of thirst," he hissed through his set teeth, "than
take a drink of water from your hand."

Boleslav staggered backwards as if he had been hit between the eyes. He
felt the earth reeling beneath his feet.

Then Karl Engelbert stepped forth from his sullen little band.

"It is much to be deplored, Baumgart--I call you so because you have
been Baumgart to us till this minute--it is much to be deplored that
you should thus be bluntly told of what our present feelings are
towards you. Why did not you hold your tongue, Negenthin?... But the
words have been spoken and cannot be recalled, so now you may as well
know all. You summoned us, and we came. Some of us, it is true, were of
opinion that we weren't obliged to obey your summons, considering you
had deceived us about your name; but others said, whether it was
Baumgart or no, we were bound by the oath taken in the church at
Dannigkow, after our first battle--and none of us were desirous of
breaking an oath. That is why we are here. You can imagine that we
didn't come willingly. We are honest fellows, and to tell the truth,
the work you gave us to do went against the grain. The long and short
of it is, that when we go home, and people spit in our faces, we must
put up with it, for they will have right on their side."

"Why didn't you say all this before?" Boleslav stammered forth. "Why,
oh why have you let it come to my standing here before you--like
a--like a--Ha! ha! ha! _If you spit in my face, I must put up with
it!_"

"You need not reproach yourself on our account," Engelbert replied.
"You have quite enough to bear without that. But now that we have
discharged our duty--without grumbling, you must admit--I can only ask
you, on behalf of myself and my comrades, to release us from our oath,
as we release you from yours. Of course we cannot compel you against
your wish, but all I can say is, that if you don't choose to do it, we
must leave home and kindred, and wander forth into the world, lest
people----"

"Stop!" cried Boleslav, feeling as if more would kill him. "Your desire
is fulfilled. I now wish it as earnestly as you do. Of a truth I should
deserve my disgrace, were I ever to ask another favour of you.... I
will not even insult you by saying 'Many thanks' for the service you
have just rendered me. May God reward you, and may He forgive you for
having put me in my present position; rather would I have thrown the
corpse into the river and myself after it; let us say no more. Perhaps
you will allow me to assist in putting the horses in, as there is
nothing else I can do for you?"

"I am sorry," Engelbert said, his voice quivering with emotion; "it
pains us deeply. We are as fond of you yourself as we have ever
been--but, you see----"

"I see all, dear Engelbert; no excuses are necessary."

"Well then, we wish you farewell."

"Farewell!"

The horses were put in. All were in readiness to start. Staring
vacantly before him, Boleslav leant against the wall. Engelbert turned
and took a last look at him from the box-seat.

"And don't forget Regina!" he said. "That is to say, if she escapes
with her life. It is to her, not to us, you are indebted."

"Very well," answered Boleslav, not taking in the meaning of what had
been said to him.

"Adieu!"

"Adieu, and _bon voyage_!"

The drivers cracked their whips; in another moment the heavy wheels had
thundered over the loose flooring of the drawbridge. Like silver-girt
phantoms the coaches disappeared in the misty moonlight.

He was alone--more alone than any outcast in God's wide world. What
should he do?

He began wearily to drag his footsteps up the incline. The brambles
that tangled the ground wound round his ankles. A firefly made a zigzag
thread of flame in front of him. From the top of the hill the great,
weird, dark masses of the Castle ruins looked down on him, as if
threatening to fall on him and bury him beneath their debris. Through
the yawning window-casements the moon shone, giving them the appearance
of huge ghostly eyes. He roamed absently past the towers, a sudden
exhaustion weighing like lead upon his limbs. If only he could fall
asleep and never wake again.

He tried to remember what it was his friend had called out to him from
the coach at parting. He racked and racked his brains, but his memory
failed him.

The grass plot, where he had first found the half-wild girl, lay before
him brightly illumined by the moon. The spot where she had begun to dig
the grave stood out in uncanny blackness from the rest of the shining
turf.

If only he had shovelled the corpse into it and gone on his way,
perhaps somewhere at the other end of the world some sort of happiness
might still have been in store for him.

But now it was too late. Now all he could do was to endure--to complete
the work of defiance begun to-day under such gloomy circumstances.
Desolate and alone till the end. Never to feel again the clasp of a
friendly hand, never to look with trust and affection into any human
face, since the doughty comrades he had so firmly believed in had
recoiled from him shuddering.

And had not the beloved shrunk from him too in horror? It seemed clear
now for the first time why she had avoided him and hidden herself.

He was cut adrift from all the joys and sorrows that form a common bond
between the hearts of men--cut adrift from love, hope, compassion, from
everything but ignominy and hate.

With his face buried in his hands, he staggered over the lawn in the
direction of the gardener's cottage, when his foot struck against
something round and soft that lay across the path. It was the figure of
a woman, lying with her head buried in the dry leaves and her limbs
outstretched. Regina--positively it was Regina!

"What are you doing here? Get up."

There was not a sound or a movement. Where had he seen her last? Ah! to
be sure; under the churchyard gateway, screening him from the gun that
was pointed at his brain. That ghastly moment came back to him with all
its terrors. For his sake she had flung herself on the murderer; for
his sake risked her life. And how had he rewarded her? He had pushed
carelessly past her; consigned her to the mercy of the murderous,
bloodthirsty crew who were greedy to take her life, without a shadow of
a thought of how he might save her troubling him for an instant. Even
if she were the most abandoned creature on the face of the earth, she
had not deserved such dastardly treatment at his hands. Certainly she
had not.

"Regina, wake up."

He bent over her and raised her, but her head fell back lifeless among
the bushes. There was blood on his fingers from touching her. Her hair
was damp and matted.

Was she dead? No; it must not, could not be. Sacrificed for him; that
would mean adding original guilt to the sin he had inherited, and the
idea of owing so much to such a degraded creature, was in the last
degree humiliating. She must at least live till he had paid her. He
tore open her chemise with a rough, eager hand, and laid his ear on the
cool, rounded breast.

God be praised! Her heart was still beating. And as he raised her once
more, she slowly opened her great eyes and looked round her vacantly.
As if shocked at being caught holding her thus, he let her head slip
out of his arms.

She moaned slightly as she sank back, for the swaying briars hurt her.
Then regaining consciousness, she lifted herself on her elbow and gazed
at him in dumb inquiry.

"Get up, Regina," he said.

The sound of his voice made her tremble. She tried to struggle on to
her feet, but fell back helplessly.

"Let me lie where I am," she begged, with a timid, imploring glance.

"Stand up. I will help you."

"Must I go?" she asked, evading the proffered support. Grief and
anxiety were depicted on her blood-stained, beautiful face.

"You would rather stay with me?"

"Ah, _Herr_, how can you ask?"

"But you'll have a bad time of it if you do."

"Oh, no, _Herr_. The _gnädiger Herr_ used to whip me every day. I am
quite accustomed to it."

"But somewhere else they would treat you better."

"Somewhere else?" New consternation showed itself on her features.

"Good God! A woman like you, who is willing and hard-working, and has
such strong limbs, is sure----"

She shook her head violently. "I shouldn't go far, _Herr_. If you hunt
me away, I shall only lie down in a ditch and starve to death."

A softer look came into his eyes. No matter how bad, stupid, and
corrupt she might be, she was the only human being in the wide world
who clung to him. Why should he drive her from his threshold, when he
himself was despised, ostracised, and a social outcast? Were they not
both under the ban of the same misfortune?




                              CHAPTER VIII


The next few days proved how little he was in a position to live on his
own estate without her services. He was far more dependent on her than
she on him. Helpless as a shipwrecked mariner on a desert island, he
stole about the ancestral grounds. Though the mines and wolfs'-traps no
longer dogged his steps, finding his way among the chaos of smoked and
tumbling walls made him giddy, and decay had altered everything so
much, that the landmarks of his childish memories afforded him no
assistance. Even the park, where once he had known every tree and bush,
through long years of neglect, had become such a wilderness that at
every step he nearly lost himself in it.

When the first flush of his defiance and despair had subsided, the
question arose, "What was he to do next?" It was a problem that pressed
for solution, as the miserable rations of bread and meat in the cellars
were running out.

His pride prevented his seeking advice from Regina; he had not spoken
to her again. Apparently she understood the wisdom of making herself
scarce. But when he returned of a morning from the river, where he went
for a bath, he found the red-flowered counterpane of the canopied bed
neatly arranged, the floor swept, and strewn with sand and fragrant fir
spikes, and saw awaiting him on the gold-legged table (the fourth leg
of which was propped up with a brick) a steaming brown coffee-pot, and
dainty slices of black bread lying beside it.

His shyness at taking food from her hands had soon to be got over. At
first he had still hesitated a little to break bread that she had
brought him, but it looked so appetising, and bathing in the cold
autumn mornings sharpened his hunger, that at last his scruples had
gone to the wall.

At midday, a soup made of bread, and slices of roast meat, stood ready
for him, not to mention a bottle of good wine; and in the evening, by
some clever stratagem, another meal of a different character was
contrived out of the same unpromising materials. Thus she knew how to
keep house with nothing but the scanty larder he had found in the
cellar at her disposal.

He often saw her whisk past the window with pots and kettles, on her
way to wash them in the river. When she came back she would cautiously
peer with her lustrous eyes through the shrubs, to ascertain whether
the coast was clear. If he happened to be at the door, or looking out
of the window, she would immediately disappear in the wood.

She made the gardener's former workshop her domain. One morning when he
had watched her go down to the river, he went in to look at it. He
found a low, sloping room, with a roof composed of old greenhouse
frames. The green, dusty, lead-bordered panes were much cracked, and in
places let in the winds and rains of heaven. The ground was neither
floored nor paved, but covered with a dark moist garden soil resembling
peat. Attached to the walls were rude wooden shelves, once used by the
gardener for his flower-pots. They now held all the house's scanty
stock of crockery. Pots, plates, and dishes were arranged on them in
perfect order, and had been polished till they shone. A blackened door
off its hinges, evidently rescued from the fire, supported by two
wooden boxes about two feet from the ground, was spread with straw and
a haircloth, of the kind that are thrown over the backs of horses to
protect them from cold. This was her bed--"Many a dog has a better," he
thought. The brick fireplace was in the opposite corner; a home-made
contrivance of beams was meant to guide the belching smoke from the
hearth into its proper channel, but only partially succeeded.

In this smoky hole, with its cold damp floor, she was domiciled, and
desired nothing better. Here her heart was centred as in a dearly
cherished Paradise. Poor, wretched woman! and to be driven forth from
it meant to her death and perdition.

And then one evening she disappeared. He had at last made up his mind
to speak to her about the provisions, and went to call her. No answer
came. The kitchen was empty. He sought her in the park, among the
ruins, on the bridge, all over the island, but there was no sign of
her. Her name rang clearly out through the night air as he called her,
and had she been anywhere about she must have heard it. He became
suspicious. Probably after the hard work of her lonely days, she took
it out at night in the arms of a swain. She was, of course, well versed
in the arts of vice, and would not scruple to yield herself to the
embraces of some rustic gallant. Many of her persecutors below may have
desired the body they stoned. How otherwise could her obstinate
adherence to her present miserable mode of living, after his father's
death, be explained, except by the existence of a new sin--a sin which,
perhaps, had long been carried on hand-in-hand with the old. He was
filled with loathing and disgust at the thought.

"If she can't behave herself, I'll pack her off early to-morrow
morning;" and with this resolution he retired to rest. But he could not
sleep for thinking of what the future would be without her. To send her
away would involve going himself the same day.

At about six o'clock he was awakened out of a doze by a stealthy
opening of the outer door. He got up and dressed himself quickly,
determined to call her to account without loss of time. He entered the
kitchen and found her on the hearth with inflated cheeks, blowing the
pine logs she had just set alight into a flame.

She turned on him slowly, her eyes big with astonishment, and said,
"Good morning, _Herr_."

He trembled in angry excitement. "Where have you been all night?" he
thundered.

Her arms fell to her sides, and she shrank away terrified.

"Tell me at once."

"Ah, _Herr_," she stuttered, hanging her head, "I thought you wouldn't
notice I had gone, and that I should be back before the _Herr_ was
awake----"

"So, if I don't _notice_, you amuse yourself by running about all
night?"

She had retreated still farther from him.

"But--but--I was obliged to go," she said, stammering painfully. "There
was scarcely anything at all left--and--and the _Herr_ has eaten
nothing but salt meat for so long."

The scales fell from his eyes.

"You went, then, to fetch food?"

"Of course, _Herr_. I have brought veal and fresh eggs and butter--and
sausage and lots of things. It's all in the cellar."

"Where did you get it?"

"Oh, I told you, _Herr_--in Bockeldorf. I know a grocer there, who gets
ready a supply of what we want beforehand, and when I knock at nights
he lets me in at the back door. Not a living soul besides his wife
knows. And he's not very dear. Herr Merckel, down in the village,
charges a thaler a pound for meat, and swears at me into the bargain."

"And you have walked six miles there and back to-night, and carried all
those heavy parcels?"

Still frightened, she regarded him with surprise.

"I think you know, _Herr_, that I can do it, for I told you so before."

"But it's a physical impossibility. Don't lie to me, girl. From my
experience during the campaign, I know how much fatigue a _man_ can
stand."

Now that she saw he was no longer angry she dared to draw herself to
her full height. She exhibited her powerful arms proudly, and exclaimed
with a pleased smile--

"I can stand more than any man, _Herr_, else I should be no good at
all."

"For how long have you been going on these journeys, Regina?"

"For five years, _Herr_. Every week. Sometimes oftener. In summer it's
child's play. But in autumn and winter, when the snow lies two feet
thick in the wood, or when the meadows are flooded, it's no joke. But
there's one thing to be thankful for, the nights are long then, and at
least no one can see you. And I'd a hundred times rather walk the six
miles than go to that beast--I beg pardon, I mean Herr Merckel--who
takes a thaler for a pound of meat. Isn't that abominable? And in the
village----"

She paused suddenly, as if she feared being scolded for talking too
much.

"What were you going to say, Regina?" he asked in a kindlier tone.

"Oh, nothing, but I should like to beg the _Herr's_ pardon for having
gone without leave. But I thought he might perhaps like a change for
breakfast--a fresh egg----"

"Never mind, Regina," he said, turning away; "you are a good girl."

He went down to the river to bathe. When he came back he found his room
tidied as usual, only the coffee was not there.

"She is so tired out that she's fallen asleep," he thought, and
resigned himself to wait. At least, she should not be reprimanded any
more to-day.

But in consequence of his bath he was bitterly cold, and found he could
not forego the customary warm beverage much longer. So, in order not to
wake her he went on tiptoe into the kitchen to see to the fire himself.
But she was not asleep, though at the first glance it looked like it.
She sat on the edge of her couch, motionless, with her hands before her
face. Now and again a quiver passed through her frame, a symptom of the
sleep of exhaustion. Yet on regarding her closer, he saw that
glistening tear-drops were falling through her red, plump fingers, and
her breast was shaking with gurgling sobs.

"What's the matter, Regina? Why are you crying?"

She did not answer, but her sobs became louder.

"Have I hurt your feelings, Regina? I shouldn't have scolded you if I
had known where you had been."

She let her hands fall from her face, and looked at him with eyes
swollen from weeping.

"Ah, _Herr_!" she said in a voice half choked by tears. "No
one--ever--called me that before; and--it's not--true."

His mood changed and became harsh again. He was not conscious of having
used any abusive epithet. It was too ridiculous of this creature, who
was accustomed to being hounded about from pillar to post, to pretend
to be thin-skinned and fastidious.

"What isn't true?" he demanded.

"What you said."

"What did I say? Good heavens!"

"That I--I was a good----" She broke again into convulsive sobs that
stifled her voice.

He shook his head, perplexed at her distress. He had never looked very
deeply into the most complex problems of the human soul, and did not
know that even dishonour has its code of honour. Laughing, he laid his
hand on her shoulder.

"Don't cry any more, Regina; I meant no harm. And now get my breakfast
ready."

"May--I--bring it in?" she asked, still sobbing.

"Do you want me to come and fetch it?"

"I only thought I mightn't--" She moved to the hearth and began blowing
the smouldering fire, using her tear-stained cheeks as bellows.

After that she was no longer shy of entering his room when he was
there. Ever anxious to forestall his wishes, she seemed to read his
countenance without a question passing her lips.

Boleslav had found, in the recesses of the cellar in which money and
wine were stored, great masses of papers stuffed into chests, where
chaos reigned supreme. They contained the whole of his father's
correspondence, deeds, and documents of every description. His first
search among them had brought to light nothing less important than his
aunt's last will and testament, in which her Excellency bequeathed to
Boleslav von Schranden, the only son of her favourite niece, the whole
of her fortune, "to compensate him for the wrong," so ran the clause,
"from which he would suffer to the end of his days."

Boleslav's pleasure at first was not great; it was only when he
considered that here was a weapon put into his hand to use in the
coming struggle, that he began to appreciate the value of the gift. He
scarcely gave a thought to the giver, who had always been kindness
itself to him, so hardened had he become, so completely was his mind
engrossed by contemplation of the grim work that it was his duty to
carry on.

If only he could have seen a way clear before him, which he could have
pursued instantly, without looking to the right or left, with the
impetuous zeal characteristic of his nature! But for months the
prospect must be one of paralysing hopeless inaction. The war which he
had determined to wage against the Schrandeners must be conducted on an
ambitious scale, if it were not to end in the pitiful failure that had
soured and impoverished the last years of his father's life. It would
need an army of workmen to inspire the serfs, who had so long run wild,
with new respect. And where were these to be engaged, when there was
not a soul in the neighbourhood who would not have disdained to enter
his service? But nearly everything is attainable with money, and
doubtless many a swaggering patriot, who now spat at the mention of his
name, could be brought, cringing and servile, to heel, by the bribe of
a triple wage. Only, for this his means were not sufficient. The cash
that at the first glance had seemed such vast wealth, proved, on nearer
calculation, to be wholly inadequate to float his scheme. It was 4500
thalers, left from outstanding debts, that the old baron had hastily
saved from the conflagration, when the whole world must have appeared
to him to be melting into flame. For the sort of existence that,
following his father's example, he was now leading with Regina, such a
sum would last for years; but for the project he had in view, it was a
mere drop in the ocean.

Before the discovery of the will he had with a heavy heart entertained
the idea of offering the fine old timber, which had been the pride of
his ancestors, for sale, and to dispose of it below its value if the
need arose. Now he had abandoned the plan as impracticable. Granted
that he could find a market for it as easily as he hoped, it must be
months before the actual cash came into his hands. Besides winter was
at hand, one of those severe East Prussian winters, when work in the
open air is out of the question. For this year at least neither
building nor ploughing was to be thought of. Why, then, make a
sacrifice which with a little patience might be avoided altogether? If
on the first of April he claimed his legacy, and was able with full
pockets to enlist workers in his service, by May the building would be
in full swing, and possibly the ground ready for the sowing of crops.

But till then--till then--! How would he be able to support the barren
monotony of grey winter days spent in enforced and dreary idleness when
his hands were burning to be at work? How endure the thought that his
beloved was in the near neighbourhood and he unable to ask her the
fateful question on which his life and happiness hung? Would she wait?
Would she forgive? Would she steel her heart against the atmosphere of
hate and slander that surrounded her, and so keep her affection for him
unchanged?

The Madonna in the cathedral came back to him. He wondered if she still
resembled it. If only for one moment he might have gazed into her face!
There was a white and red mist before his eyes; he saw lilies and
roses, and a radiant virgin figure bending over them with a smile, but
the features of the girl he had loved he could only dimly recall.

Veiled from his sight, perhaps she was destined to be the invisible
guardian-angel who was to watch over his endeavours till his work was
completed, when she would set the crown to it by revealing herself. He
became gradually reconciled to the thought, and ceased to yearn for a
meeting; and one word or sign to assure him that his hopes in her
constancy were not ill-founded would have more than satisfied him.

More and more he buried himself in the chaos of papers, which seemed to
increase instead of diminish, in spite of his arduous sifting. The
yellowed parchments stood in great piles against the wall of his
sitting-room, reaching higher than the head of his beautiful
grandmother, and yet in the vaults there still remained chests and
boxes full, untouched. The whole archives of the family seemed to have
been gathered together at a moment's notice, and hurled into a place of
safety without the slightest regard to method or arrangement. Out of
this confusion he wanted to find documents relating to the property,
which were important, not to say indispensable. Among others, were
missing those that concerned agreements with the emancipated peasants
relating to land boundaries. The _canaille_ below were certain to have
grabbed from the domain that had become ownerless, more than their
legal share. He saw how law-suits would have to be fought over almost
every inch of ground, and he must be able to back his claim with
irrefragable documentary proof.

Nevertheless he felt an insuperable aversion to appealing to the
courts. The picture of his father, as he had seen him the last time
alive, stood out vividly in his memory; the ostracised baron, who had
been bold enough to seek the aid of the law, had then found every door
closed in his face. Truly Prussia at that time was not itself. The
walls of the State were tottering to their foundations, and the rats
were having it all their own way. But what guarantee was there that the
son of such a father would find the ear of justice less deaf to his
appeal? The law had shifts and resources in plenty by which an
unpopular person could be rendered powerless to benefit by its help,
and he did not doubt that he would fall a victim to such casuistry. His
deserted and forlorn position so distorted his view of things that law
and order took the form of wild beasts lying on the drawbridge in
ambush for their prey. Even his military duties had no interest for him
now. Lieutenant Baumgart was on the list of killed. Why trouble the
authorities with the work of his resurrection? They would not thank him
for it.

A text from the Bible came into his mind: "His hand shall be against
every man, and every man's hand against him." The curse that
accompanied Hagar's son through life, he by dint of stubborn defiance
would turn into a blessing.

Weeks went by, but he hardly observed the flight of time. He sat
immersed day after day in his papers, wandering forth of an evening to
stumble about the ruins, or to take a walk in the overgrown park. There
was only one place he carefully avoided. That was the path which led to
the Cats' Bridge. When he chanced to find himself nearing it, his heart
beat quicker, and he would hurry breathlessly by the shrubs that
concealed it from view. Yet he was tormented by a grim desire to stand
on the scene of the disaster, a desire which at length became almost
irrepressible.

It was one evening towards the end of September when, for the first
time since his return home, the moon was full. He roamed restlessly in
the glades of the park, the dry leaves rustled at his feet, and the
autumn wind shook the branches of the trees. The moonbeams shimmered on
the grass like flocks of white sheep. Before him the shrubs rose in a
dark, jagged line of wall. An impulse of sinister curiosity suddenly
got the better of the superstitious repugnance that had hitherto held
him back, and he plunged through the thicket that, with a sort of
protecting air, hid the path. The descent to the river was steep,
almost perpendicular, and the mirror-like surface of the water was
entirely concealed by alder-bushes. A faint rippling and splashing
below fell mysteriously on his ear. From the top of the precipice a
railed plank shot boldly out into mid-air. A rude scaffolding, planted
firmly in the rock of the precipice, supported it with iron bars. On
the opposite bank the trunk of a giant oak formed the support. In the
middle there was a yawning gap of from ten to twelve feet. Like two
arms longingly outstretched but never meeting, the planks branched
forth on either side above the abysmal depths.

If they had never reached each other the crime would never have come to
pass. But an easier job for a joiner could not be conceived. The plank
on this side had two loose boards, which, by means of a wedge, could
easily be pushed across; and the position of the hand-rail, by being
unhinged, could also be reversed. Everything seemed to have been
arranged expressly to facilitate the treacherous transaction. As a
memorial of eternal shame, the dark, crude structure loomed out through
the white mists of the brilliant night.

Beneath, the splashing from the invisible river grew more pronounced.
It sounded as if its waters were still foaming with rage at the deed
that so long ago had been enacted near at hand, and which death itself
could not consign to oblivion.

Like a man in a dream, he stepped on to the plank, and looked down on
the silver surface, which seemed to be emitting myriads of diamond
sparks. Then he beheld the figure of a woman, who stood up to her knees
in the water, with her skirts pinned round her waist. It was Regina,
doing her washing, and wringing out the articles among the sandbanks
and osiers.

His brows contracted. That he should encounter her _here_ of all
places! But in common justice he was obliged to admit it was not her
fault. Whenever she could she avoided him, and he had no reason to
complain that he saw too much of her.

He leant absently on the railing and watched her. She had no idea that
he was anywhere in the neighbourhood. She bent low over the water, the
muscles in her neck and arms strained by her exertions, and shook the
wet clothes with a will, sending up a spray of glistening drops. From
time to time she chanted the song on two notes, that he had heard her
hum while digging the grave, breaking off abruptly when the water
spurted into her nose and mouth.

What a hard worker she was! He had imagined her long ago gone to bed,
and here she was instead, at this time of night, washing as if her life
depended on it!

She started in alarm. His foot had disturbed some small pebbles, which
fell splashing into the water close to where she stood. Her first
thought was that some one was lying in wait for her among the shrubs,
and she moved suspiciously nearer the opposite bank. When at last it
occurred to her to look up at the Cats' Bridge, she gave a startled
cry.

"Don't be frightened, Regina," he called down to her. "I am not going
to hurt you."

Whereupon she returned calmly to her washing.

"How do you get down there?" he asked.

She wiped her face with her naked arm. "I'm a good climber," she said,
looking up at him for a moment with blinking eyes.

"Doesn't the water freeze you? So late in the year, too!"

She made some response that he did not understand. He was curious to
see how she would clamber up the steep declivity with her burden, so
remained where he was and continued to watch her.

In a few minutes she packed up her washing and climbed on the bank. The
moonlight cast a flashing halo round the masses of her hair, which
to-day had been combed till it was almost smooth. She looked as if she
wore a coronet. With one shy glance to ascertain that he was still
standing there, she dived into the shrubs, and he saw her dart rapidly
from branch to branch with the agility of a wild-cat. At the top she
let down her skirts, and would have flown with her basket, had he not
called her back.

"Why do you do your washing at night?" he inquired, making an effort to
look friendly disposed towards her.

"Because in the daytime they give me no peace."

"The villagers?"

"Yes, _Herr_."

"What do they do to you?"

"What they always do--throw things at me."

"Over the river?"

"Yes, _Herr_."

"The next time any one assaults you, come and fetch me."

She did not answer. "Do you understand?" She folded her hands, and
looked at him beseechingly.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Please, _Herr_, don't shoot at them," she stammered. "They like you to
do that. He--the _gnädiger Herr_, I mean--tried it once. Then they
began to shoot too, from the other side, and there was firing here and
firing there; the wonder was no one got shot. Don't you see, if they
get into the habit of carrying guns about with them always, they are
certain to hit me one day, for I'm obliged to go off the island
sometimes?"

It was the longest and most sensible speech he had as yet heard from
her lips. He had not suspected the existence of so much thoughtful
wisdom behind that low brow, in its frame of wild hair.

"You are right, Regina," he replied. "For your sake I must forbear from
provoking them."

He saw in the moonlight a dark flush suffuse her face.

"For my sake, _Herr_?" she said hesitatingly. "I don't quite understand
what you mean, _Herr_."

"Oh, well, never mind," he answered evasively. "What I wanted to ask
you, Regina, was--are you satisfied in my service? can I do anything to
make you more comfortable?"

She stared at him in dumb amazement.

"You mustn't think, Regina," he went on, "that I am unfriendly. My mind
is occupied with many things, and I prefer to be quite alone with my
troubles. So if I don't speak to you often you will understand how it
is."

Her eyes drooped. Her hands fumbled for the balustrade as if seeking a
support, then the next moment she turned, and leaving her basket in the
lurch, scampered off, as if driven by furies.

"Strange creature!" he muttered, as he looked after her. "I must be
kinder to her. She deserves it." Then he leant over the balustrade
again, and gazing into the silver water fancied he saw growing there a
garden of lilies and crimson roses.




                               CHAPTER IX


Lieutenant Merckel was far from being pleased at the course events had
taken on the day of the funeral. He called the Schrandeners poltroons
and old women, and declared they were unworthy ever to have worn the
king's uniform.

When some one ventured to ask why he had not shown himself in it to the
procession, and had left the mob leaderless at a critical moment, he
replied that that was a different matter altogether: he was an officer,
and as such bound only to draw his sword in the service of the king.

The Schrandeners, not accustomed to logical argument, accepted the
explanation, and promised to retrieve their reputation the next time
the opportunity offered itself. But this did not satisfy Felix Merckel.

"Father," he said, late one evening when the old landlord was counting
the cash taken during the day, "I can't bear to think that scoundrelly
cur holds the rank of Royal Prussian officer as I do. I am ashamed to
have served with him. Our army doesn't want to be associated with
people like him. It drags the cockade through the gutter, not to speak
of the sword-knot. I know what I'll do; I'll call him out and shoot
him."

He stretched his legs on the settle, twisting his cavalry moustache
with a bland smile. The old man let fall, in horrified dismay, a
handful of silver that he was counting, and the coins rolled away into
the cracks of the floor.

"Felixchen," he said, "you really mustn't drink so much of that
Wacholder brandy. It's good enough for customers, but you, Felixchen,
shall have a bottle of light wine to-morrow, and perhaps some of them
will follow your example, and so it won't cost me anything."

"Father, you are mistaken," Felix answered. "It's my outraged sense of
honour that gives me no peace. I am a German lad, father, and a brave
officer. I can't stand the stain on my calling any longer."

"Felixchen," said the old man, "go to bed, my son, and you'll get over
it."

"Father," replied his son, "I am sorry to have to say it, but you have
no conception of what honour is."

"Felixchen," went on the old man, ignoring the taunt, "you haven't
enough occupation. If you would only look after the bottles--of course
the barmaid is there for the purpose--but it would do you good. It
would distract your thoughts. Or you might go out shooting sometimes."

"Where?"

"Lord bless my soul! there are the woods and forest of Schranden.
Whether the hares devour each other, or you annex your share of them,
is all the same."

"That won't do for me, father. I am an officer, and don't wish to be
caught poaching."

"Good gracious, Felixchen, how you talk! Do you forget that I am
magistrate here. I am not likely to sentence you to the gallows.
But do as you like, my boy. Of course you _might_ go oftener to the
parsonage. The old pastor enjoys a game of chess; there's nothing to be
gained by chess, I know, but some people seem to like it, and then
there's--Helene."

"Ah, Helene!" said Felix, stroking his chin and looking flattered.

The old man examined the artificial fly in the centre of his amber
heart.

"I have a strong notion that she would be a good match if the pastor
consented, and she liked you."

"Why shouldn't she like me?" asked Felix.

"Well, there might be some one else who----"

Felix smiled sceptically.

"Or do you mean that she has already set her heart on you?"

Felix shrugged his shoulders.

"You see, Felixchen, that would be a great piece of good fortune for
us. People are constantly carping at the way in which they think I
acquired my bit of money--without the smallest ground of course. If
only the pastor gave you his daughter as wife, it would stop their
mouths once for all. A man like Pastor Götz has great weight and
influence. Well then, as I said, it's worth while your hanging about
there a little. Court her, and a fellow like you is sure----"

"Dear father, spare me your advice, if you please," interrupted his
son. "Whether Helene becomes my wife or not, is my own affair. I have
not yet made up my mind. She has a pretty enough little phiz, but she
is too thin. She might be fattened up with advantage. Then there's
something old-maidish about her, something sharp and prudish that I
don't quite fancy. For instance, if you put your arm round her waist
she says, 'Ah, dear Herr Lieutenant, how you frightened me!' and
wriggles away. And if you squeeze her arm, by Jokus, she screams out
directly, 'Oh, dear Herr Lieutenant, don't do that, I've got such a
delicate skin.' Of course that's all airs and affectation, and perhaps
if a man caught hold of her firmly and didn't give in, she'd allow
herself to be kissed at last; but as I say, I have not made up my mind,
so don't build too much on it."

The old landlord, who with deft hand was rolling up his sovereigns in
paper, looked proudly across at this magnificent son of his. Then he
became anxious again.

"And you won't think any more about the duel, eh, Felixchen? That's all
nonsense.... You wouldn't go and risk your life so recklessly as that."

Felix threw back his chest. "In affairs of honour, father, please don't
interfere, for you know nothing about them. Directly I can find a
respectable second----"

"What is that, Felixchen?"

"Why, the man who'll take the challenge."

"Where--to Boleslav?"

"Of course."

"To the island?"

"To the island."

"But, Felixchen, what are you thinking about? No Christian dare set
foot on the island. It swarms with wolf-traps, bombs, and other deadly
instruments. Look at Hackelberg; he was caught in one, and limps to
this day--but never mention it. It mustn't come out that Hackelberg was
ever on the island. Do you see?... As I was saying, you wouldn't get
any one to go on such a dangerous errand--or to come in contact with
such a man as that. No, my boy, think no more about it There's nothing
to be gained by it."

"But I _will_ challenge him all the same to meet me here," growled
Felix.

The old man contemplated him with the greatest concern for a few
moments, then rose, filled a liqueur-glass with peppermint-schnaps, and
brought it over to him.

"Drink it up, Felixchen," he said, "it'll soothe you." Felix obeyed.

"Leave the matter in the hands of your good, honest old father. Trust
him to find in the night some other means of satisfying your so-called
sense of honour. Good-night, Felixchen."

"The good, honest old father" had not promised more than he was able to
perform.

The next morning, when he met his son at the breakfast table, he asked
in an accent of benevolent sympathy--

"Well, Felixchen, have you slept off all those silly notions?"

Felix grew angry. "I told you, father, that on that subject you
were----"

"Totally ignorant! Very good, my boy. But I want to be clear on one
point. Is it with the Baron von Schranden that you propose to fight a
duel, or with Lieutenant Baumgart?"

Felix did not answer at once. A suspicion of what his father was darkly
hinting, dawned on him.

"Don't deal in subterfuges, father," he said. "I am an upright, simple
soldier, and don't understand them."

"But, Felix, you needn't be so headstrong. I mean well. As the Baron
von Schranden never was an officer, there is no reason why you should
concern yourself about him; and as Lieutenant Baumgart has proved a
swindler, and assumed a false name, he is equally beneath your notice."

"That is true," said Felix, spreading honey on his bread and butter.
"As a matter of fact, I oughtn't to do him the honour of challenging
him."

Then a new idea seemed to occur to Felix. "If only," he added fiercely,
"he could be stopped from entitling himself lieutenant. That's what
offends my sense of honour more than anything."

His old father seemed prepared with an answer to this remark.

"Why should he go on calling himself lieutenant?" he asked, grinning
and whistling under his breath. "Only because his superior officers are
kept in ignorance of the deception he has practised. If they had an
inkling of it, they'd be down on him fast enough."

Felix understood. "You mean we ought----" he began.

"Of course we ought."

But Felix's hypersensitive sense of honour again felt itself outraged.
"Remember that I am an officer, father," he exclaimed indignantly.
"Your proposal is in the highest degree insulting."

The host shrugged his shoulders. "Very well; if you don't wish it,
leave it alone," he said.

Then the honourable young man saw a way of escape.

"If only it could be done without a signature," he meditated aloud.

"That difficulty is easily overcome," responded the old man. "I have a
scheme in my head. Let me draw it up. All you've got to do will be to
sign your name with the others at the foot. Then it will be only one of
many."

On the afternoon of the same day, the parish crier, Hoffmann, invited
all the country's defenders in the village to assemble at the Black
Eagle. It was the merest matter of form, a tribute to the importance of
the business to be discussed, for they were certain to have turned up
there of their own accord sooner or later without an invitation. The
tables were soon full (Schranden had sent a contingent of thirty
warriors to the War of Liberty); and when Herr Merckel saw glasses
emptying to right and left of him, he stepped behind the bar, and
exchanging glances with his son, rubbed his hands with satisfaction,
and began the following harangue:--

"Dear fellow-burghers, I desire to speak a few words to you. You are
all brave soldiers, and have fought in many a bloody battle for your
Fatherland in its dire extremity. You must have often been thirsty in
those days, and have longed for even a few drops of dirty ditch-water.
It's only to your credit, then, that after the heat and burden of the
war, you turn into the Black Eagle occasionally, for a good draught of
pale ale. You have earned it honestly with the sweat of your brow. Your
health, soldiers!"

He flourished the mug that he kept specially for occasions like the
present, and then raised it to his mouth, holding it there till he had
assured himself that no glass had been put down unemptied. Then making
a sign to the barmaid, he wiped his lips energetically, and continued--

"I, as your Mayor and magistrate, could not accompany you to the seat
of war, being obliged to remain and look after the wants of those who
stayed at home." A murmur of approval came from the audience. "But I am
a patriot like you; my warm heart beats true for the honour of the
Fatherland, just as your hearts do, brave soldiers! Fill up, Amalie,
you slow-coach! Herr Weichert is nearly expiring for thirst." Herr
Weichert protested, but in vain; his glass was snatched out of his
hand. "And my bosom swells with pride when I look at my son, a gallant,
upright soldier, whom the confidence of his comrades and the favour of
his king promoted to the rank of officer. I speak for you all, I know,
when I call three cheers for the joy of the village, the dutiful son,
the good comrade, the brave soldier, and honourable officer, Lieutenant
Merckel--Hip, hip, hurrah!"

The Schrandeners joined enthusiastically in the cheering, and Herr
Merckel observed with satisfaction that several glasses had again
become empty. To give Amalie time to fill up, he made an effective
little pause, in which, in speechless emotion, he fell on his son's
breast: then he resumed the thread of his discourse.

"All the more painful is it, therefore, to see that the disgrace you,
by your glorious deeds of arms, did your best to remove from our
beloved and highly favoured village, now rests on it again, through the
presence here of the son of the man who wrought it such dire mischief.
On the site of the fire he is now living with his father's mistress.
I'll not enter into details, but you know, my children, what that
implies."

There was a significant laugh, which changed gradually into a sullen
muttering.

"Yes, and what's more, this immoral outlaw belongs to our glorious
army. Under a false name he enlisted in its ranks, and raised himself
to the position of officer. By lying, and cheating, and devilish craft,
he succeeded in obtaining what you brave, honest fellows (with the
exception of my son, of course) could not attain to. Will you tolerate
this, you noble Schrandeners? Will you, I say, let a rascally cheat,
the son of a traitor, continue to look down on you as his inferiors?
Was it for this that his gracious Majesty made you free men?

"The moment was a favourable one for drinking his gracious Majesty's
health, and Amalie, in obedience to a signal, began the filling-up
process anew. Herr Merckel already felt he had cause to congratulate
himself on the result of his stirring oration.

"No, brave Schrandeners," he went on, "such a scandal must not be
tolerated! The army must be purged of this black spot; otherwise you
will be ashamed, instead of proud, of calling yourselves Prussian
soldiers."

"Kill him! kill him!" cried several voices at once.

"No, dear friends," he replied, with his unctuous smirk. "You mustn't
always be talking of killing. I, as your Mayor, cannot countenance
that," shaking a warning fat forefinger at them; "but I can give you
wiser counsel. The authorities, naturally, have no suspicion of who it
is has been masquerading as Lieutenant Baumgart; last spring no one had
time to inquire into birth certificates and such-like details. But now
there will be leisure to investigate the case of a Prussian officer
passing under an assumed name. And the case presses for attention. Do
you remember the story Johann Radtke related in this very room, the day
he came over from Heide, when none of us had the slightest idea of what
a savage kind of animal his celebrated hero, Lieutenant Baumgart,
really was?

"He was interrupted by a laugh of pent-up hate and fury. It proceeded
from his son Felix.

"He is said to have tramped home from France entirely alone, like a
wandering journeyman. He had been wounded and taken prisoner, and all
the rest of it. But mark my words, that signifies more than you think.
It means that he didn't get his discharge--that he sneaked out of the
service like a thief in the night, in the same straightforward manner
as he entered it. And do you know what that is in good plain Prussian?
_Deserting_! It means he is a deserter."

A cry of jubilation arose, which Herr Merckel greeted with profound
approval, for, according to his ripe experience, shouting rendered the
throat dry. He let the applause therefore exhaust itself, and then went
on.

"It is our sacred duty, as genuine patriots and intrepid soldiers, to
open the eyes of his Highness the Commander-General to this young man's
true character. We owe it to our King, our Fatherland, above all, to
ourselves. We'll get him cashiered out of our brave army, degraded and
ruined. What is done to him afterwards, whether he is shot or cast into
prison, is a matter of indifference to us. We are not responsible for
him."

At the mere suggestion of such a vengeance the Schrandeners were beside
themselves, and almost howled with rage.

Herr Merckel drew a sheet of paper from his breast-pocket.

"I have drawn up a little statement, in which I have respectfully
lodged a complaint to a Deputy-General of high standing and noble
birth. If you'll allow me, dear friends----"

He was in the act of unfolding the sheet when a still happier thought
occurred to him.

"I could lay the document before you at once and ask you to sign it,
but then it would be my composition, and not yours," he went on,
beaming; "and I want every word well weighed and considered, and
altered if needful. I therefore propose that a committee of five
comrades be elected from amongst you, who shall withdraw with me and my
son into the best parlour, where we can hold a quiet consultation over
the wording of the address, while the rest of you remain here."

Then he gave the names of those he considered worthiest of filling this
delicate office. They were five young men whom he knew to be lavish
spendthrifts, and whom he expected to acquit themselves honourably in
more senses than one. Half in envy, half in malice, his choice was
agreed to.

The elected looked rather glum; then they knew what they had been let
in for, but at the same time they were too flattered by the invitation
to decline it.

Herr Merckel, with the air of solemnity he always considered due to any
occasion on which the best parlour was brought into requisition, flung
open the door, over which was inscribed the alluring caution, fraught
with so much significance--"_Only Wine drunk here_."

With a somewhat nervous air the chosen committee entered the sanctum of
gentility, awkwardly twirling their caps in their hands. The last to go
in was the son of the house. At the door, Herr Merckel turned and
called out in a loud impressive voice--

"Amalie, bring two bottles of Muscat for me and the Herr Lieutenant!"

Muscat was a wine made at home, from rum, sugar, cinnamon, currant
juice, and a judicious quantity of water, and was sold to the
Schrandeners for a thaler the bottle. Herr Merckel ordered two bottles,
to demonstrate to his customers that he did not expect any of them to
go shares in a bottle.

There was now a profound silence in the taproom. Its occupants gazed
with serious excited faces at the closed door and then at each other.

Neither did any sound proceed from the reception room, where a dumb
pitched battle was going on between the host and his guests. It was
doubtful at one time who would come off victor. But a few minutes after
the barmaid had hurried up from the cellar with the two freshly filled
bottles, Herr Merckel tore open the door again, and shouted
triumphantly--

"Amalie, five bottles more of Muscat!"

Tongues were loosened. The tension was over. As was generally the case,
the customers had been mastered by the landlord. And soon the dull
monotonous sound of reading aloud reached the ears of the listeners in
the tap-room.


                           *   *   *   *   *


Herr Merckel, senior, when he retired to rest, felt that his day had
not been wasted.

His son had abandoned his dangerous project; the fate of the last of
the Schrandens had been sealed; and in the cash-box, beyond the usual
takings, was a surplus of eight thalers and twenty-five silver
groschens.

"Thus I have killed three birds with one stone!" he mused, with a
self-satisfied grin, and, folding his hands, fell into a gentle
slumber.




                               CHAPTER X


Winter had come. It had been preceded by a season of decay,
inexpressibly cheerless and trying to the spirits. Boleslav, who had
grown up in closest communion with Nature and her moods, could never
have believed it possible that autumn's symbolic melancholy would
affect him so profoundly and send such deathlike shivers through his
limbs. The mere calculation of time dismayed and oppressed him.

His evenings began to be dismally long. Solitude swooped over his head
like a vulture in ever-narrowing circles, till he began to fancy he
felt the chill flap of its wings across his face.

It was strange that he who all his life had been much alone from
choice, should now, when almost every human being was his deadly foe,
crave for the society of his fellow-creatures.

He buried himself deeper and deeper in the mass of papers and
manuscripts, a dreary enough occupation, without much object unless it
were to help the hours to drag a little less slowly. He tried to
convince himself that the portion of the past he unearthed from these
dust-heaps might be of service to him in the future. But in reality he
had found what was absolutely necessary to his purpose without much
trouble, and the rest might as well have perished in the flames.

Regina remained tongue-tied, and performed her household duties swiftly
and noiselessly. She moved about his room without lifting her eyes to
his face, and if he addressed a word to her, shrank away with a
startled look. But her answers to his questions, though given in a
hesitating and embarrassed manner, were always clear, comprehensive,
and to the point. Sometimes days together went by without their
exchanging a syllable. Yet it was on these days he observed her in
secret all the more closely, watching her as she laid the table,
following her with his eyes as she crossed the little plot of garden
and disappeared into the bushes. He caught himself constantly wondering
what was passing in her mind. What did she think about all day long?
Was it possible that her whole existence revolved round him and his
personal comforts, a man who was nothing to her, who had not even
rewarded her labours so far, with a brass farthing?

He felt ashamed when he thought of the innumerable self-sacrifices he
accepted from her with such haughty indifference, and determined to be
more friendly and conversational towards her in the future, so that she
might feel the unpleasantness of her position less acutely. But a
certain unaccountable shyness on his side seemed to hinder his putting
these good intentions into practice. He no longer hated her. His
aversion had yielded to something like regard at sight of so much
unselfish loyalty and untiring industry; and the result was that he
felt more than ever a constraint in conversing with her. Something came
between them, a kind of mysterious veil that enveloped her and rendered
her unapproachable as a stranger. It seemed almost as if the spirit of
his father hovered about her, preventing by its ghostly presence any
intercourse between them. Sometimes he wondered if it were her shame
that invested her with that strange fascination that vice is said to
exercise on inexperienced youth. Or was it the magnitude of her
misfortunes that gave her an unconscious power and charm?

Often when she brought in his supper, or turned back the counterpane
from his bed, he would look up from his work and endeavour to open a
conversation. But his tongue would cleave to the roof of his mouth, he
could never think of anything to talk to her about that was not beneath
his dignity. So, after all, only curt and harsh commands crossed his
lips.

He had remarked for a long time how much more careful she had become
about her personal appearance, which had wonderfully improved. She no
longer went about ragged, unkempt, and _décolletée_, but wore her
jacket buttoned up modestly to her throat, with the ends neatly tucked
under her waistband. A woollen scarf was knotted round her neck by way
of giving a finish to her costume, and her skirt carefully brushed and
mended. Her hair did not hang about her as formerly, in untidy plaits
and a hundred rough, loose curls, but was combed and neatly dressed. Of
a morning the top of her head sometimes presented a smooth, polished
surface, the effects of the shower-bath, by means of which she brought
her unruly mane into subjection.

The weather grew bitterly cold, but she still shivered in her cotton
gown, only throwing on the red cross-over when she went into the open
air.

One evening as she was preparing for her regular weekly expedition for
the purchase of provisions, and had come to him for orders, he said--

"Why have you brought no winter clothes back with you yet, Regina?"

She looked on the ground and replied--

"I should like to--only--"

"Only?"

"I wasn't sure whether I might."

"Of course you may. You mustn't freeze."

"There's a----" she began eagerly, then stopped and blushed.

"Well?"

"There's a jacket at the shop--a blue cloth one trimmed with beautiful
fur. The shopman says----"

He smiled. "Thank God," he thought "she is beginning to be human at
last. A love of finery has awakened in her."

"What does the shopman say?" he asked.

"That it would fit me exactly. And I need something warm and
comfortable for the long walks. But it's a real lady's jacket, and----"

"All the more reason why you should have it," he interrupted, laughing.
"Don't come back without the jacket, now mind. Good-night, and a
pleasant journey."

With a joyous exclamation she stooped to kiss his hand, but he evaded
the caress.

When her footsteps had died away in the darkness, he took the lamp and
went into the greenhouse, which was her private apartment.

The fire still smouldered on the hearth, but the room was icily cold
and comfortless. A stray flake or two whirled through the holes in the
roof, for outside a gentle dusting of snow had begun to fall.

"Why doesn't she doctor the laths?" he thought, and resolved that the
next morning he would come and lay boards over the weak places. He
climbed on one of the boxes and tested with a tap the glass roofing.
Then he understood why Regina preferred to sleep half in the open air.
The leaden framework of the panes had become rotten and brittle. At his
mere touch the whole decrepit roof rattled and trembled in all its
joints. Any attempt to mend it would bring it down altogether.

"It's a positive sin to allow her to be housed like this," he said to
himself.

He went back to his room and drew from under his sheets as many of his
feather mattresses as he could do without, and carried them, with one
of his pillows, to her wretched resting-place. He carefully made up a
bed, and then threw her horse-cloth over it, so that not a scrap of the
bedding was visible.

"That will make her open her eyes," he thought, "when, worn out, she
comes to throw herself on her pallet." And well satisfied with his
evening's work, he returned to his papers.

The next morning, when he awoke, his walls shone with the dazzling
reflection of the snow. In the night the world had arrayed itself in
the garb of winter.

He dressed, and called Regina. There was no answer. She had not come
back.

He waited two hours, and then went to prepare his own breakfast. Three
snow-heaps had collected underneath the holes in the glass roof, and a
fourth was accumulating on the hearth. A greenish twilight filled the
room. He took the shovel and broom, and half mechanically swept the
white mounds out at the door; then he fetched a sheet of strong
cardboard that had served as a cover to the stacks of documents, cut it
into strips, which he cautiously pushed through the holes so that they
roofed in the bad places from the snow.

"That's the best I can do," he said, as he shivered about the room,
which he had now made nearly as dark as night. Then, sighing heavily,
he went to the hearth, and lit the fire.

The day crept on, and still Regina did not return. In all probability
the snowstorm would detain her at Bockeldorf till the next morning. He
felt moped to distraction as he sat over his work. Now and then, to
vary the dull monotony, he took a walk to the Cats' Bridge, over which
she was bound to come. After he had bolted his cold dinner he did
nothing but watch the clock, whose hands seemed hardly to move.

He missed Regina at every turn; for though she kept out of his way when
at home, he knew he had only to whistle to bring her instantly to his
elbow.

He put his papers aside, and to change the current of his thoughts
began to draw. On the back of a coachbuilder's bill of fifty years ago
he painted a long garden border of stiff rows of stately lilies and red
roses. First he made a line of lilies, then one of roses, then lilies
again, and so on until the whole resembled some gorgeous carpet. Then
he threw himself on the creaking sofa, and dreamed of the Madonna who
presided over that wall of flowers, and shed the blessed light of her
countenance on all who had the courage to penetrate it.

Already it was dusk. There was a sound of footsteps on the
cobble-stones before the door. He sprang to his feet and hurried out.

Regina came timidly over the threshold. She was laden with bundles and
parcels, and covered from head to foot with snow; even the little curls
on her forehead were powdered white. Her face glowed, but there was an
expression of fear in her brilliant eyes as she lifted them to his.

"I ran, _Herr_, as fast as I could," she panted, laying her right hand
on her heart. "The shopman wouldn't let me start till daylight, because
he thought--the jacket might----"

She broke off, looking guilty.

He smiled kindly. He was much too glad to know that she was back again
to scold her.

"Go and cook me something hot as quickly as you can," he said. "You'll
be glad of your supper too."

She gazed at him in mute amazement.

"Why don't you go?"

"I will--but, oh!" And then as if ashamed of what she was on the point
of saying, she rushed past him into the kitchen.

"She almost claimed her flogging," he murmured, laughing, as he looked
after her.

He was sitting at his desk where he generally worked, when she brought
in the evening meal. The lamp with its green shade cast a subdued
uncertain light over the apartment. He liked to watch her as she moved
swiftly to and fro, in and out of the shadows. To-day her appearance
almost frightened him. She looked resplendently, proudly beautiful. Not
a trace of her former degradation was apparent. The once forlorn and
half-tamed girl might have been taken for a duchess, so graceful and
distinguished were all her movements; so pure and full of charm the
contour of her young erect figure. Was it the neat woollen dress, or
the new jacket with its silver-grey fur--_kazabeika_, as they called it
in Poland--that was responsible for the transformation? As she laid the
table she smiled to herself a happy shame-faced little smile, and every
now and then flashed a rapid stealthy glance across at him. It was
evident she wanted to be admired, but dared not attract his attention.

When she came within the circle of light made by the lamp, in order to
place it on the supper table, he turned his eyes quickly away to make
her think he had noticed nothing. But all the same he could not resist
letting fall a remark.

"How conceited we are of our new clothes!" he said banteringly.

A vivid blush spread over her face and neck.

"They are much too good for me," she whispered, still smiling, still
glancing at him in half-ashamed coquetry. But she was not yet daughter
of Eve enough to take a sidelong peep at herself in the glass.

On going to turn down his bed for the night, she was astonished to see
how it had diminished in size, but gulped back an exclamation of
surprise, lest he should be annoyed. Then wishing him good-night she
left the room.

With a grin of inward satisfaction he thought of the great surprise
that was in store for her, and soon became engrossed in his manuscripts
again.

About an hour had elapsed, when he was startled by a rustling sound at
the back of his chair. He turned round and found her standing beside
him. Her face was very white, her lips trembling, her breath coming
quick through dilated nostrils. The fur collarette was unfastened at
the throat, and showed the coarse chemise underneath, the folds of
which rose and fell with her billowing breast. In the excitement of the
moment she had forgotten to arrange her clothing.

"How handsome she is!" he thought, filled with involuntary admiration
of her strange beauty, and then he tried not to look at her.

"Now then, what's the matter?" he asked in his gentlest tones.

She made an effort to speak, but some moments passed before a sound
escaped her lips.

"Oh, _Herr_!" she stammered forth at last, "was it you--did you do
that with the beds?"

"Yes, of course. Who else should do it?"

"But--why--_why_?" and she lifted her swimming eyes in alarm and
consternation.

Apparently his kindness frightened her. It was necessary to adopt a
firmer tone in order to become master of his own emotions.

"Stupid girl," he said loftily, "do you think I wish you to die out
there of cold?"

For a moment she stood like a statue, silent and motionless, and big
sparkling drops rolled down her cheeks. And then suddenly she threw
herself at his feet, clung to both his hands, and covered them with
kisses and tears.

At first he was too unnerved and thrilled at the sight of her agitation
to speak. He had never imagined that she would be so deeply moved. Then
he collected himself, and withdrawing his hands commanded her to rise.

"Don't make a scene, Regina," he said. "Go to bed. I'm sure you must be
tired out."

She would have wiped her eyes with her sleeve, as was her habit, only
she remembered the new soft fur trimming in time, and so let her tears
run on.

"Ah, _Herr_!" she sobbed. "I hardly know what's come over me. But were
you really serious? I don't deserve all your kindness. First the
beautiful jacket, and then when I expected a whipping for being gone
the whole day--for you to ... Oh----"

"Say no more. I won't listen to another word," he insisted. "You must
have some sort of bed. Where used you to sleep before?"

She started and cast down her eyes.

"Before?" she murmured.

"Yes, in my father's time."

"Ah, then, I used to lie on the door-mat or----" she paused.

"Or where?"

She still remained silent, and trembled.

"Where?" he asked again.

Her eyes moved shyly in the direction of the canopied bed.

"You know; ah, you know, _Herr_," she murmured. And then overwhelmed
with shame she covered her face with her hands.

Yes, he knew. How could he forget it for a moment.

"Begone!" he cried, his voice shaking with anger and disgust, and he
motioned her to the door.

Without a word she crept out, her head still bowed in her hands.




                               CHAPTER XI


Boleslav was almost happy. He had hit on a new and brilliant idea, and
the hopes of carrying it out brightened for a time the deadening
monotony of his existence. He believed he could clear his father's
memory.

How it had first occurred to him he hardly knew. He had found certain
letters from Polish noblemen addressed to his father, which seemed to
suggest that the deceased had felt himself bound by a hastily-made
promise which at the time he had not meant seriously, and that a chain
of tragic circumstances had compelled him against his will to be a
party to the treachery. If this did not exonerate him from all guilt,
it at least put the slandered man in a new light--the light of a
martyr.

If by minute study of the documents he could trace the affair to its
source, and make public a true history of the disaster, in which he
would demonstrate that Eberhard von Schranden, far from having played
the devilish rôle that rumour attributed to him, had only been a victim
of circumstances, surely there would at least arise some who would hold
out their hand in remorse to the sufferer's heir. The more he absorbed
himself in this task of vindication the more he began to feel united
with the dead man, and accustomed to the idea of sacrificing his own
innocent reputation for his sake.

His brain was so much occupied with these schemes that he slept little
at night, and in the daytime tore about the park like one possessed.
The less hope he cherished in his secret heart that his plan would
succeed, the more did he long for some human soul into whose ear he
could pour his doubts and fears. But there was no one to speak to but
the taciturn woman, who glided past him with eyes guiltily cast down.

One evening, when his solitude almost maddened him, he said to her--

"Regina, aren't you frozen in your kitchen?"

"I never let the fire out, _Herr_."

"But what do you do in the evening, when it's dark?"

"I sit by the fire and sew, till my fingers get quite stiff."

"Then you have a light?"

"I burn fir-cones."

He was silent; he gnawed his under-lip, and hesitated as to what he
should say next. Then he took courage.

"Regina, if you like you may bring your sewing into the sitting-room,
after supper," he said.

She grew pale, and stammered out, "Yes, _Herr_."

He thought her wanting in gratitude.

"Of course, if you'd rather not--" he said, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh, _Herr_--I should like to come."

"Very well, then, come; but you must make yourself look respectable.
Why have you given up wearing your new clothes?" Since that evening she
had taken to shivering about in the cotton jacket again.

"I thought it would hurt them."

"Hurt them! How?"

"I mean," she said incoherently, "that when you are angry with me,--
such as I, am not fit----"

"Nonsense!" he interrupted quickly, feeling that if she went on he
would be angry with her again.

After supper she appeared in some trepidation at the door. Snowy linen
shimmered in her hand. She remained standing till he had impatiently
invited her to sit down.

"You want people to stand on ceremony with you, as if you were some
fine lady," he said.

She laughed in confusion.

"I am only nervous, _Herr_, because I am not quite sure--how to
behave." And she turned to her work.

No more passed between them that evening, and it was more than a week
before they broke into conversation again.

He sat brooding over his yellow papers, and she let her needle fly
through the crackling calico. When the clock struck eleven, she
gathered up her sewing, and whispering "Good-night," slipped out on
tiptoe without waiting for an answer.

"What are you working at so industriously?" he asked her one evening,
after he had watched her intently for some minutes.

She looked up and pushed a curl off her forehead with damp fingers.

"I am making shirts for you, _Herr_," was the answer.

"So you undertake that too?"

"Who else should do it, _Herr_?"

A short silence; then he questioned her further.

"Who taught you all you know, Regina? Your mother?"

She shook her head. "My mother died very young, _Herr_. I can hardly
remember her. People say my father beat her to death."

He thought of the thin pale face and tired eyelids in the
picture-gallery, of which the last trace had perished in the great
fire.

"Can you remember what your mother was like?" he demanded again.

"She had long black hair, and eyes like mine, at least, so I have heard
people say; and I can remember her hair, for she often wrapped me in it
when I was undressed. I used to sit in it as if it were a cloak, and
laugh; and when father--" She stopped in sudden alarm. "But you won't
care to hear more, _Herr_?"

"Go on, tell me the rest," he exclaimed.

"And when father came home and wanted to beat me, because he was drunk,
you know, she stood in front of me, and told me to get under her dress;
and inside her dress it was like being in a cave, quite dark and still,
and father's swearing sounded a long, long way off. And then she died.
It was on a Sunday--yes, it was on a Sunday. For I was standing by the
hedge and wondering whether she'd have a beautiful coffin--a green one,
like the coffin on the trestle in the garden--when you, _Herr_, went by
on your way to church. At that time you were little, like me, and you
had on a blue coat with silver buttons, and a little sword at your
side; and you stopped and asked me why I was crying, and I couldn't
answer, I was so frightened, and then you gave me an apple."

He had not the smallest recollection of the incident, but he remembered
how he had taken the young sparrow away from her, and related the
story. She had not forgotten it. Her eyes became illumined, as if lost
in contemplation of some blissful sight.

"I wonder, now, that you gave it up so meekly," he said.

"How could I have done otherwise?" she answered.

"You might easily have refused," he said.

She bent over her work. "I was only so glad for you to have it," she
said, in a low soft voice. "It's not often that a poor little village
girl gets the chance of giving anything to a rich young nobleman."

He bit his lips. Truly he had taken more from her since than his pride
and manliness should have permitted.

"And besides," she went on, "even if I hadn't wanted to give it to you,
it was yours by right. You were the _Junker_."

How perfectly natural the argument sounded from her lips.

"Regina, tell me honestly," he said, "if you haven't entirely forgotten
the days when you ran wild in the village."

"Oh no, _Herr_; indeed I haven't," she replied, with an almost roguish
smile. "For instance, I remember a great many things about the
_gnädiger Junker_."

He withdrew far back into the shadow of the lamp-shade. "What splendid
stuff she has in her!" he thought, and devoured her with his eyes. And
then he made her relate all her reminiscences of him at that time. He
did not appear in a very amiable light. Once he had pushed her into
a duck-pond; another time sent her floating down the river in a
flour-vat, till her cries of terror had brought people to the bank with
life-saving apparatus; when she had on a new white frock, given her by
the Castle housekeeper, he had painted her hands and face with white
chalk, and told her to stand motionless like one of the statues in the
Park. She had submitted meekly till the chalk got into her mouth and
eyes and made them smart, and then she had burst out crying and run
away.

She recalled all this with beaming eyes, as if his pranks had been a
source of infinite happiness to her. Although when reminded of such and
such an escapade he recollected it perfectly, he could not remember
that it was Regina who had been the victim of his caprice. A sensation
of shame rose within him. Instead of the dreamy, generous young
cavalier he had been in the habit of picturing himself, he saw a cruel
little village tyrant, who exercised his power over his small
contemporaries with a relentlessness that was almost vicious.

"And did I make no amends for my wicked deeds?" he inquired, hoping to
hear he had at least been capable of doing good sometimes.

"Oh, you used to give us things," she answered. "'Divide that,' you
used to say, and scatter on the ground either apples and nuts, or
broken tin soldiers, or a handful of counters. But, of course, the
strongest and biggest got everything. Felix Merckel was the best at a
scramble; the girls only had the leavings."

"And did you ever get anything from me, Regina?" he asked.

She flushed scarlet, and bowed lower over her work. "Yes, _Herr_,
once!" she said softly.

"What was it?"

She was silent, and dared not lift her eyes.

"Good heavens! why do you look so ashamed about it?"

"Because--I ... have it still."

"Oh, not really!" He smiled. A feeling of pleasure shot through him.

Without answering, she felt in the pocket of her dress, and laid before
him on the table a little straw box plaited out of coloured blades. It
was hardly bigger than a baby's fist.

He held it in his hand, and examined it all over attentively. Something
rattled inside.

"May I open it?"

"You needn't ask, _Herr_!"

It was a ring of glass beads--blue, white, and yellow, such as a little
girl, following the first instincts of vanity, threads for herself. He
took it out, and tried to force it on his little finger, but it was far
too narrow, and he couldn't get it over his nail.

"Did I give you the ring too?" he asked.

"No, _Herr_, it belonged to my dear mother. It cut into her flesh once,
and that's why I used to wear it day and night till the thread broke.
Then she had been dead a long time, and as it was the only keepsake I
had of her, I threaded the beads again, and have never parted with the
ring, and I always have it on me."

"In my little box?"

She nodded, and her head drooped. "Why shouldn't I, _Herr_?" she said
in a whisper, "it brings me luck."

He looked at her with a compassionate smile. "Luck? Brings _you_ luck?"

"I'll tell you how, _Herr_," she exclaimed triumphantly. "Every bead
you count----"

But at that moment he leant back in his chair, and the ring slipped
through his fingers on to the floor.

Regina started up and hurried round the table to pick it up, but could
not find it.

"The earth seems to have swallowed it up," she said in alarm, and she
dropped on to all fours close by Boleslav's side.

He saw the nape of her beautiful neck with its fringe of crisp, dark
curls, gleaming near his knee. His heart began to beat, a cold shiver
thrilled through his limbs. He stared down on her with a fixed smile.

"Here it is!" she exclaimed, and raised herself into a kneeling
position to hand him the treasured bauble.

He lifted his hand. He felt as if some occult power had lifted it for
him, and that it weighed hundreds of pounds. Then with a timid,
caressing touch he laid it on her cheek.

She drew back trembling. A great light swam in her eyes, that rested on
him in dreamy inquiry. His arm sank heavily to his side.

"Thank you," he murmured hoarsely.

She went back to her place, and there was a profound stillness. It
seemed to him that he had committed a crime, and that every moment of
silence between them made it worse. He must force himself to speak.

"What was I asking you? Ah! to be sure. Who taught you to sew?"

She had unthreaded her needle, and was trying hard to pull the cotton
through the eye again. But the small glittering shaft oscillated
between her unsteady fingers like a reed shaken by the wind.

"I learnt at the parsonage, _Herr_," she replied. "Helene had a
class----" She paused, embarrassed, for at the sound of the beloved
name, which he heard for the first time from her lips--such lips--he
winced as if from the lash of a whip. She took his excitement for
anger, and added apologetically, "I mean the Pastor's daughter."

"Never mind," he said, controlling himself with difficulty. "Go to bed
now."

That night Boleslav fought a severe battle with himself. He felt as if
his ideal of exalted purity had been polluted since his eyes had rested
with favour on this abandoned woman. And he himself was polluted too by
that involuntary caress.

It was absolutely necessary to regain his peace of mind and purity. He
must come to some distinct understanding with Helene without delay, in
order that he might be strengthened in his struggle against his
treacherous senses and benumbing doubt.

So urgent did it seem that his resolutions should at once be put into
force, that he rose in the middle of the night, and by the glimmer of
his night-light wrote to Helene assuring her of his undying love and
eternal devotion, and imploring her to make some sign to show that she
stood by him in trouble as she had once done in happiness, so that he
might know for certain it was worth while his continuing to wage for
her sake the fight against such enormous odds. With every line he
wrote, his anxiety lessened, and when he lay down in his bed again, he
felt that, through bracing his energies for the task, he had relieved
himself of a load of care that had long heavily oppressed him.

"Can you undertake, Regina," he asked the next evening, "to deliver
this letter unseen to the _Fräulein_ at the parsonage?"

She regarded him for a second with wide eyes, then looking down, she
murmured, "Yes, _Herr_."

"But supposing they attack you down in the village?"

"Pah! What do I care for _them_?" she exclaimed, shrugging her
shoulders contemptuously, as she always did when the villagers were in
question.

Soon afterwards he saw her glide by the window like a shadow and
disappear in the gloaming.

Hours passed. She did not return. He began to reproach himself for
having engaged her in his amatory mission when her life was at stake.

At last, towards midnight, he heard the front door latch click.

She appeared on the threshold with chattering teeth, blue with cold,
the letter still grasped in her cramped fingers.

He made her sit down by the stove, and gave her Spanish wine to
drink--and gradually she found her voice.

"I have been lying all this time in the snow under the parsonage
hedge," she said, "but there was no possibility of getting at her. Just
now she put the light out in her bedroom, so I came home. But don't be
vexed, _Herr_. Perhaps I shall have better luck to-morrow."

He wouldn't hear of her repeating the adventure, but when she came to
him the following evening equipped for her walk, he did not forbid her
to go.

This time she came back with glowing cheeks, panting for breath. Two
peasants on their way home from the Black Eagle had seen her and given
chase.

"But to-morrow, _Herr_, to-morrow, I shall succeed."

She was right. More breathless than the evening before, but radiant
with delight, she came into the room, and stood at the door, stretching
out two empty hands in triumph.

"Thank God," he thought, "that I shan't have to send her a fourth time
on a fool's errand."

In joyous excitement she told him all about it. Sultan, the big dog in
the kennel, knew her; and as a hostage she had taken him a bone, then
he had permitted her to stand at the back door and look through the
keyhole. She had seen Helene standing at the great store-cupboard. "I
knew that Helene,--I mean the pastor's Fräulein,--went to the
store-cupboard every night to put out coffee and oatmeal for the
morning," she explained, "and sure enough I just timed her right, for
there was her candle flickering in my face, and she standing within
three steps of me----"

He gave a deep sigh. Happy creature! She had _seen_ her!

I opened the back door very softly, and called, 'Helene, Fräulein
Helene!' And when she caught sight of me, she screamed and let the
candle fall. 'Helene,' I said, 'I am not going to hurt you. Here is a
letter from Junker Boleslav.'

"She trembled so, she could hardly take the letter out of my hand. And
then she shrieked in horror, 'Go! Go _at once_!' And almost before I
could tell her about the letter-box on the drawbridge, she had slammed
the door and bolted it in my face. Ah, dear God!" she added with a
melancholy little smile. "I am used to being treated in that way, but
she might have been kinder because I brought a message from _you_!"

He leant his head on his hands. Helene's conduct gave him food for
meditation. Of course her reception of her fallen playmate was in every
way excusable. No wonder that her chaste and maidenly soul revolted at
the sight of this unfortunate girl!

Every day Regina now ran down to the drawbridge to peep into the
letter-box that was fastened to a pillar there, to see if there was an
answer from Helene. But the letter-box remained empty; and Boleslav's
brighter mood soon clouded again. He became more bitter and defiant
than ever, and a prey to tormenting reflections. In his pride he would
not allow that he had been spurned by the woman he loved; yet it was
hardly any longer a matter for doubt that she wished in no way to be
associated with him in his dishonour. He saw his great plans for the
future fall in ruins in this abandonment of hope of winning the love of
his youth.

Many days went by before he roused himself from this fresh
depression--it was not till the feverish unrest of waiting had subsided
that he slowly recovered his calmness and fortitude.

Then he threw himself with renewed energy into the search for proofs of
his father's innocence. The evidence was contradictory and confused.
Letters in which his father was referred to as the staunchest of
Prussian patriots were counterbalanced by others in which he was
addressed as the pioneer of Polish liberty. That might possibly have
been a mere figure of flattering speech, designed to win over the
vacillating nobleman, but to make it public would be once more putting
the deceased's reputation in the pillory.

During these disheartening investigations of the truth, his only
refreshment was the evening hours in which Regina's presence gave him
something else to think about. So soon as she came and sat down
opposite him he felt a curious satisfaction mingled with uneasiness.
Sometimes, before she made her appearance, and he with bowed head
listened to the sounds that came from her kitchen, he would be suddenly
seized with anxiety, and feel as if he must jump up and call out, "Stay
where you are! Don't come!" And yet, when she walked into the room he
breathed more freely. "It is loneliness that attracts me to her," he
often told himself. "She has a human face and a human voice."

As she sat over her work silently putting in stitch after stitch, he
would pretend to be napping, and with closed eyes listen to the rise
and fall of her breath. It was a full, slow, muffled sound, which fell
on his ear like suppressed music. It resembled the ebbing and flowing
of an ocean of restrained life and energy. After she had been sitting
for a long time in a stooping attitude she would suddenly straighten
herself, and stretch her arms with closed fingers over the sides of the
chair, till the curve of her bosom stood out in powerful grandeur, and
threatened to burst its bonds. It was as if from time to time she was
obliged to become conscious of the fulness of life that pulsated and
throbbed within her.

Then she resumed her old attitude and quietly sewed on.

It lasted all too short a time. These hours spent in her society had
unconsciously become dear to him, and almost indispensable. The lamp
seemed to give a brighter light since its rays fell on that pile of
shining white linen; the hand of the clock accelerated its pace now he
was not always looking at it to hurry it onwards. The wind that used to
howl and whistle so dismally in the branches of the trees now murmured
soft lullabies, and even the laths in the rotten roof cracked less
ominously. He dreaded the evenings when at dusk she started on her
journey to Bockeldorf, and more than once had meditated accompanying
her.

But in their relations, that had become so friendly, there was one
blot, and the knowledge of it pierced him at times like a poisonous
arrow. Often, after he had been watching her in silence, he was
tormented with a desire to penetrate into the secrets of her past, and
to cross-examine her on the subject of her intercourse with the dead.
For long he kept back the questions that burned on the tip of his
tongue, feeling that little good could come of asking them; but at last
he felt driven to speak.

"She is the only living witness of the catastrophe," he thought;
"what's more, the only accomplice. She alone can give authentic
information."

And one evening he broke the silence which had been so enjoyable to
both, with a brusque demand that she should tell him all she knew.

She changed colour, and dropped her hands in her lap.

"You'll only be angry with me again, _Herr_," she stammered.

"Do as I bid you."

She still hesitated. "It's ... so long ago," she whispered piteously,
"and I don't know how to tell things."

"But you can at least answer questions."

Then she resigned herself to fate.

"Who was it that first suggested to you the midnight sortie?"

"The _gnädiger Herr_."

He clenched his teeth. "When and how?"

"The _gnädiger Herr_ ordered me to wait at table. The great candelabra,
that was hardly ever lit as a rule, was burning, and shone on the gold
uniforms of the French officers, and it was all so dazzling I felt
quite giddy when I carried the soup into the hall. They all laughed and
pointed at me, and spoke in French, which I didn't understand."

"How many were there?"

"Five, and one with grey hair, who was the General, and had the most
gold on his coat; and when I brought him the soup he caught hold of me
round the waist, and I put the plate down on his finger and pinched it.
Then they all laughed again, and the _gnädiger Herr_ said, 'Don't be so
clumsy, Regina.' I felt so ashamed and vexed at his saying that that I
said, quite loud, I didn't see why I should wait if I was only to be
scolded for it. Then they laughed louder than ever, and the General
began to speak German, like little children speak it. 'You are a
plucky, pretty little girl,' he said; and the _gnädiger Herr_ told him
I was a girl who might prove useful to him and them all--or something
of the kind. And when I brought in the liqueur at the end of dinner, he
drew me down to him and whispered in my ear. I was to go to him in the
night."

He started up. "And you went?"

She cast down her eyes.

"Ah, _Herr_," she said imploringly, "why do you ask me? I wish you
wouldn't. I had often done it before, and I saw no harm in it then."

He felt his blood boiling.

"How old were you at that time?"

"Fifteen."

"And so corrupt--so----" His voice died away in wrath.

She cast an unspeakably sad and reproachful glance at him.

"I knew you'd be angry," she said, "but I can't make myself out better
than I am."

"Continue your story," he cried.

"And when I went to him at midnight he was still up, striding round the
table, and he asked me if I should like to earn a great sum of money.
'Of course, _gnädiger Herr_,' I said, 'I should like it very much,' for
then I was very poor. Whereupon he asked me if I was afraid of the
dark. I laughed, and said he ought to know best; and after a few more
questions it came out what he wanted me to do. Could I be trusted to
show the French the way over the Cats' Bridge and through the wood in
an hour? I began to cry, for the French had behaved dreadfully since
they had been quartered in the Castle, running after and insulting all
the servant-girls, and I was afraid they might insult me too."

"Oh, you were afraid of that, were you?" he interposed with a
contemptuous smile.

"Yes; and I told the _gnädiger Herr_ nothing would induce me to do it.
But then he became terribly angry, and thumped me on the shoulders till
I sank on my knees, and he cried out that I was an ungrateful hussy,
and that he would have me sent back to the village in disgrace, and
would tell the Herr Pastor what sort of a wench I was, and he would
make me confess and do penance; and then he took me by the throat, and
when he had almost throttled me, and I could scarcely draw a breath,
then, _then_ ..."

"Say no more," interrupted Boleslav; and seizing the letters that were
to establish his father's innocence, he tore them to pieces.




                              CHAPTER XII


The next morning he took one of the guns out of the case, and wandered
into the snowy forest. He tramped about the whole day without meeting a
single human creature. The deer and hares were left in peace, for he
stared beyond them into vacancy. At dusk he turned his footsteps
homewards, dispirited and worn out.

He saw Regina standing like a statue on the Cats' Bridge looking out
for him. At first she looked as if she intended to run and meet him,
but she changed her mind, and took the path to the house, smiling and
murmuring to herself as she went.

But when she brought in his meal she was as silent as usual. He sat
without looking at her till a sound like a short convulsive sob roused
him from his reverie.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked.

Without answering, she ran out of the room.

He made a movement as if he were about to follow her; then set his
teeth and sat down again. A dull resentment devoured him. He could not
forgive her for depriving him of the illusion on which for weeks he had
been building so many vague hopes.

Now there was nothing for it but to drink the cup of degradation to the
dregs, no matter how bitter the bottom might taste.

In a little while Regina appeared again, in her outdoor things.

"You wish to go out to-night, then?" he asked harshly.

She kept her head half averted, so that he should not see she had red
eyes.

"To-morrow is Christmas, _Herr_--the holy feast day; and the grocer
says that on Christmas night he would rather not be disturbed."

Christmas! holy feast! How strange and like a fairy tale that sounded.
Then there was still rejoicing and festivity going on in the world!
People still joined hands and frolicked round glittering fir-tree!

"You wish to get your Christmas presents, I suppose, Regina?" he
inquired, smiling bitterly.

"Oh no, _Herr_," she replied. "That has never been the custom here.
Besides, now I should take no pleasure in such things."

"Why not?"

She hesitated, and then said in some embarrassment, "Let me go,
_Herr_."

"I have a great deal to ask you yet, Regina."

"Please, not now, else----"

"Very well, go."

"Good-night, _Herr_."

"Good-night." Then he called her back. "Tell me first, what did that
sob mean just now."

A ray of half-ashamed happiness shone in the eyes that were swollen
from weeping.

"Can't you guess, _Herr_?"

He shook his head.

"I had been so anxious about you. I thought perhaps you weren't coming
back, and then when you did----" She turned and fled through the door.
Her footsteps died away in the night....

The following morning Boleslav was awakened by a great rushing and
roaring that had for some time mingled with his dreams. A terrific
storm was raging. The topmost branches of the poplars lashed each other
in fury. Huge white clouds were swept along the ground, but the air was
clear. Another fall of snow seemed improbable. To-day he could not rest
in the desolate, cold little house, and went out to wrestle with the
elements.

"She will have a bad time of it," he thought, as the north wind hurled
in his face a shower of fine icicles that pricked like needles and
almost took his breath away. In the wood it was more sheltered. There
the tempest crashed and crunched in the tops of the trees, seeming to
vent all its fury on them. He walked on, not knowing where he was
going, and then found himself on the road to Bockeldorf.

"It looks as if I were running after her," he murmured, chiding
himself; and he struck into the pathless thicket.

He thought how remarkable it was that this degraded being should creep
so much into his thoughts. Of course it was because he had been thrown
with her day after day, and depended upon her entirely for human
society. Yet he was alarmed, for he realised now, perhaps more than he
had ever done before, how he felt himself every day more drawn towards
her, and how much there was in her that began to appear comprehensible,
excusable, and even noble, that once had only seemed to testify to her
innate coarseness, and repelled him from her in disgust.

But without a doubt contact with her was doing him no good. She was
drawing him down into the slough of her own worthless existence.

Something must be done. Above all, it was necessary to stand in less
familiar relations with her, to repress her, and lower her again to her
old position of humble and despised servant-girl. The festival of
Christmas was a good opportunity of paying her off with a loan, the
handsomeness of which would discharge his obligations to her for all
time. With a stroke of the pen he would provide for her future, and
thereby purchase the right to regard her as what she actually was--his
humble dependant and menial. She should give him her company to-day for
the last time. She had not yet finished her evidence, and as he had
once broken the ice he might as well know everything. Of those two
awful nights of guilt and shame, in which she had been a witness of
bloodshed and arson, he would hear the worst.

"And then when she has confessed all," he said to himself, "she shall
keep to her green-house, which is her proper place, even if she has to
burn all the timber in the park to prevent herself from freezing."

It was not seemly that in this solitude he should associate so much
with her, and he made up his mind to put an end to the intimacy once
for all.

A hare crossed his path and turned his thoughts into another channel.
He aimed and hit it. The little animal rotated three times, and then
lay motionless on its nose.

"She will be pleased," he thought, as he slung his booty over his
shoulder. Ah! there he was thinking of her again already.

The sky meanwhile had clouded. A sharp shower of prickly white flakes
cut through the trees; a wild hiss now mingled with the roar of the
wind that made him shiver involuntarily in every limb. By aid of his
compass he found the way home. When he entered the open fields the
snow-storm was in full swing. He could scarcely stand against it. The
air was dark with the falling masses of snow. There was not a trace
visible of the shrubs in the park only three hundred feet away.

"It's to be hoped she's got home," he thought, as he struggled on.

Freshly fallen snow lay thick on the Cats' Bridge; there were no
footprints in it, but they might easily have been obliterated.

With a sinking heart, he ran to the house and called her by name, but
got no answer. The hearth was unswept, the fire out, the beds unmade as
he had left them.

She had been overtaken by the storm, that she feared more than she
feared the Schrandeners. A torturing uneasiness took possession of him.
He rushed from one room to the other, lit the fire and extinguished it
again, tried to eat, and then threw down his knife and fork
impatiently. It struck him as ludicrous that he should be so anxious.
Had she not for six winters gone backwards and forwards in wind and
rain and snow, and never yet met with an accident? Why should anything
happen to her to-day? To kill time he sat down to his desk, and with
numb fingers made out a cheque. The sum amounted to three figures.
Regina ought to be satisfied.

Darkness set in. The hand of the clock pointed to three, and yet it was
already like night. He could contain himself indoors no longer. He
would at least go as far as the Cats' Bridge and see if there was any
sign of her. To prevent the wind pitching him over, he was obliged to
hold on with all his might to the balustrade. The rickety woodwork
shook in all its joints. On the ice beneath him danced a maze of spiral
patterns; lily-stems grew upwards and sank again in heaps of white
dust, which in their turn were whirled away to make room for other
fantastic forms. The Madonna's garden rose for a moment and then
vanished; for a figure drew nearer and nearer out of the twilight,
casting its shadow before it.

"Regina, thank God!"

He was on the point of rushing to meet her, when he was overcome with a
sensation of shame that paralysed his limbs and drove the blood to his
heart.

On this very spot where he now waited for her, she had yesterday waited
for him; looking out into the dusk because she had not been able to
rest for anxiety about him, just as to-day he could not rest for
anxiety about her.

For a moment he felt a strong inclination to dive behind the bushes, so
that she should not see him; but the next he was ashamed of being
ashamed, and stepped forward to meet her on the Cats' Bridge.

"You have had a bad time of it, Regina," he called out; and tried to
relieve her of the sack she carried on her back.

But she quickly dodged him, holding out her elbows in protest. She was
muffled to the eyes in shawls, and could not speak. They walked to the
door in silence. On the threshold she turned and tore the wraps from
her face.

"I have a favour to ask, _Herr_," she said breathlessly.

"Well, what is it?"

"Would you mind staying out another half-hour, or going into the
kitchen, so that I can warm the room and tidy up a little?"

"But you must rest first."

"Not now, _Herr_, if you don't mind."

And she went in, letting her burdens fall to the floor in the darkness.

"She may bustle about in there for a few minutes if she likes," he
thought; and turned to look for a temporary shelter among the ruins.

Warm air ascended from the cellars. He struck a light, and went down
the slippery steps. He felt curiously light-hearted almost, as if
Christmas had brought him joy.

The rows of wine-bottles with their red and green labels peeped at him
festively from their places.

"She shall not forget it's Christmas," he said, smiling; and drew from
the farthest niche where the treasure of treasures was stored, two or
three bottles covered with dust and cobwebs. In these reposed a nectar
which had not seen the light since an eighteenth-century sun had shone
on it.

His latest resolution occurred to him. Of course, he had not meant to
put it into force till to-morrow--not on Christmas evening, when people
consort together, who at other times are not congenial to each other.
On Christmas evening no one ought to be lonely and sorrowful.

Obedient to Regina's wishes, he patrolled the ruins for half-an-hour
beneath a roof of sparkling icicles. Then he put the bottles under his
arm, and staggered out into the stormy night.

As he approached his dwelling, he saw with amazement that the shutters
were closed, a thing that had never happened before. His first thought
was that the storm had penetrated the chinks, but on nearer view be
learnt they were still weatherproof. Not till he stood in the vestibule
did he find a happy solution to the problem. Regina met him beaming,
and half-ashamed, and threw the parlour door wide open. Astounded at
what he saw, he remained rooted to the spot. He was greeted by a
festive shimmer of candles and a fragrant odour of firs. In the centre
of the dining-table, covered with its pure white cloth, stood a
Christmas tree, adorned with wax tapers and gilded apples. The whole
apartment was brilliantly illuminated.

Never in his life before had a Christmas tree been lit for _him_. Only
from the thresholds of strangers had he sometimes looked on with dim
eyes at strangers' happiness. And where was Regina? She had retreated
behind him, and stood in the remotest corner of the vestibule, watching
him with shy yet proud delight.

He took hold of her hand and led her into the room.

"Who put it into your head, child?" he asked.

"The grocer's wife was trimming her Christmas tree when I got there at
three o'clock, and I thought it so pretty I said to myself, _he_ shall
have his tree too, and shall know that there is at least one person to
think of him. I asked her to show me how to gild apples, and gilded a
supply while I was there, and bought the lights and got a sack to put
the tree in, so that you shouldn't see it."

"And who gave you the tree?"

"I cut it down myself at the edge of the forest not far from here."

"In the middle of this storm?"

She laughed contemptuously. "A little wind wouldn't hinder me, _Herr_,"
And then with a sudden outburst of joyous ecstasy, she exclaimed, "Oh,
just look, _Herr_, how beautifully it burns! How pious it looks. Hasn't
it really a sort of pious face, as if an angel had brought it?"

He assented, laughing, and expressed his thanks in a few words of
forced condescension, for he was afraid of being too gracious.

But she was more than satisfied. "Why should you thank me, _Herr_?" she
asked reproachfully. "It's all bought with your money. I have none. I'm
only a poor girl. Else, ah, else--" She threw up her hands and clasped
them above her head.

The cheque came into his mind. "This is to show you," he said, handing
it to her, "that I have thought of your Christmas too."

She looked at him in bewilderment. "Am I to read it?" she asked,
respectfully taking the piece of paper between two of her fingers.
After studying it carefully, she still looked perplexed.

"Don't you understand what it is?" he asked.

"Oh yes--I understand ... But to begin with, you can't be in earnest.
And even if you are, ... what good is it to me?"

"It will provide for your future."

"My future is provided for.... I have all I want. Good food, ... and I
am dressed like a lady. What can I possibly want besides?"

"But we may not go on living always together like this."

She gave a cry of dismay. "Are you thinking of packing me off, _Herr_?"
she asked with tightly clasped hands.

"Not now. But suppose I were to die."

She shook her head meditatively. "I should die too," she said.

"Or I might have to go to the war again?"

"Then I should go with you as a vivandière."

Her persistence annoyed him. "Do as you like," he said, "only take what
I give you."

A bright idea seemed to occur to her.

"All right, _Herr_," she exclaimed, "I'll take it, only next Christmas
I shall buy you something with it, that will be worth having." And
happy at the thought, she scampered away.

The Christmas-tree had burnt out. It stood now dark and neglected in
the corner by the stove, only occasionally casting a glimmer from its
golden fruit on the table where master and servant sat opposite each
other.

Regina had been accorded permission to take her supper with him this
evening, and had been too overcome to swallow a mouthful. She was
almost stunned with this great and unexpected pleasure.

Now the dishes were cleared away, and only bottles and glasses stood
between them. She drank, thoughtlessly, of the old fire-kindling wine
in long immoderate draughts. Her face began to glow. The pupils of her
brilliant eyes seemed to melt beneath their drooping lids. She rocked
to and fro on her chair. A wild abandon had relaxed her in every limb.

"Are you tired, Regina?"

She shook her head impatiently. For once her constraint in his presence
had disappeared. There was something even approaching audacity in the
brilliancy of her glance as she turned it on him from time to time. She
was intoxicated with happiness. He too felt the wine flame up in him;
and his eyes were riveted on her figure, which swayed before him with
the graceful motions of a Mænad.

All the time the tempest raged outside. It whistled in the chimney and
hurled a rattling fusilade against the window shutters. There was a
grinding and crunching among the rafters of the roof, which sounded as
if the mouldy wood were collapsing.

"I am afraid something will be blown down," he said as he listened.

"Maybe," she answered with a dreamy smile, huddling herself together.
And then she began to babble in a fragmentary but quite unrestrained
fashion. "Perhaps it isn't good for me, _Herr_," she said, "that you
are so kind to me. All my life I have never got anything but blows and
abuse--first from my father, then from him, not to mention other
people. But if you spoil me, _Herr_, I shall get proud--and pride is a
great vice, I have heard the Pastor say--I shall begin to think I'm a
princess who needn't earn her bread."

She burst into a peal of wild laughter, and let her arms fall to her
sides. Then in a low tone, as if conversing with herself, she went on--

"Sometimes I do wonder if I am only a servant. I often feel really as
if I were some enchanted princess, and you, _Herr_, the knight who is
to deliver me. Will you be the knight?"

She blinked at him over her wine-glass. He nodded in friendly
acquiescence. Let her revel in her strange fancies. It was Christmas.

"There have been cases," she continued, "in which princesses have been
turned into quite common sluts. They have had stones thrown at them,
and been spat at, and men have called after them, 'Strike her down, the
dirty slut!' And all the time they were princesses in disguise."

"Do you believe in fairy tales, then?" he asked, wondering.

She laughed to herself. "Not exactly, _Herr_. But when one passes so
many hours alone, and has to take long solitary walks as I have, one
must think. And when the rain beats down, and the wind blows.... Hark
at it now, what a to-do it's making.... Think of me tramping along in
this--and I have often been out when it's as bad, but I've never lost
my way. And sometimes, when I come into the wood, I have asked myself,
'Which would you rather be? A queen sitting on a golden throne, or the
Catholics' Holy Virgin, who had our dear Lord and Saviour for her
little boy; or would you rather be the devil's grandmother, and bury
all the Schrandeners in a manure-heap; or a noble lady and----" She
paused.

"And?" he queried.

She drew herself up, and laughed in embarrassment.

"I can't tell you that--it is too silly. But I had only to choose which
I'd be. And as I march along through the night shadows, I often imagine
I am one or other, till all of a sudden I find myself in Bockeldorf,
just as if I'd flown there--often I think I am flying. Ah! things do
happen in real life, after all, very much the same as in the fairy
tales. Don't you think so, _Herr_?"

He contemplated her with curiosity and wonder, as if he had never seen
her before. And truly it was the first time he had looked into her
secret soul. Now, when her tongue was loosened by wine, much was
revealed in her that before he had either not observed or not
understood.

"Blissful creature!" he murmured.

"Am I?" she replied, boldly planting her elbows on the table, and
regarding him with an expression of joyous inquiry. "You mean, because
I'm sitting here with you drinking wine and being treated as if I were
human? Oh! it's exactly like being in heaven.... Do you think I shall
ever go to heaven?... I don't. I am far too wicked!... And I think,
too, I should be afraid to go there. It must be much livelier in
hell.... I should be more at home there. The Herr Pastor often said I
was like a little devil, and I never fretted about it. Why should I? It
seemed quite natural that I should be the little devil and Helene the
angel. An excellent arrangement.... Didn't Helene, _Herr_, look just
like an angel in the flesh? So pink and white and delicate, with her
blue eyes and folded hands. And she always wore ... a pretty ribbon ...
round her neck ... and smelt always of ... rose-scented soap...."

A cold shiver passed through him. He felt it was degrading both to
himself and the beloved to allow this half-tipsy girl to speak of her
as if she were an equal.

"Stop!" he demanded hoarsely.

She only answered him with a dreamy smile. Wine and fatigue suddenly
overpowered her. She lay stretched out, her head thrown back on the arm
of the chair, and fought against sleep, like a Bacchante exhausted
after a whirl of dissipation.

A great anger, that rose and fell within him like the sound of the
storm outside, mastered him.

"This is what wine does," he thought, and yet drank more.

He wanted to wake her, to send her out, but he could not tear his eyes
away from her face, and by degrees he became gentler again.

"She meant no harm," he thought, as he moved nearer to where she lay.
"This is the last time she will sit here with me; to-morrow a new leaf
will be turned. After to-morrow she shall find in me nothing but the
master."

Then he remembered all he had wanted to ask her.

"Well, never mind," he said to himself, "it can't be helped. Why spoil
her Christmas? Some other time will do."

The hurricane without seemed to have increased in fury. It roared
through the keyholes, and battered the shutters. How brutally cruel it
was to drive her out to sleep in a greenhouse on a night like this! But
what was the use of being compassionate when it had to be done?

"Regina!" he shouted, and tapped her on the shoulder. At that moment
there was a terrific thundering crash, that made the walls tremble as
from a shock of earthquake. Regina screamed loud in her sleep and tried
to grasp his hand, then sank back again into her old position. He went
out to see what was the cause of the noise. Nothing had fallen in the
vestibule, but on opening the door of the greenhouse snow drifted in
his face just as if he had walked into the open air. All round was inky
darkness. He went back to fetch his lantern. It shed its light on a
scene of ruin that exceeded his worst expectations. Regina's little
kingdom, from which she had ruled and regulated the ménage so
unostentatiously, had seemingly been dispersed to the four winds of
heaven. The roof was blown off, and had torn up part of the wall with
it. Between the hearth and the door was a barricade of snow as tall as
himself, riddled with bricks, beams, and splinters of glass.

What was to be done now? Where was Regina to sleep? Should he too let
her lie like a dog on his threshold? No! rather would he turn out into
the ruins himself, and seek a couch down in the cellar. It was
imperative to act at once, and there was only one thing to be done. He
drew Regina's bedding out of the snow, shook it thoroughly till not a
flake remained hanging to it, and then dragged it into his room.
Beneath the shadow of the Christmas-tree in the corner by the stove he
made up a bed on the boards.

Regina slept peacefully, her face illumined by the light from the oil
lamp. He came close to her, shook and called her by name; but nothing
could wake her. At last he lifted her up, to carry her to the bed.

She gave a deep sigh, encircled his neck with her arms, and let her
head sink on his shoulder.

His heart beat faster. The fair body in the first bloom of its superb
young womanhood, gave him a sensation of fear and uneasiness as it
unconsciously rested on him. He half carried, half trailed her across
the room. Her warm breath fanned his face, her hair swept his throat.

As he let her sink on her mattress she raised her arms, with a gesture
of longing, in the air, and pulled down the little fir-tree. He drew it
from under her, and then placed it as a screen and sentinel between
himself and her. "To-morrow I'll rig up a partition," he thought. Then
he undressed and went to bed.

The night-light burnt out, but there was no thought of sleep for him.
The tempest still raged, and spent its fury on the locks and bolts.
Boleslav heeded it not. While he listened to the sleeping woman's
breath, his own fell on the night, in heavily-drawn, anxious gasps.




                              CHAPTER XIII


"_To His Lordship, Baron Boleslav_
      _von Schranden, of Castle Schranden_.

"_Your Hochwohlgeboren is requested to appear in person on January 3rd,
anni futuri, at two o'clock in the afternoon, at Herr Merckel's
official residence, and to bring the requisite papers relating to your
Hochwohlgeboren's attachment, or non-attachment, to the Prussian
Landwehr._

           "(Signed) Royal Landrath V. Krotkeim,
                       _Representative of Military Affairs
                                  for the District_."

Boleslav found this communication in the drawbridge letter-box on New
Year's morning. The threatening nature of its contents did not at once
strike him; he was only staggered at the authorities taking the trouble
to investigate his case. He had resolved, on again adopting his
father's name, to let the waters of oblivion close over Lieutenant
Baumgart. He had discharged his duty to his country unconditionally;
bolder and more self-sacrificing than thousands of others, he had gone
to face death. Now that there was peace, and he had taken a great
burden of inherited guilt on his shoulders, he had wished to avoid
being involved in any way with official red-tapism.

Only gradually did he realise the new dangers that were gathering on
his horizon. Pride in his past as a soldier, afforded him the one prop
and stay in his present ruined life, and he felt that slipping from
under his feet. He stood defenceless in face of imminent peril. It
would need only a little _malice prepense_ to make him out a deserter
from the flag, and the fact of his having borne a false name would go
far to establish his guilt.

The son of Baron von Schranden had no reason to hope that justice would
be tempered with mercy in his case. He would also have no reason to
complain of harsh measures, if he were put under arrest on the spot,
and brought before a court-martial of the standing branch of his
regiment.

For a moment he entertained thoughts of flight, but afterwards thrust
the idea from him in scorn. He had too often valued his life cheaply,
to now think seriously of stealing into Poland to end his wretched
career in safety.

But what would become of Regina?

At the thought of her, his heart smote him. She had no suspicion of the
new troubles with which he was encompassed. Since Christmas night he
had not addressed a single word to her that was not absolutely
necessary, and even then his voice had been imperious and severe. The
thought of her now seemed interwoven with a presentiment of coming
calamity, which oppressed him like a nightmare.

At night he tossed about restlessly among his pillows. She never
stirred in her corner. Apparently she fell asleep the moment she lay
down. But her soft, quick, regular breathing was sometimes broken by a
sigh. Perhaps, after all, she was not sleeping, but watching,
listening, as he listened....

And then the day dawned on which Boleslav's fate was to be decided.
Towards morning he had fallen into an uneasy sleep, and was first
awakened by the smoke that poured into the room from the vestibule,
where he had erected a temporary fireplace, which would have to do as a
makeshift till milder weather made the repairing of the glass root
practicable. It was a clear, frosty morning. The sunshine jewelled the
hoar-frost on the twigs, and dark purple shadows crept along the
dazzling sheets of snow.

He spent the morning in arranging his papers. All that was compromising
to his father's memory should be destroyed, for were he put under
arrest, as seemed likely, strangers' hands would meddle in this vortex.
He held the sorted letters in his hand ready to burn in the stove, when
he thought better of it. If he really were serious in his intentions of
bearing his father's guilt, he ought to conceal or destroy nothing in
order to lighten the burden. It was not worth while purchasing truth
with falsehood. Rather die in disgrace, than live in honour founded on
lies and deceit.

When Regina brought him his midday meal he vacillated an instant, as to
whether he should tell her all or nothing. But he shrank from a
touching scene, and decided on the latter course. A letter would serve
the same purpose. So he wrote: "If I am not back at dusk, probably you
will have difficulty in seeing me again. Inquire at the Landrath's
office in Wartenstein. There they will tell you what has become of me.
I advise you to leave Schranden at once. The draft I gave you will
supply your wants. What else remains shall all be yours later.
Good-bye, and accept my thanks."

He left the note in a conspicuous place, so that, when she cleared
away, she would find it. He was in a hard and embittered mood, and in
no humour for a sentimental farewell.

But as he passed Regina in the vestibule where she was occupied with
the fire, he felt a strong impulse to press her hand. For her sake, as
much as for his own, he went out without giving her a word or a look. A
group of staring louts, who appeared to be waiting for him, were
loafing near the drawbridge. When they saw him coming, they ran off
helter-skelter with loud exclamations, to the inn.

"My heralds," he said, and laughed.

Long before the stated hour the parlour of the Black Eagle could not
hold all the customers that poured in, anxious to secure a foremost
place for the proceedings. There was an overflow that extended as far
as the churchyard square. Every one was eager to witness with his own
eyes the final degradation of the last of the Barons of Schranden.

Three months had passed since the petition had been sent to the
judicial authorities of the province, and even the most zealous
patriots had begun to despair of its producing any results. Then at
last had come the delightful intimation from the office of the
Landrath, that a day had been appointed to wind up the case of the
Crown _v_. Schranden, _alias_ Baumgart, and the presence of the
petitioners was urgently requested at the inquiry.

The Schrandeners had armed themselves in a way worthy of the occasion.
For three days they had been busy polishing up their accoutrements.
Those among the disbanded Landwehr-men who still possessed their
_Litewka_ had donned it, and pikes and sabres were seen in the crowd.
Possibly they might be called upon to help in an instantaneous
administration of justice.

The Landrath's sleigh had entered the village at one o'clock, and, as
was customary, put up at the parsonage stable, where Herr Merckel and
his son stood ready to welcome the high functionary. There was no
gendarme on the box, which greatly mystified the Schrandeners. But
perhaps the services of one were not required when they could be
depended on to despatch the criminal at the first signal.

Shortly before two, the Landrath, accompanied by the old pastor, left
the parsonage and entered the inn by a side door, where Herr Merckel,
senior, again was to the fore to receive him, while Felix slouched in
the background, piqued at not being treated with what he considered
sufficient respect by the civilian.

The Landrath von Krotkeim was a tall, extremely slender man, whose
hoary leonine head rose with great effect from his contracted, sloping
shoulders. There was something awe-inspiring in its pose. He wore, in
defiance of the fashion of the period, long whiskers, which flowed
behind his ears, mingling with his thick iron-grey mane.

His part in the formation of defences for the Fatherland had been an
important and distinguished one. Two years before he had sat as a
deputy for the knighthood in the famous _Land-tag_ to which Germany
owed the foundation of the Landwehr. He had hailed old York with
cheers, and helped to draw up the address to the King. Afterwards he
had hastened back to his native place to set the organisation on foot,
and had achieved results which made his district the brilliant model
that excited the admiring emulation of the whole country. Then arose
those marauders attendant on success, vanity and egoism. What at first
had been a labour of noble disinterestedness, gradually degenerated
into a peg for self-advertisement and a means of memorialising his own
fame. For the rest, and long before the treachery of the Cats' Bridge
incident had been generally made known to the world, Herr von Krotkeim
had by repute been a bitter enemy of the house of Schranden. To hope
any favour at his hands would therefore be over-sanguine indeed. But
Boleslav had abandoned hope of any kind as he entered the square in
front of the church. He advanced composed, and almost indifferent,
towards the crowd that formed a cordon round the inn. He had, on his
way, cast one shy glance at the parsonage, where in a window he fancied
he had seen a fair face which withdrew into shadow directly he smiled
up at it. He was received by a murmur of malignant tongues, but the
cordon let him through, understanding enough to know that, without him,
the game they were anticipating with such keen relish could not be
played.

At the entrance to the best parlour, he stood face to face with the
great man with the lion's mane, on either side of whom sat the old
pastor and Herr Merckel. Felix lounged in the window-sill, trying to
assume an air of nonchalance. He now considered his former playmate too
inferior an object on which even to bestow his hate. But the old
landlord greeted Boleslav with a benign smile. Had he come there with
the purpose of treating every one present to a bottle of the celebrated
Muscat wine, the smile could not have been more smugly servile.

Lightning-flashes irradiated from beneath the prominent brows of the
old pastor, and the Landrath sat coolly contemplating his fingers,
which were white and bony as a skeleton's. Boleslav felt his bosom
swell proudly. "His hand against every man; every man's hand against
him." It was the old story!

A voice from the crowd hiccoughed out some unflattering remark. The
Schrandeners received it with laughter.

"It's the poor father, the unhappy father," old Merckel whispered to
the Landrath, with a melancholy elevation of his eyebrows.

"As you have summoned me here," exclaimed Boleslav, "I demand your
protection from the insults of the mob!"

The Landrath drooped his eyelids and bowed.

"Silence, dear people!" he commanded, stroking his clean-shaven chin,
and then he added, "I shall have any person who makes a disturbance
ejected."

He consulted a green portfolio that lay spread before him on the table.
Behind him a little man in grey was energetically trying goose quills.
Probably he was the reporter.

The examination began. With frigid politeness the Landrath put the
usual questions.

"Where have you resided hitherto?"

Boleslav enumerated several places.

"Your word is of course to be trusted, _Herr Baron_, but have you
proofs?"

"No."

"Up to what date does your answer hold good?"

"Till the spring of the year '13."

"After that?"

"I entered the army."

"Have you proofs to support that statement?"

"No."

"I regret to say that the name von Schranden is not to be found in the
army list."

"I enlisted under another."

"Under the name of Baumgart?"

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

There was silence. Boleslav bit his lips.

"Ha, ha!" came triumphantly from the window. The exclamation put
Boleslav on his mettle.

"To have borne my real name would have involved me in difficulties."

"Why?"

"Because, through a rumour which I was powerless to contradict, there
was a blot on that name."

"What rumour?"

It was clear this man intended to humiliate him to the dust before
passing on him the inevitable sentence.

"You know it," he murmured faintly between his closed teeth.

The Landrath bowed. "Nevertheless I must ask for information on the
subject."

"I decline to give it."

The mob sent up a shout of scornful laughter.

"Do for him at once! put him in chains!" roared the same hiccoughing
voice that had made use of an abusive epithet earlier in the
proceedings.

The Landrath gracefully waved his long white hands.

"A note has been made of that refusal?" he asked without turning round.

A small quavering pipe behind him, which greatly amused the
Schrandeners, answered in the affirmative.

Then he continued with imperturbable politeness.

"May I ask you, then, to tell me to which company you were attached?"

Boleslav did so, and also gave the names of his Heide comrades.

The Landrath turned over the leaves of his portfolio with an air of
ennui. The concerns of the volunteer Jägers evidently had no interest
for him.

"You were elected officer?"

"Yes."

"I do not doubt your word, _Herr Baron_, but have you proofs to back
_this_ statement?"

"No."

"A note must be made of that negative. And then you entered the
Landwehr?"

"Yes."

"Your reason?"

Boleslav indicated, with a motion of his head, the companion of his
boyhood.

"Because I did not wish to meet that man."

Felix gave a scoffing laugh, and exclaimed, "Else the swindle
would----" A sign from the Landrath silenced him.

"Your Landwehr regiment, if you please?"

Boleslav cited the commandant's name.

The Landrath bowed low over the portfolio till his shock of hair almost
concealed his faded shrunken face.

"So far that coincides with my information," he said, and then read:
"There was a Lieutenant Baumgart, who at the time of the armistice
entered the regiment. Besides him there were four other officers of
this name in the army. The one in question, however, met his death
between the 1st and 3rd of March on the Marne."

"How did you learn that, _Herr Landrath_?"

"It is in the Gazette, _Herr Baron_. He is said to have been sent on a
special mission, and shot by grenadiers in General Marmont's corps."

Boleslav felt his blood mount swiftly to his brow. The proudest and
most arduous moments of his life rose vividly before him. "That is a
mistake," he cried; "Lieutenant Baumgart fell into the hands of the
enemy severely wounded, but escaped with his life."

"And it is your desire to be identified with that fallen emissary?"

"I believe I have clearly shown that it is my desire."

"Very well, that being so, you will of course be able to relate the
incidents of the special mission."

"Certainly."

"Please proceed."

"The volunteers had been charged to get a message delivered to General
von Kleist. Some days before a skirmish had taken place on the
banks of a river, Therouanne by name, through which the General and his
corps were cut off from communication with the main army. A reunion
was not to be effected owing to Marmont's and Mortier's troops, to
which Napoleon himself was said to be marching, stopping the way.
Field-Marshal Blücher suddenly resolved to retreat, in order, I
believe, to pick up reinforcements, and therefore it was, under the
circumstances, urgent to let General von Kleist know at once, in case
he should find himself entirely isolated. It was necessary for the
messenger to evade the enemy's outposts at night-time. Among those who
volunteered to go on the mission, choice fell on me. Major von Schaek
led me to the Field-Marshal, who entrusted me with a letter----"

"One moment, please," interrupted the Landrath, searching diligently
among his papers; then he added casually, "And the letter of course
contained the necessary command."

"No."

"What, then?"

"The letter was designed to deceive the enemy in case I should be shot
from my horse on the way. The Field-Marshal desired me to give his
command by word of mouth. I had to learn it by heart."

"How did it run?"

"As follows: 'If on the morrow the enemy attacks us on the right flank,
General von Kleist is not to join in the engagement, but to seize the
opportunity of gaining the command of the Marne from the south, so that
he may bring himself in touch with me. _En route_ several bridges are
to be destroyed.'"

The Landrath nodded. "And then--Lieutenant?"

"I succeeded in delivering the message."

"You managed to evade the enemy and reach your goal?"

"I hope you have found proofs of it, _Herr Landrath_, in the history of
the war----"

"Hum! When were you wounded?"

"On the way back."

"Why did you not remain where you were?"

"Because I had undertaken to bring the Field-Marshal an answer."

"You might have spared yourself this second act of daring."

"I might have spared myself the first also."

"You wanted to achieve fame?"

"I wanted among other things to escape the privilege of this
cross-examination."

The Landrath straightened himself and threw back his mane. "Permit me
to draw your attention to the fact that you stand before the
representative of your king, Herr Baron von Schranden."

"Barefaced impudence!" muttered the voice at the window.

"I stand before my undoer," replied Boleslav, looking steadily into the
Landrath's eyes.

He fixed them on his papers again, with a suppressed smile. "I have now
come to the last stage of my investigation," he continued. "It cannot
be denied that your statements bear a strong resemblance to the facts,
and that your claim to be one and the same person as the Lieutenant
Baumgart who served in the Silesian Landwehr under Major von Wolzogen
has gained in probability. Only this admission has to be weighed in the
scale against the impossibility of an honourable officer, as the said
Baumgart seems to have been, turning his back on the army in which he
had won honours and wounds, and deserting its standard. He must have
known a company of soldiers could not be dispersed like a flock of
sparrows. And to think that the Landwehr"--his chest swelled and he
tossed his mane,--"the glorious Landwehr, that has always stood in the
first rank for courage, love of order, and discipline, should have thus
been hoodwinked! Freiherr von Schranden, I fervently hope that
Lieutenant Baumgart was not guilty of this transgression, and am
therefore bound to wish that he met his death."

Boleslav felt the crisis was approaching. He glanced round him and saw
everywhere eyes flaming with hate and thirst for vengeance. Felix
Merckel had laid his hand on the handle of his sabre, as if in another
moment he would raise it. From the throngs behind him came a clash and
din of arms. Malignant satisfaction beamed on the face of the old host
of the Black Eagle. Only the pastor sat with his dishevelled head bowed
in his hands, staring despondently on the floor.

"It is not my fault, _Herr Landrath_, that the dead man has been
brought to life. He did his duty, I think. Why should he not have been
allowed to rest in peace?"

The Landrath shrugged his shoulders.

"A public indictment cannot be ignored."

"An indictment!" cried Boleslav, his anger blazing up, and his eye met
young Merckel's.

There he read, in unmistakable characters, the story of the shameless
plot against him. He smiled in disgust.

"I see that I am answerable to a military tribunal," he said. "I was
prepared for it. I beg you now to arrest me."

The mob pushed forward as if anxious to take him at his word without
delay. Boleslav, who all this time had been standing on the threshold
of the inner parlour, was hurled forward against the table, within a
hair's-breadth of the Landrath, while the fists of his enemies touched
his neck from behind.

"Patience, my dear friends," said the Landrath in an amicable tone.
"The first who lays hands on him will himself be put in chains. One
more question, _Herr Baron_. If you were taken prisoner, as you
maintain, how was it that later, when the disbanding followed, you were
not registered and discharged in the regular order?"

"The French, in their hurried flight, left me lying on the field, as I
was badly wounded. I was picked up by some peasants, in whose house I
lay for months at death's door. When I was able to leave my rescuers,
peace had been concluded, and there were no allies in the
neighbourhood."

"Your word of honour is of course sacred, _Herr Baron_, but perhaps you
can substantiate this with proof?"

"Only with my scars, _Herr Landrath_."

"Ah!... Make a note of that----" He pushed back his leonine locks from
his brow, and seemed to be bracing himself for an impressive summing
up--

"My friends! Indomitable defenders of your country, and inhabitants of
Schranden! The founding of the Landwehr was the rising of a new sun,
which has never ceased to cast new lustre on the fame of Prussia. Let
us congratulate ourselves that we have been born in a time when such
great things have been demanded of us, and that we have proved
ourselves worthy of, and equal to the demand. Especially in this
district, and foremost in this district the parish of Schranden. If we
look round us, we see a very different spectacle in other quarters. Not
everywhere did the King's appeal meet with such a warm and spontaneous
echo.

"Oh, my friends, our hearts bleed when we hear of how, in the districts
of Konitz and Stargard, for example, to escape serving, men took refuge
in the woods, and lay full-length amongst the wheat till they had to be
baited like bulls. Thousands took flight across the frontier, and thus
shirked the conscription altogether. And often what had been
beautifully drilled companies overnight, by the morning were
transformed into a shapeless mass of panic-stricken deserters. But not
in the district that I have had the pleasure of mobilising.

"In less than two weeks, friends and comrades, the Landwehr of the
Wartenstein district was ready drilled and armed from top to toe. The
levies were double in strength what the government had required of us,
and eighty per cent, consisted of volunteers. From the parish of
Schranden came only volunteers."

The crowd set up loud hurrahs, and the pastor nodded and smiled in grim
satisfaction. He knew whose work that had been.

"I must admit," continued the Landrath, with a chilling sidelong glance
at Boleslav, "that the parish of Schranden has one hideous stain on its
reputation"--(several loud imprecations were audible)--"a stain which
in spite of all its deeds of bravery will never be dissociated from it"
(renewed curses); "but if it is the King's pleasure to overlook it, and
only to see the brighter side, his graciousness is due to those who, in
defending his realm, have rendered him such able services, whose leader
I am happy and proud to call myself. The King's favour--('Why does he
harp thus on the King's favour,' thought Boleslav, 'when he might wind
up the case and be done with it')--has been abundantly lavished on us,
and we are almost overpowered with his blessings. Yet let all who reap
the fruits of the harvest remember they owe it to the men of the
Landwehr, and not least to their organiser, who sowed for them the
seeds of undying fame."

Again he began to turn over the leaves of his portfolio, then he went
on: "Take your caps off, intrepid inhabitants of Schranden. Attention,
my brave men! Gentlemen, if you please, rise! Whoever keeps his cap on
at the back there will be ejected. I am commissioned to read over to
you an order of the Cabinet of supreme import. It is as follows:
'Should it prove true that the Freiherr von Schranden of Schloss
Schranden and Lieutenant Baumgart of the 15th Regiment of the
Silesian Landwehr, be one and the same person, and that, as was
naturally supposed of so fearless an officer, he had no real intentions
of deserting, I appoint him to a captaincy in my Landwehr, and entrust
him with the command of the company in his division. I also bestow on
him, in recognition of his extraordinary valour and distinguished
service, the iron cross of the first class. The Landrath for the
district shall invest him with these honours in the presence of his
accusers.--Friedrich Wilhelm Rex.'"

The proclamation was received in profound silence. The patriotic
Schrandeners stood glowering at each other in consternation. Felix
Merckel had sunk back on the window-seat. His fingers clutched
convulsively at the cross that shone between the black froggings on his
coat. Boleslav felt a buzzing sensation in his head. He was obliged to
cling to the door for support, for he feared he might swoon. Not joy,
only infinite bitterness, welled up within him. He bit his lips hard to
keep back his tears.

The Landrath drew a small black case from the depths of his coat
pocket, and presented it to Boleslav with an exaggeratedly obsequious
bow. The cover sprang back. The black smoothly polished scrap of iron,
on its background of blue velvet, seemed surrounded by a halo of
shimmering light. Boleslav grasped it with one hand in growing
excitement, while he offered his other to the Landrath. The latter
retreated a step or two, closely regarding his long, white, skinny
hands, as if the act of handing over the case had done them some
injury. Then he deliberately hid them behind his back.

"_Herr Landrath_, I offered you my hand," cried Boleslav threateningly,
flushing darkly at this new insult.

"According to his Majesty's wishes I have discharged my duty. My
instructions did not include a shake of the hand."

At this moment a cross, like the one Boleslav had just received, flew
through the air and alighted at his feet Felix Merckel had torn it from
his breast. Swelling with righteous indignation, he swaggered up to the
official, whom he now felt sure he had no reason to be afraid of, and
cried--

"There it may lie. I don't want it now. Any decent soldier would be
ashamed to wear it when such as _he_ is decorated with it."

A cry of mingled pain and fury escaped Boleslav's lips, and with raised
fists he turned fiercely on his enemy.

Felix Merckel unsheathed his sabre, as if with the intention of hewing
down the unarmed man. But the old landlord threw his corpulent form
between them. The Landrath confined himself to waving his hands
soothingly; and the pastor vigilantly kept watch on his Schrandeners.
He knew his flock, and read murder in their glance.

"Back there! keep back!" he shouted to the tumultuous throng in a voice
of brass. With outstretched arms he sprang into the doorway, where
already a line of pikes appeared, ready to fell the victim from behind.

Boleslav looked round and saw with a shudder how near he stood to
death.

The pastor, clinging to the roof of the doorway, endeavoured to stem
the murderous tide. Would that frail and venerable frame be able to
repulse this onslaught of unmuzzled wolves? Would it not be swept away
on the crest of this bloodthirsty wave? A weak shield to rely on,
indeed! Yet his was the only authority not swamped by the tumult. The
Landrath's protesting hands waved impotently above the seething heads,
like limp towels; the gentle flutelike tones in which he declared the
ringleaders of the disturbance should be turned out and bludgeoned were
totally ignored. His parasite, the little portfolio bearer, had taken
the precaution to creep under the table.

A voice within Boleslav cried, "What! You will let this old man protect
you? Cannot you protect yourself?" And a wild resolve consumed him.
This seemed a moment given him to balance his account with fate--a
moment of all others in which cowardice was to be avoided. He caught
hold of the old pastor in a grip of iron and drew him aside.

"This is my place, reverend sir," he said, and planted himself in the
doorway.

He stretched out his arms above him, as the old man had done, and
offered his breast as a target for the pointed weapons. His eye
penetrated unflinchingly into the heart of the struggling and ramping
mob before him. He felt the foam from their mouths bespatter him, and
their hot, foul breath fan his face.

"Here I stand!" he cried. "I have left my pistols at home; so you can
make short work of me. Any of you who have the courage."

But no one had the courage, for his back was not turned to them now.
Sabres were lowered, pikes dropped.

"I see--you don't wish to assassinate me after all," he said, holding
them with his eyes. "You are going to behave yourselves like men, and
not like wild beasts. Very well, then, I will speak to you as to
reasonable men. Move backwards and keep quiet."

The crowd wavered; the next moment he had the threshold to himself.

"And now--speak! Tell me what you want with me?"

There was no answer, no sound in the room except the laboured
breathing of excited lungs.

"You hate me. You would like to take my life. Tell me why? Here in the
presence of a representative of the King whom we all serve and fear, in
the presence of a representative of the God in whom I believe and you
too--tell me what I have done? I submit myself to their judgment. Now
is your opportunity of charging me."

But the silence continued. Only one spluttering voice arose for a
moment and died away in a gurgle, as if it were being stifled by force.

"You are dumb. You cannot say what my offence has been,--and you,
gentlemen! Won't you come to the assistance of these poor, speechless
people? There on the ground lies a cross, the mark of honour our nation
cherishes more highly than any other, which some one threw away,
because through my possessing one like it, he considered it
contaminated. Some one else declined to shake hands with me just now, a
common act of courtesy which no man of honour refuses another unless he
be a blackguard. It does not matter, _Herr Landrath_, if in this
instance judges and accusers unite in a common cause. Accuse me of what
you like, condemn me! I am prepared."

Another long pause. The Landrath twisted his whiskers in embarrassment.

"And you, _Herr Pastor_--it is hardly fitting that I should call the
instructor of my youth to account--but some months ago you showed me
the door in your own house. Could you not be spokesman now for your
parishioners?"

The old man's jaws worked, his lips moved, but no sound issued from
them. He appeared to have exhausted his strength, but the wild, fiery
glance he darted from beneath his bushy brows boded no good to
Boleslav.

With a laugh he went on. "Then I must be my own accuser." He felt
intoxicated with his own courage. "Your hand against every man, and
every man's hand against you," cried jubilantly within him. "You think
you ought to visit the sins of the fathers on me; empty the vials of
your wrath on my head because you cannot reach the dead. Very well. I
am his heir. I take his guilt upon me, and do not refuse to do penance,
when right and justice demand it of me. But why were no steps taken
against the dead man himself? Why was he not tried? Why not dragged to
the scaffold when he deserved it? _Herr Landrath_, I ask you, as the
embodiment of the law, why did the State remain silent and suffer these
gallant men who smarted under wrong to take revenge into their own
hands? And such a revenge! So childish, so cruel, that one would have
thought it could only have occurred to the primitive brain of
bloodthirsty savages. Revenge for a deed which at this hour I neither
admit nor deny, because it lies shrouded in mystery. Which of you can
say how it happened, or whether it happened at all? And in spite of
this uncertainty, you have damned and defamed him and his race,
deprived them of honour and justice. Is that fair play? Now I ask you
to put us on our trial, me, and the dead man, and----" He paused,
shocked at the thought that he had nearly let fall Regina's name.

The pastor's eagle eye flashed ominously. Then collecting himself, he
continued: "Inquire, speak out unravel the mystery, clear up the
matter, and then judge and pass sentence. But at the same time sit in
judgment and pass sentence on that other crime, the crime that has
wrecked my property, and leaves me only uninhabitable ruins to live in,
a crime that cries aloud to Heaven for vengeance. On the subject of
other outrages and indignities I will be silent--threats of murder to
me and mine; the blocking of the churchyard entrance to my father's
funeral cortège--all that shall pass. But the fire, _that_ I swear
shall be avenged! If till to-day justice has been blind to my wrongs,
its eyes shall be wrenched open. I will not rest day or night till I
have dragged the skulking authors of that cowardly, atrocious deed into
the light of day, and may God have mercy on those who attempt to screen
or defend them."

Again the mob showed signs of uneasiness. Its foremost ranks pressed
back on the others, as if to fly from the vengeance of the wrathful man
who had addressed them in words of such burning indignation. Again from
the neighbourhood of the window came hoarse, stuttering laughter that
was choked off as before.

The occupants of the best parlour made an effort to appear as if they
had not been listening to Boleslav. The Landrath, who was really
painfully affected, busied himself with more zeal than ever in looking
through his papers. Old Merckel had picked up the discarded cross, and
was trying to persuade his son, who resisted sulkily, to wear it again.
The little man in grey had come out from under the table, and was
employing himself in carefully rubbing dust off his knees. Only the old
pastor was on the alert. He had propped his stick against the table;
the thin white hair that floated round his bald skull quivered. He
stood looking, with his vulture profile, and small eyes flashing
beneath his sharply projecting brows, like a bird of prey waiting to
pounce on its booty.

Had Boleslav caught sight of him at that moment, he might have
hesitated to make a fresh challenge. But he wanted to score all along
the line and complete his victory.

"In order that there may be a clear understanding between us," he
cried, "that all may see who has right on his side and who wrong, I
ask, which of you has a charge to prefer against me? To whom have I
done an injury? How have I sinned?"

Then the voice of the old pastor was raised behind him. "Is Hackelberg,
the carpenter, here?"

Boleslav winced. That voice so close to his ear sounded intimidating
and uncanny, and prophetic of coming evil. There was a scuffling and
swaying in the crowd. The ragged figure of the village drunkard, by
means of shoves and kicks, was propelled forward into the front row. He
struggled and beat the air with his hands, and when forced on to the
threshold of the inner parlour, tried to duck beneath the legs of the
men on either side of him.

"There is nothing to be afraid of, Hackelberg," said the pastor. "I
will see that you are not hurt."

Reassured, he drew himself up, and scanned the gentlemen he had been
brought before with a suspicious, glassy eye.

"What creature is this?" inquired the Landrath, scandalised. "Why is he
not put under restraint?"

"Because his condition is owing more to his misfortune than his fault,"
the pastor answered.

Herr Merckel thought it his duty to whisper an explanation to his
superior.

"He is the poor father so much to be pitied," he said, with a mock
pathetic air, "whose sad story I related to your _Hochwohlgeboren_."

At the same time he watched uneasily some Schrandeners, who seemed to
be waiting for a signal to take the drunkard into custody.

"Have you nothing to say, Hackelberg?" asked the pastor.

"What should I have to say, Herr Pastor?" he lisped, beginning to
cringe again, and drawing the lappets of his tattered coat over his
naked breast.

"Have you no accusation to make?"

"Let me go," he growled. "I haven't----"

"Not even against _him_?" and he pointed to Boleslav.

A glimmer of intelligence came into the dull, glazed eyes. He
understood his cue. Old Merckel nodded at him encouragingly, and he
began to play his favourite rôle. Floods of tears that the besotted
inebriate can always command so easily, poured over his cheeks. He
rubbed his wet face with his black hands, till it resembled some
hideous mask.

"Poor fellow! poor outraged father!" crooned Herr Merckel, senior,
wiping his own eyes.

"What is the meaning of this absurd farce?" asked Boleslav, with a
scornful laugh. But his face had become visibly paler.

"Here we don't enact farces, but sit in judgment," answered the pastor.

Boleslav shrugged his shoulders. "I am pleased to hear it," he said,
and there was a tremor in his voice.

The Schrandeners craned their necks to get a better view of the
edifying scene, of which they now expected to be spectators. In the
momentary calm that ensued, distant whoops and yells were heard from
the crowds who filled the square, having stormed the inn in vain, and
with the noise there seemed to mingle a woman's voice crying for
succour.

What if it were Regina? But it was not possible that it could be she;
and the idea vanished as quickly as it had flashed into his brain.

"My child, my poor wretched child!" howled the carpenter, who now found
himself in more familiar waters.

"What have they done to your child, man?" asked the Landrath, who was
not going to tolerate the conduct of affairs being taken out of his
hands.

"My child was seduced--he ruined her--my fatherly heart is ...
lacerated ... I am a poor beg--gar ... Only one coffin----"

"I fancy I have heard you harp on this string before," the Landrath
interrupted him sharply, "at the time when I examined your daughter
about the Cats' Bridge disaster. If you haven't learnt anything a
little newer than that in five years, you'd better hold your tongue. It
seems," he said, turning with a smile to the pastor, "as if this
ruffian were bent on playing the part of Virginius."

The little man in grey laughed shrilly at this facetious sally on the
part of his chief, and then was overcome with confusion at his own
timerity. But the old pastor was less disposed to appreciate the
Landrath's urbane humour.

"I will speak for you, Hackelberg," he said. "My words must be taken
seriously. I will speak for you and for all of us in the name of our
Heavenly Father, whose commandments were not made to be flouted and set
at nought by aristocrats. Freiherr von Schranden, just now you
challenged me to speak. Will you listen to what I am going to say?"

He assented impatiently. For the second time he fancied he heard that
cry of distress rise above the hubbub outside.

"You have entered into the inheritance of your father?"

"Can there be any doubt in the matter?"

"God knows! None."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean you have only too quickly appropriated that which was his
unlawful possession."

"_Herr Pastor_----" But he could not go on. He felt a choking sensation
in his throat, and a stony horror creep over him.

"Where is your spirit?" he asked himself; "your boasted defiance?"

"You found a woman, _Herr Baron_, on your estate who had been your
father's mistress. You found her degraded, defiled, dragged through the
mire of wickedness and vice. Year-long slavery had robbed her of the
respect of every living creature. She was treated as a mere animal by
animals. This wretched woman belonged to my parish and to me. I reared
her in the way she should go. It was my hand that sprinkled the
baptismal water on her brow; my hand that held the chalice to her lips
at the Holy Sacrament; and I promised and vowed before God, and in
presence of my flock, to watch over this young soul; doubly orphaned,
because he who generated her was not responsible for his actions."

"Ah, my poor orphaned child!" maundered the carpenter. "Only two, only
one other coffin ..."

"I am answerable for her to God and the parish. I could not command
your father to give her up, for, as I told you, I had handed him over
to a heavenly tribunal; but _you_, who have courted this inquiry, I
command to give her up, and, what is more, in the present hour of
reckoning I exhort you to render account of what you have done for her
soul."

A red mist floated before Boleslav's eyes, and in this mist the figure
of the venerable priest seemed to grow till it became almost god-like.
He could only stammer forth--

"What should I ...?" And the old man took up the thread of his speech
again--

"To-day you have been honoured before all men by our King; but,
Boleslav von Schranden, look to it that God holds you in equal esteem.
What should you have done, you ask? This impure, abandoned creature
ought to have been more awful, more sacred to you than any other
earthly being. What have you done to atone for the guilt your father
heaped on her? Have you freed her from the bondage into which she had
sunk, loosed her from the chain of her sin? Have you pointed her soul
upwards to God, the All-gracious and All-forgiving? Or have you dragged
her down deeper and deeper into the hell that your own flesh and blood
created for her? Above all, in what fashion have you been living with
her? It is said that, amidst the devastation of your island, there is
only one room habitable. Have you never lost sight of the fact that by
all laws, human and divine, your father's property in this instance was
for you forbidden? Have you taught her to repent and pray, or have you
filled her poor undisciplined senses with fresh poison? And have you
preserved your own blood intact from sinful desires and lust? Or have
you let your passions, like greedy beasts waiting whom they may devour,
keep watch on her, ready to spring in an hour of weakness, thus adding
fresh shame----?"

"Cease!" cried Boleslav. "This is too much!"

Truly scorpions proceeded out of the mouth of this mild Christian
priest, who knew how to reveal and lash secret sins of the imagination,
which till this hour Boleslav never suspected had existed in his.

But now he saw it all. Everything was clear. Now he knew what it was
had sent his blood tearing impetuously through his veins in the long
night vigils, and had made him hold his breath, and listen to hear
whether that other breath did not come faster or slower, showing that
she, too, was sleepless and on guard. It was sinful desire for her
body--the body that had been dishonoured and abused, yet in spite of
all remained so triumphantly beautiful.

Thank God! ah, thank God! that the sin was still confined to his inner
consciousness. There was yet time to lock it behind bolts and bars to
prevent its stealing forth over the fatal threshold. So far he could
claim the right to be his own judge, to stand before the private
judgment-seat of his own conscience.

He looked round him, and his face was distraught and ghastly pale. He
saw triumph flame up again in the eyes that watched him.

"What right have you to impute this crime to me?" he said to the
pastor.

"I did not impute it--I merely asked you," the old man interposed
quickly. "You have become too pale, _Herr Baron_, for us not to observe
your discomfiture."

"Condemned out of his own mouth, unhappy man," murmured Herr Merckel,
senior, with a sigh.

The Schrandeners, in the renewed hope of being allowed to spring at his
throat, set up a fearful howl, and pressed forward once more.

Then above all the din there was distinctly heard from the yard a
shriek of anguish that caused Boleslav's marrow to freeze in his bones.
There could be no mistake now. That _was_ Regina!

"Regina!" he cried, and rushed to the window that opened on the yard.
There the mad chase was in full cry. A crew of furious dishevelled
women were dashing over hedges, ditches, waggons, barrels, and frozen
dunghills, followed by boys armed with clubs. The air was thick with
flying stones.

"Help! help!" shrieked Regina's voice. But she herself was not visible.

But as he wrenched open the back door she flew like a wounded bird into
the dark corridor, followed closely by her would-be assassins whooping
and panting.

He pulled her with a powerful movement of his arm into the room, and
shut the door on the furies in pursuit.

She sank on the floor at his feet and pressed her face against the hem
of his coat.

Her hands relaxed their cramped grasp on two splintered pieces of
wood--all that was left of her tub, the shield with which she had been
in the habit of warding off assaults. Her hair was loose, her dress
torn, the pretty fur-trimming that she had been so proud of, hanging
about her in tatters.

"A charming pair of lovers," said Herr Merckel, rubbing his hands in
keen enjoyment of the scene, while the Schrandeners displayed a strong
disposition to continue the work begun outside by their womankind. The
very sight of Regina was sufficient to excite to an uncontrollable
degree their predilection for "throwing something." With a yell of
delight they looked round them in search of missiles,--and already two
earthenware mugs had been hurled into the gentry's parlour, one of
which struck the carpenter on the shoulder. This instinct for smiting
was now stronger in them than the thirst for a life.

The Landrath wrung his bony hands in despair. All his courtesy and
distinction of manner was lost on this pack of devils.

"_Herr Landrath_," said Boleslav, pointing to the woman cowering almost
insensible at his feet, "I beg you to make a note of this pandemonium.
If you do not feel inclined to interfere, I take the liberty to warn
you that you may have to appear in your own august person as a witness
in a court of law against these gallant people."

Certainly the Landrath seemed hardly aware of the pitiable figure he
was cutting. His splendid mane now hung in shaggy disorder about his
face, which had assumed a peevish expression.

"Merckel," he rasped, "you are mayor. I'll have you superseded, unless
you can maintain order. Order! do you hear, good people. Order! This is
breaking the public peace. You deserve imprisonment--in fact you
_shall_ be sent to prison. Taken with arms in your hand, means three
years, not a day less than three years, good people. Tomorrow I shall
send gendarmes, three gendarmes."

It must have been his good angel that put this threat into his head,
for no other could have had the same effect in bringing the rebels to
their senses. Since the war no gendarmes had been stationed in
Schranden, which was a piece of good fortune not to be scouted at, for
its inhabitants feared gendarmes more than they feared the king.

Herr Merckel, who began to tremble for his office, was now assiduous in
his efforts to restore peace. His son leant back with folded arms in
the corner of the window-seat, affecting to be highly amused at the
proceedings.

But the old pastor's gaze never wavered from the pair, and seemed to be
searching the innermost recesses of their hearts.

"Stand up, Regina," said Boleslav to the kneeling girl. "They shall not
hurt you. I will defend you."

But she remained huddled at his feet, still quaking with fear.

"It's not true, _Herr_, that they are going to take you away?" she
sobbed. "If it is, I will starve myself and freeze to death."

"No, it's not true; but get up, Regina."

"Master; ah, my dear, dear master!" and she pressed her forehead
against his knee.

"Boleslav von Schranden, do you deny it now?"

"Deny what?" he asked. "That this poor unhappy girl whom you have
denounced and ostracised regards me as her rescuer and saviour, because
I am the first who for years has spoken a kind word to her? Or would
you have me deny that this same unhappy girl has endeared herself to
me, because she is the only human being on God's earth who has clung to
me in my hour of need, when every one else has forsaken me? I should be
an ungrateful ruffian if I did not value her after all she has done for
me. I never asked her to share my solitude among the ruins. It is not
so comfortable or lively up there, and all my goodness to her has
consisted in my allowing her to sacrifice herself for me. I have not
been able to supply her with pleasures. There has been no unlawful
intimacy between us. If she prefers to be my body-slave to being stoned
and harried to death, that is no concern of any one's in the world,
least of all of you Schrandeners, and of that despicable drunkard who
prostituted his own flesh and blood."

Gently prompted by old Merckel, the carpenter recommenced playing the
rôle of injured father.

"Oh my daughter! my poor, misguided daughter!" he groaned.

"Do your duty," urged the landlord; "reclaim her."

"Come, my child; come back to your brokenhearted, deserted father. He
has taken to drink through grief ... driven to it. He will only make
two more coffins; one for himself and one for----"

He stretched out his dirty hand to her, which, shuddering, she
violently repulsed.

"Do not distress yourself further," said Boleslav. "She belongs to me
as I belong to her."

"Nevertheless, I demand her from you this day, Boleslav von Schranden,"
said the old pastor, placing his hand on Regina's head. She cowered,
but let it lie there.

"That you may be able to stone her better?"

"I promise you that no harm shall come to her. I will confide her to
the care of one of my spiritual brethren, who will see to her wants for
this side of the grave and the other. If you oppose her redemption, you
will only be knitting the chain of your sin the closer."

Boleslav was silent. A thousand thoughts rushed through his brain. This
old man's word was to be relied on; he was no cheat. And what lawful
claim had he to this woman lying helpless at his feet? How could he
make it worth her while to perpetually risk her life for him?

Then the Landrath, who had partially recovered from his panic, put in
his word. "Is the young person of age?" he asked.

The pastor calculated a moment, and replied in the affirmative.

"The _vis paterna_ therefore cannot be enforced against her wishes,
otherwise she might be sent to a penitentiary, where----"

The rest of his speech was cut short by a burst of ironical laughter
from Boleslav.

"She may decide for herself. Does that satisfy you, _Herr Baron_?"

"I shall not influence her one way or the other," he muttered, and he
felt the form at his feet vibrate. He bent over her. "Regina, do you
hear what the pastor promises to do for you? You know your future is
monetarily provided for. Will you leave the rest, and go with him."

Then she lifted her glowing face streaming with tears to his, and
sobbed out, "Please, _Herr_, don't make fun of me."

"You wish to stay with me?"

"Ah, _Herr_, you know I wish it. Why do you ask?"

"Stand up then, and we will go."

The pastor barred their way. He had become ashy pale, and his vulture
gaze pierced Boleslav through and through. He laid his hand solemnly on
his shoulder as he had done the day he had demonstrated to him his
father's guilt.

"My son," he said, "you too I received into holy baptism, and taught
you to lisp God's name, and opened your eyes to the marvels of His
creation. You were to me as my own child, and more, because you were
the son of my terrestrial lord and master. I have to answer for you too
before the throne of God. You have not been able to clear yourself of
the suspicion that rests upon you, and if I read your soul aright--
don't cast down your eyes--I think I am not mistaken. Therefore, I
again command you to give up this woman. I command and exhort you to do
so in the name of your father, the name of the parish, the name of our
Master in heaven who is the Father of all orphans and irresponsible
children who sin unconsciously. Give her up--and you shall be acquitted
as blameless, and go your way in peace."

Regina had raised herself, and now clung to his arm, trembling from
head to foot.

"Come!" Boleslav said. "It is to be hoped they will let us pass," and
he made a motion as if he were going to push by the old man. But he
planted himself again in their way, and holding his arms aloft, said--

"Then you are worthy of your father. And as I once cursed him, I curse
you to-day, you and this woman together. You shall be like Cain, whom
the Lord banished from His sight.... You shall be a fugitive and an
outcast on the earth, and your home shall lie in ruins for evermore.
There you shall abide with this woman.... Now go! Make room for them
there! and who lifts a hand against either of them or lays a finger on
them shall be cursed, as they are cursed."

Boleslav uttered a sound that broke discordantly on the solemn
silence--

"Come!" he said, and took Regina's hand in his; "let the old man curse,
it seems to be his trade;" but he felt a cold shiver run through him.

He saw a lane open which reached to the door, in the densely-packed
tap-room. Hand in hand he and Regina walked down it.

No one laughed, no one sneered, no one stirred. A superstitious awe
seemed to have struck the onlookers dumb. The breath of the winter
evening met their faces with an icy tooth. Had some one spread the news
of what had happened within, among the crowd that waited outside, or
had they divined it by instinct? Here too was profound silence; here
too a path was made for them, which they followed, bending their
footsteps riverwards with bowed heads.




                              CHAPTER XIV


The glow in the evening sky faded. A violet vapour hung about the bare
tracery of the tree-tops, and showers of sparkling crystals rained from
the branches.

Boleslav ground the snow under his heel. His breath curled in front of
him in slender columns. The keen frosty air was balm to his fevered
face. He had sent Regina on before, and was trying to regain calmness
and presence of mind in solitary wandering, for his brain boiled like a
witch's caldron.

The curse stood out intangibly in his ruminations; it was like the
bogey that little children people the darkness with. He saw it
everywhere; it haunted him. How well his father's old enemy had availed
himself of the opportunity of doing what probably he had long connived
at, putting the son under the same ban as the father.

But it was a terrible reflection to think he might have deserved that
curse. As it was, he had not merited it; a thousand times no! What the
veteran priest in his dark suspicion had alluded to as an accomplished
brutal fact, had really only swept his soul with phantom wings. Now
that his conscience was awakened to the danger of the situation, the
danger itself was over. After all, he ought to be indebted to the
pastor for showing him the yawning precipice that lay at his unwary
feet.

"Think no more of it," he said to himself; "I am the master, she the
servant, and I should be an accursed----"

He stopped. Was he not already accursed? Then he laughed at his foolish
fears. It was childish to mind. Bah! he was too susceptible. At all
events, this day should be the beginning of a new epoch in his
relations with the outer world. The possession of the iron cross was a
proof that he was not dishonoured or outside the pale of law and
justice. With it he might, if he had the courage, outwit the knavish
tricks of his personal enemies, and appeal to the assistance of the
Courts. If the judge of the district had chosen to condone the fire by
ignoring it, he might in his turn light a fire that would send forth
such a blaze that the very holes where the incendiaries skulked would
be illuminated. But it would involve dragging his father's dealings
also into the fierce light of day. Could he dare to disturb the peace
of the dead, like a body-snatcher, and blazon forth the shame of his
house in the face of all the world?

His mouth became distorted with the defiance that inwardly consumed
him. He felt for the moment as if deliberate self-destruction were a
mere joke. Why should he hold back; stop at anything? Was he not under
a curse? A bitter laugh rose in his throat. He could not forget that
curse!

Then he went into the house. Regina was laying the table for supper.
She had mended her jacket, and smoothed out her hair with water. Her
face was as calm as if nothing in the least out of the way had
happened; only a scratch on her throat, testified to the hours of peril
she had lately lived through.

With affected severity he asked, "What induced you, Regina, to be so
silly as to come near the inn?"

She measured him with a shy glance. "I beg your pardon, _Herr_," she
said, with a graceful bend of her neck. "I found your letter, and I saw
everything swimming green and yellow before my eyes, it made me feel so
queer. I hardly knew what I was about. I thought perhaps I could help
to set you free."

"Stupid child!" he said, and laughed; but a feeling rose within him
that had to be forcibly repressed.

"Bring the wine," he ordered, as he sat down to the table.

"Which kind, _Herr_?"

"The best. It is high festival and holiday to-day!"

She looked at him in surprise, and went.

"Fetch a glass for yourself," he said, as she uncorked the grey
cobwebby bottle.

"Oh, please, _Herr_, I'd rather not. It's too strong."

"Nonsense! you will get used to it."

"Perhaps, _Herr_."

He poured out the wine. The dark-gold fluid foamed sparkling into the
slender-stemmed emerald rummers, which, perishable as they were, had
been saved from the ruins.

"Clink!" he said.

The glasses as they came in contact produced music like muffled bells.

"The curse of a priest has to-day coupled me with her," he thought, and
his eyes sought hers and probed their depths. "How extraordinary! how
monstrous!" This woman was to be part of his existence, the old man had
said. This woman--why, oh, why this one?

"A curse is a sanction," he meditated further. "Something that never
happened, and never would have happened, through him has been
substantiated and vouched for before Heaven as if it were an
established fact."

And again his thoughts began to encroach stealthily on that forbidden
ground, in whose insurmountable barriers the preacher's words
themselves had quarried access. "You are master," he repeated the
formula over and over to himself, "she the servant;" and then he added,
"What is more, she is your slave, and so let it be."

One course of action seemed clear enough at the moment, and that was
that progress must be made immediately with his work of retaliation. He
bade Regina remove the dishes and bring another bottle of wine. Then he
fetched his writing materials and motioned her to sit down in the place
she had occupied on Christmas evening. With shy delight she obeyed, for
since that night she had spent her evenings till bed-time alone in the
vestibule.

"I'm going to ask you, Regina," he began, "to answer very briefly, and
to the point, several questions!"

She started, then whispered, "Yes, _Herr_."

"Drink, and that will make you more talkative."

She struggled to do as he desired, but to-day the effect the wine had
upon her was to make her more nervous and reserved, instead of less so.

"To go back to the night in which you led the French across the Cats'
Bridge. Was there any one on the premises who knew of the expedition?"

"No, _Herr_."

"How did it get wind in the village then?"

She cast down her eyes. "I believe through me, _Herr_," she stammered.

"To whom did you confide the information?"

"To my father."

"How, and when?"

"He used to come to the Castle secretly from time to time to get money
from me, and if I hadn't any to give him he pinched and beat me."

"Why did you not call out for help?"

"Because it was at night, _Herr_; and if he had been found there they
would have flogged him."

"Go on."

"And so he came soon after ... after the expedition, I mean ... and
asked me to do all sorts of things. I was to get money from the
_gnädiger Herr_ ... or to turn out his pockets when no one was looking;
and to be left in peace, I fetched the bag the French General had given
me. And when he saw the moonlight shine on the coin that was in it, he
was half mad----"

She paused abruptly.

"Well?"

"Must I say it, _Herr_?"

"Of course you must."

"But he _is_ my father, _Herr_."

"You are to do as I command you."

She drew a deep sigh and went on. "And he caught hold of me by the
throat with one hand, and beat me with the other, and hissed in my ear:
'Unless you confess how you came by all that money, I'll squeeze the
life out of you----' And when I could hardly breathe, I----"

He laughed harshly to himself. _His_ father and _her_ father--both had
resorted to the same chivalrous measures.

Regina thought the laugh was at her expense.

"Ah, _Herr_," she went on with an imploring upward glance, "I
was so dreadfully stupid then. Even a fortnight later, when they
cross-examined me, they could have strangled me before they would have
got anything out of me. But then--I suppose it was because he was my
father----"

"Oh yes, I understand. You told tales out of school to your father.
Well, what else?"

"The very same night my conscience pricked me, and in the morning when
I took the _gnädiger Herr_ his coffee--he would always have me take
it--I told him all."

"And what did he say?"

"He turned as white as chalk, but said nothing at first. He took down a
gun from the wall and pointed it at me; I folded my hands and closed my
eyes, and then I heard him utter an oath, and then he put the gun over
his shoulder and rushed out. I thought to myself, he's gone to put an
end to father! And I watched him run towards the drawbridge with his
two bloodhounds, and then I, as quick as lightning, hurried through the
park, across the Cats' Bridge to the village, to let father know his
life was in danger. Had he been at home I couldn't have saved him. But
he was in the Black Eagle, and had blabbed everything the night before,
and was now blind drunk. The _gnädiger Herr_ won't fetch him out of the
Black Eagle, I thought--and besides it was too late, for Herr Merckel
and every one knew, and they all made a great hullabaloo when they saw
me, and caught hold of me, and tried to force me to speak; but I bit my
tongue till it bled, and kept silent. Then they let me go, and I ran to
meet the _gnädiger Herr_, and threw myself at his feet, saying, 'Spare
his life, for it will do no good to take it. All the world knows now.'
... He gave me a kick that made me faint, but he left father alone. And
then a fortnight after a gendarme came for me, and took me to the Black
Eagle. There, in the wine-room, were assembled five or six gentlemen;
the _Herr Landrath_, who was there to-day, among them. And they shut
the door behind me, and began to cross-question me. I felt as if I
could do nothing but cry, and then I grew calmer, and pretended that
father had dreamt it all in one of his drunken fits. But they showed me
the bag he had taken from me--and so--_Herr_ ... I was obliged to say
... that the money ... was the ... reward ... that I----" She broke
off, and hid her face that was suffused with a dark crimson flush of
shame, in her hands.

"Proceed with your story," he commanded, grinding his teeth.

"They didn't believe me, _Herr_, but they saw it was no good trying to
get the truth out of me, and asked me no more questions. And then they
held a consultation in low voices (but I have good ears, and understood
all they were saying), as to whether they should lock me up till I
found my tongue, and arrest the _gnädiger Herr_, and so on, and then
they came to the conclusion that to blaze it abroad would cause too
great a scandal in the district, and be a dishonour to the whole of
Prussia, and as there was no direct proof, the affair might be left in
the dark. I have forgotten the exact words, but it was something like
that."

"And then they let you go?"

"Yes. Herr Merckel said I was to take myself off, or my presence might
breed a pestilence in the house."

A silence ensued: then hastily gulping down three more glasses of the
old wine, he said--

"Now, then, for the night of the fire!"

She jumped up from her chair and stared at him, her eyes starting with
horror.

"What! I'm to tell you about the fire?"

"All you can recollect."

"All! ... Not all, _Herr_?"

"All."

"_Herr_ ... I can't." The words rattled in her throat like a
death-agony.

"You mean you refuse?" He too had risen, and stood looking at her with
dilated eyes.

She folded her hands on her breast. "I have always been obedient,
_Herr_, to your every wish. I have never been unwilling or grumbled.
I'll go on doing all you order me to do. If you say, 'Go out and be
stoned to death,' I'll go. But just this one thing, I beseech you from
the bottom of my heart, don't ask me?"

He regarded her in wrathful amazement. So accustomed had he become to
her unconditional obedience, that this explosion in her of a spark of
resistance was incomprehensible to him. Was his power over her, that he
had imagined unlimited, thus suddenly to end? Surely this woman had of
her own accord made herself his body-slave? She had sold herself body
and soul to his house, and therefore it was unpardonable presumption in
her to assert unexpectedly that she had a will of her own.

The blood mounted hotly to his head, and his eyes flashed. "You
shall!--I say you _shall_!"

She retreated and shrank against the wall. From the dark background her
eyes shone out at him like a persecuted wild-cat's. "I won't," she
muttered.

All the inherited brutality of the feudal master awoke in him. The
wine, too, was doing its work. He sprang on her, and caught her by the
breast.

The buttons of her jacket burst beneath his violent attack, and her
bare bosom gleamed forth. He transfixed her with the intensity of his
gaze.

"Shall I throttle her, or shall I kiss her?" he asked himself, and
fumbled for her throat.

Then in her deadly terror she made a counter-attack. Her hands were
fastened in his shoulders like iron rivets. It needed a gathering up of
all his strength to withstand their muscular pressure.

A noiseless struggle began. It lasted a minute, and yet seemed to be no
nearer its end. Embittered and desperate at first as a wrestle for life
and death, it became eventually a sort of game. The combatants
apparently had lost sight of what it was they were struggling for. His
eyes, bloodshot and wild, sought hers. Her bosom, wet with
perspiration, pressed hard against his. Their breathing mingled.
Tightly locked in each other's arms they staggered and swayed to and
fro. He pressed her in the back of her knee, but she did not yield, and
with renewed vigour tried to draw him down to her. For one second in
their delirious grappling they gazed dreamily into each other's eyes.
Then she vibrated from head to foot, and in the midst of the conflict
laid her cheek caressingly on the arm that was raised against her. He
saw the action, he saw how her eyes hung on his face with melting
solicitude--saw the beautiful dishevelled head droop like a broken
flower.

"If you are cursed, why should it be for nothing?" And as the thought
flashed through him, he bent over her with a sigh, and kissed her on
the mouth.

She groaned aloud, clung heavily to him, and buried her teeth, till
they met, in his lips. Then, overcome, with suddenly collapsed limbs,
she slipped from his arms on to the floor, and lay with the back of her
head flat on the bare boards.

He stared down at her half-stunned. She would have looked as if she
were dead, had it not been for the heaving bosom, that seemed to fight
for air. Blood trickled from his lip, and unconsciously he wiped it
away with his tongue.

"What next?" he asked himself.

The longer he gazed at the prostrate form the intenser became his
anxiety, till it almost amounted to insanity; anxiety for what must
come.

"Away! out of the house! Away before she moves!" an inward voice
commanded. He tore down his coat from the wall, crushed a fur cap over
his brow, and flew out into the bitter cold night, as if chased by the
devil.

But he could not escape--could not run away from _her_; wherever he
went she was beside him. A tornado raged in his breast, and lashed the
blood to froth in his veins.

He was fleeing from his young manhood's senses, and they were in hot
pursuit.

He dashed through the woods at full speed. The frosty air did not cool
him, nor the darkness restore his serenity.

Was there no salvation? None?

He thought of the parsonage. A jeering laugh rose to his lips. Helene
had shrunk from him when he had approached her with clean hands and a
pure heart. What would she do to-day if he came into her presence
bearing a curse and an insupportable burden of guilt upon him?

And yet that one spot of earth was sacred to memories of all that had
been purest, most peaceful and happy in his blighted life. Ought such a
refuge of light to be denied to him, even if a thousand curses had
descended upon his head from the outer darkness?

Almost against his will his footsteps took the road to the village. It
was reposing peacefully. Only from the windows of the Black Eagle a
ruddy glow was cast on the white expanse of snow. The clock in the
church tower struck one. He must have been tramping about for five
hours, and it seemed like five minutes. Faint moonbeams shone on the
sleigh-ruts, which looked like long white ribbons unrolled on the
ground, and the mass of icicles hanging from the church roof spread a
delicate silver filigree on the dark, time-stained walls.

He passed the church and came to the parsonage garden. There was a
light in one of the gable windows. His heart seemed to bound into his
throat. He swung himself over the hedge, and strode through the deep
snow to the summer-house, which stood at a distance of twenty paces
from the gable. In its shadow he took up his position.

A white curtain was drawn across the illuminated casement. On the
surface of the chintz a delicate tracery of leaves and stalks was
reflected from flower-pots inside. There was her virgin paradise; there
she ruled as modestly and sweetly as the Madonna in her rose-garden.

And again the picture in the cathedral rose before his mental eyes, as
it always did when he tried to realise the presence of the beloved. Oh!
for one second in which to feast his bodily eye on that dear, forgotten
face, so that what time and guilt had deadened in him might revive and
live anew!

For a moment the outline of a girl's figure darkened the illuminated
window-pane. A corner of the curtain was lifted.

Instinctively he stretched out his arms. The curtain dropped quickly,
and a moment afterwards the light within was extinguished.

He waited, hardly daring to draw a breath, for a sign from the darkened
spot. But none came. All was motionless and still.

"It is madness to think of it!" he said to himself. "Probably she
didn't recognise you. She only saw a man's figure that gave her a
fright. Make haste! For the whole house will be roused and turned out
to hunt the supposed thief."

So he retraced his steps. In turning into the street he was conscious
that his blood was flowing more calmly, and his pulses not throbbing so
fiercely. Being in her neighbourhood even for a few minutes had soothed
him.

"Where now?" Anywhere in the world, but not home. At the bare thought
of that outstretched figure on the floor, his veins began to pulsate
again with violence. Oh, she was a fiend, and he hated her!

He took a side path, not knowing where it led. It was divided from the
Castle island by stables and carters' huts, and ended in an open field.
On the opposite side, he saw the indigo belt of woods that encircled
the flat white plains. The woods drew him towards them again like a
magnet. There he would hide, in their majestic depths where the peace
of winter reigned and slept its mysterious dreamless slumber.

He trod the pathless field covered with hills and dales of snow which
swept away before him like the billows of a boundless ocean of liquid
light. His feet crunched through the frozen crust till he sank to his
knees, and then it needed all his powers to step forwards once more.
But with strenuous effort he ploughed his way, still taking flight from
his own thoughts. There was something almost comforting in this
objectless striving. His lungs fought for breath; moisture poured from
every pore of his body as he plunged and stumbled on. Here and there
the crust was strong enough to bear him, and then he felt as if he had
been endowed with wings and floated over the ground, till another crash
laid him low, grovelling on his hands and knees.

Now the wall of woods rose higher and darker before him; ... he was
only a hundred steps from his goal, when his eye was arrested by
something in the shape of a hillock extending a distance of about fifty
or sixty feet in the direction of the wood. Coming nearer, he saw it
was too regular in form for a hillock, and its corners too sharply
defined. A few feet off there was a second mound of the same
description, and to the left again, a third. They must be gravel heaps,
he thought, that had been dug up in the autumn and left to be removed
till after the thaw set in. Why should the peasants not get gravel from
his property when there was no one to prevent them?

But what did those crosses mean, that stood out so solemnly and eerily
in the night, at the foot of each mound? At first he had not noticed
them against the dark background of the woods. They were three in
number. Roughly hewn out of fir trunks, they were so firmly planted in
the earth, that they did not move a hair's-breadth when he shook them.
They bore no inscription, and if they had, he would not have been able
to read it. Inscrutable as memorials of forgotten misfortune, they
stood ranged there in the dim moonlight like rugged sentinels.

And then the mystery was solved. He saw what they were. With a loud cry
he dropped his face in his hands. He had stumbled on the graves of the
men who had fallen on that accursed night in the year '7. Here lay the
bones of his father's victims. What evil chance had led him here
to-night? Or was it chance? Had not a thousand invisible arms beckoned
him cajolingly and irresistibly along this maniacal route, and let him
fight his way through snow and ice, till he was ready to faint from
exhaustion? It seemed as though fate had kept in reserve the most
excruciating lash of her scourge till this hour of his bitterest
humiliation; so that he should no longer be in doubt as to there being
any salvation in store for him, and to demonstrate once for all that he
was doomed to sink for ever under the weight of shame and despair.

"But it is well that I came," he said, conversing with himself; "where
better can I convince myself that the old pastor's curse was not
unjust--and that what was not a sin, has become one?"

His eyes wandered over the row of flattened graves, and now there
seemed no end to them.... How many were buried there? If they had been
closely packed, a hundred or more might rest in each grave--or perhaps
even double that number. And they had all been brave soldiers who had
left their homes gaily, in light-hearted devotion to fight for King and
Fatherland.... Through foulest treachery they had been butchered here
in cold blood, under cover of night.

He clung to one of the crosses, and held his face so tightly against
the rough wood that splints dug into his flesh.

"Arraign him before the whole world!" something cried within him--"him
and _her_--and then go with her to perdition."

He gazed at the distant prospect, and sought the outline of the ruins
against the horizon. But nothing was visible except the tall trees that
crowned the park, which were only dimly discernible. A little behind to
the right of them lay the Cats' Bridge.

He could fancy her emerging from those trees with the troop of
remorselessly cruel Frenchmen following her, bent on their work of
blood. How terrible must the regular echo of their marching feet have
sounded in her ears. Deeper and deeper into the wood they must have
gone, till they reached that ravine which ran parallel with the
thicket, almost in a half-circle. She had never told him the road she
had taken, but he saw exactly how it had all happened. Everything was
as plain as if he had been there himself and seen it with his own eyes.

He stretched out his arm, and with a trembling finger traced the path
against the horizon.

And afterwards when they let her go, and she had made her way home
alone, with the wages of her sin in her pocket--how the cracking
of bullets, the beating of drums, the clouds of gunpowder, the
death-shrieks of the massacred, must have followed her, galloping at
her heels like an army of furies!

How she had gone on living with those awful sounds ringing in her head,
those ghastly pictures floating before her eyes, he could not
understand. If he had been in her place he would have sought instant
deliverance in the first halter or pond that came handy.

But not she! Visions were no terror to her. Her conscience, instead of
tormenting itself, was apparently scarcely conscious of its guilt. She
had only the feelings of an animal or a demon. He shuddered. And it was
to her, _her_, that he had been on the brink of succumbing!

Then in his sore distress he flung himself across the grave, face
downwards in the snow, folded his hands and stammered forth an
incoherent prayer, while tears gushed from his eyes.

The intense cold of his exposed position stung his face, and drove him
to stand up again. He patrolled the row of graves, unable to evolve a
single rational thought. He felt as if he were caught in a brazen net,
that was drawing its meshes tighter and tighter around him.

"God in Heaven," he cried aloud, "visit not the sins of the fathers on
me! Let the dead sleep.... _I_ have not murdered them. Let something
happen, a miracle, a sign, that I may be shown that Thou wilt not have
me perish in this anguish of despair." He cast his eye round him as if
looking for help.

But coldly and unsympathetically the moonlit, lead-coloured sky looked
down on him. There was no sign, no miracle.

He laughed. "You are becoming imbecile," he murmured inwardly.

An unspeakable exhaustion overwhelmed him. He reeled, and his feet gave
way beneath him. The next moment he was sitting in the cavity which the
weight of his prostrate figure had made in the snow. He drew up the
collar of his coat, and nearly frozen, brooded on, half sleeping, half
waking.

When he rose with cramped limbs, happy to have escaped falling asleep
and being frozen to death, one thin purple streak had appeared in the
eastern sky. An ague, hot and cold at the same time, like the beginning
of fever, shook his frame.

Now there was nothing for it, but to go home. But where was he to find
the strength necessary to obliterate for ever from his mind what had
happened in the night that was over at last? His tongue instinctively
felt for his lip.... The wound left by the impress of her kiss burned
there still.

And there had been no sign from Heaven, no miracle. One course only
remained that might save him from the worst, and that was death.

Death! The thought came to him like a ray of light in the darkness, yet
his brain was too weary, his soul too dispirited for him to grasp it,
and it died out as quickly as it had come.

In his own footprints he walked back to the village. No one was
stirring out of doors, but here and there a chimney smoked, and a cock
from his perch crowed a greeting to the new-born day.

As he took the path down to the river, he thought he saw the fleeting
shadow of a woman's figure hurrying from the drawbridge. Perhaps it was
Regina, who after long waiting and watching had now come to meet him.

But no! Regina was not so slim and dainty. Who in all the village could
want to come to the drawbridge at this unearthly hour? His heart beat
fast. He had been seen. A soft, squealing sound fell on the air, and
the next instant the figure had vanished down a bypath. He did not
think of following her. It might possibly be a dairymaid who had been
taking a morning dip, and was shy of meeting him; but on coming to the
drawbridge he saw footmarks on the freshly fallen hoarfrost, and these
came to an end at the pillar to which the letter-box was fixed.

Who could be his nocturnal correspondent? It was ridiculous, yet a
flood of hope suffused his soul.

He snatched the little key, that he always carried about with him, from
his pocket. The box opened--a letter fell out.

He broke the seal with shaking fingers. Helene's signature! Had God
heard his petition? Had He after all sent him fresh strength for the
struggle, and deliverance?

The dawn gave him sufficient light to read by, but the lines danced
before his eyes. Only here and there he drank in a broken sentence or a
single word--"Wait patiently." "The hour when I summon you to come to
me." "Longing." "Childhood's days." "Happy."

And one thing that was not written there at all he could read
distinctly. The sign that he had prayed for by the grave of the
warriors had fallen from Heaven. The miracle had happened!

Renewed confidence in himself possessed him. He was not forsaken; he
need not yet despair of his better self. This pure, bright angel, the
good genius of his youth, was still faithful, still believed in him.
Her trust should not be abused. Rather die than, through despising
himself, bring her to feeling shame at her faith in him.

He turned his face towards the purple morning glow, and, raising his
hand solemnly, uttered the following words:--

"God, who art a great and just Judge, and visitest the sins of the
fathers on the children to the third and fourth generation, I hereby
swear to take my life with my own hand rather than let the curse of Thy
priest gain ascendency over me. Amen."

Then he walked towards the house as if freed from an intolerable
burden.

"Now the devil is exorcised!" he said as he entered the vestibule,
heaving a deep sigh of relief; nevertheless, the hand that lifted the
latch still trembled feverishly.

He surveyed the room with one quick shy glance.

In the rosy light of dawn he saw her crouching, dressed on her bed, her
hands clasped over her knees. Her jacket was open; her hair hung about
her face in tangled masses. Her dress was exactly as it had been when
he left her the evening before.

She raised her head slowly, and gazed at him as if in a dream with soft
melting eyes.

He shrank before that gaze.

"Haven't you been to bed?" he asked in as harsh a tone as he could
command.

She continued to look at him with the same blissfully rigid expression,
and said nothing.

"Didn't you hear?" he asked again imperiously.

She did not start as she used to do when he spoke thus; but a scarcely
perceptible vibration passed through her frame, as if the sound of his
voice filled her with ecstasy. She smiled a little.

"Hear what?" she asked.

"My question as to why you hadn't been to bed."

"I waited up for you, _Herr_."

"I did not order you to wait for me."

"Nor did you forbid me, _Herr_."

He clung to the back of a chair.

"Why are you afraid of her?" he asked himself. "You have just sworn
that danger exists no longer."

Then to get rid of her he told her to go and prepare him something hot
for breakfast.

She rose deliberately, stretching her stiff limbs. A dreamy languor
seemed to pervade her whole being. Since last night she was completely
transformed.

Directly he had shut the door after her, he tore the letter from his
pocket, and read it to reassure himself of is happiness. It ran:--


"Dear Friend Of My Youth,--I hear from papa that you have been highly
honoured by our wise and noble King--that he has made you captain of
your division, and given you the Iron Cross. I congratulate you
heartily, and am rejoiced at your good fortune. What else passed papa
wouldn't tell me, but he was very excited about it, and in a great rage
when he mentioned you. Ah! if only you could have managed to win his
affection and the goodwill of the parishioners! Then I shouldn't have
to be so careful, and could see and speak to you often.... Dear
Boleslav, I implore you never to think of coming into the garden again.

"You know papa--what he is; and if he found out--ah! I believe he would
kill me! Wait patiently, my dear friend! The Bible says, you know,
patience shall be rewarded. So have patience till the hour when I shall
summon you to come to me; then I will tell you all the news. How full
of longing I am to see you! Oh, those lovely days of childhood! What
has become of them? How happy I was then!--Your

                                               "Helene.

"_Postscript_.--Never come to the garden again. I will appoint another
place of meeting. Not in the garden."


Strange, that what a few minutes before had filled him with delight
now seemed flat and colourless, and disappointed him. Doubtless the
half-wild creature was to blame, whose close proximity confused his
judgment. A kind of delirium of bliss seemed to have taken possession
of her. And how she had smiled! how strangely she had stared into
space!

She came back into the room, and moved about it like a somnambulist.

"Regina!"

She half closed her lids, and said, "Yes, _Herr_,"

"What's the matter with you?"

She smilingly shook her head. "Nothing, _Herr_," she answered, and
again that look came into her eyes; they seemed to swim in dreamful
contemplation of some infinite felicity.

He felt his throat contract. Clearly there was still reason to be
afraid of himself.

Then he resolved to speak and listen to her no more, but to live in his
work. He immersed himself in his papers again, sorted and laid aside
important documents, filed, registered, and made copies of them. It
seemed to him that he must get everything in order in anticipation of
some pending catastrophe.

So the day went by, and the evening. Regina crouched in the darkest and
remotest corner she could find and remained motionless. He dared not
cast even a glance in her direction. The blood hammered in his temples,
yellow circles danced before his eyes, every nerve in his body was on
edge from over-fatigue.

On the stroke of ten she rose, murmured goodnight, and disappeared
behind her curtain. He neither answered nor looked up.

At eleven he put out the lights and went to bed too.

"Why does your heart beat like this?" he thought. "Remember your oath."
But the superstitious, indefinable dread of coming disaster haunted him
like a ghost in the darkness.

He got up again, and stole with bare feet across the room to the case
of weapons, that was dimly illumined by the newly-risen moon. He caught
up one of his pistols, which he always kept loaded to be forearmed
against unforeseen events. It had been his faithful friend and
protector in many a bloody fray. To-day it should protect him from
himself. With its trigger cocked, he laid it on the small table by his
bedside.

"It's doubtful whether you sleep a wink now," he said, as he nestled
his head on the pillows. Yet scarcely three seconds later he lost
consciousness, and slumber lapped his tired limbs.


                           *   *   *   *   *


A curious dream recalled him from profoundest sleep into a half-dozing
wakefulness. He fancied he saw two bright eyes like a panther's
glittering at him out of the darkness. They were only a few inches from
his face, and seemed to be fixed on it with fiery earnestness, as if
with the intention of bringing him under the spell of their
enchantment.

His breath came slower, almost stopped, then he felt another breath
well over him in full soft waves.

It was no dream after all, for his eyes were wide open. The moon cast a
patch of light on the counterpane of his bed, and still those other
lights glowed on, devouring him with their fire. The outline of a face
was visible. A woman's white figure bent over him.

A thrill of mingled pleasure and alarm ran through his body.

"Regina," he murmured.

Then she sank on her knees by the bed and covered his hands with kisses
and tears. In the enervation that had crept over him he would have
stroked the black tresses which streamed across the pillow, only he
lacked the strength to extricate his hands from hers.

Then--"Your oath, think of your oath!" a voice cried within him.

In dismay, he started up. Not yet fully awake, he reeled forwards, and
tearing his hands out of her grasp, fumbled for the pistol.

"You, or her."

There was a report. Regina, with a cry of pain, fell with her forehead
against the edge of the bed, and at the same moment a great rumbling
and crackling was heard from the opposite wall. The portrait of his
beautiful grandmother had crashed to the ground.

He stared wildly round him, only just arriving at complete
consciousness.

"Are you wounded?" he asked, laying his hand gently on the dark head.

"I--don't--know, _Herr_," and then she glided across the floor to her
mattress.

He dressed himself and kindled a light. It now all appeared a confused
nightmare.

Ah! but if she died, if he had killed her?

When he drew aside the curtain, he beheld her cowering and shivering in
her corner, holding up the counterpane in her teeth. It was smeared
with blood.

"For God's sake--show me. Where were you hit?" he cried.

She let the counterpane drop as far as her breast, and silently offered
her naked shoulder for his inspection. Blood was streaming from it.

But the first glance satisfied him, the connoisseur in wounds, that it
was a mere surface shot. It would heal of itself in a few days.

"Thank God! Thank God!"

She stared up at him absently with wide eyes.

"It is nothing," he stammered. "A scratch--nothing more."

She appeared not to hear what he said.

"Pull yourself together like a man. Not a word, not a look, must betray
your real feelings."

With this self-exhortation he withdrew, and wearily put down the light
on the table.

What now? Where should he go? To stay meant ruin and damnation.

This very hour he must go away. Away! Somewhere, _any_where, so long as
a barrier of his fellow-creatures separated him from her for evermore.
And in breathless haste he began to gather together papers that proved
his father's guilt, as if they were the most precious possessions in
the world.




                               CHAPTER XV


More than three months had passed away since Boleslav von Schranden had
turned his back on the inheritance of his fathers.

In the meantime spring had come. Moss, starred with anemones, grew
amongst the short-bladed grass; the ditches were full of a luxuriant
growth of bindweed and nettles; and at every breeze the boughs rained a
shower of crumbling catkins. The plough left a trail of smooth, black
furrows on the bosom of the awakening earth, and seed-cloths were
already being put out to air.

It was the first spring for many and many a long year that had begun in
peace, and of which there were hopes of its ending in peace.

Europe's evil genius was vanquished. Like Prometheus he lay chained to
his barren sea-girt rock; and so the sword was hung up to rust, and the
ploughshare and harrow resumed their sway.

What had taken place on the shores of the Mediterranean in the month of
March, the inhabitants of quiet country towns and out-of-the-way
moorland villages had as yet no suspicion. Not a breath had reached
them of that interrupted quadrille at Prince Metternich's ball, of the
fury and consternation of sovereigns and potentates; they knew nothing
of foam-bespattered proscriptions issued against the escaped rebel, of
re-arming and rumours of war.

The lark's carolling in the sky seemed a jocund invitation to resume
labour in the fields, the womb of the earth opened with yearning for
the crops from which it had fasted so long.

One day towards the end of April, a curious regiment was seen on the
king's highroad approaching the county town of Wartenstein, which
excited the wondering interest of all whom they passed by the way.

It was not easy to decide at once whether they were soldiers or
workmen. Most of them were armed, but side by side with the gun on
their shoulders was a spade, and from the red bundles slung across
their backs peeped whetstones and scythe-blades. Ten or twelve of them
were mounted, but behind came as baggage a stream of rough waggons,
composed of about twenty axle wheels, loaded with bursting sacks of
corn and implements of every description. Altogether the regiment
numbered about a hundred and fifty, marching in half military fashion
in double file. It consisted of muscular youths, for the most part fair
and of ruddy complexions, with thickset figures. Their faces were broad
and bony, not German, and still less Polish, in type. They spoke a
language unknown in the neighbourhood, and sang songs of which no one
knew the tune. Notwithstanding, their leader was German, and so was the
discipline which had trained their limbs and given to their movements a
certain dignity of bearing.

At the head of the procession rode one to whom they looked up with awe
and affection, and whose brief and not unfriendly words of command they
obeyed with almost childlike zeal. It was Boleslav, who came with this
little army to reconquer his own territory.

He had recruited it far away in the Lithuanian East, on the remotest
border of the province, whither neither good nor evil reports of the
name of Schranden had ever penetrated. During his five years' previous
intercourse with this people, he had become intimately acquainted with
their habits and customs, and took care to choose his pioneers from
those who had been in the war, and become accustomed to the rigours of
a soldier's life, but who were still unfamiliar enough with the German
tongue to have their minds poisoned by the Schrandeners' gossip.

Now he had every hope that the fate of his father, who had failed to
find either serf or labourer to bind himself to work for him, would not
be his. And should the Schrandeners offer fight to these workpeople, as
they had done to the Polish serfs whom his father had been obliged to
call to his assistance, so much the worse for the Schrandeners; they
would only be sent home with bleeding noses.

In proud self-reliance he looked coming events in the face. He would
willingly have returned home earlier, only, to prosecute his enterprise
on the scale it demanded, he was forced to wait till the time in which
he could claim his aunt's legacy, and so have the necessary means at
his disposal.

He had lived through hard times since that January night, when, to
flee the coercion of his hot young blood, he had dashed out into the
snow-clad, moon-illumined landscape, followed by the cries of the
unhappy woman who could not understand what ailed him.

It was long before the furnace within him abated, and her beseeching,
frightened eyes became dimmer in his memory. In Königsberg, where he
had gone direct from home, he had meditated obtaining, through boldly
seeking a trial, that justice long denied to his house. But though the
cross on his breast compelled the doors that had been shut on his
father to open to him, the polite shrug of the shoulders with which the
judges promised to see what could be done, and then coolly referred him
to one Court of Appeal after another, taught him that the passionate
self-surrender he had dreamed of would be here ill-timed and out of
place.

So he again packed up his father's correspondence, which of his own
free will he had desired to make public in order to clear up every
shadow of mystery, and felt he must keep it till a more favourable
opportunity offered itself. Besides, he had destroyed too much that
might have had a vindicating effect, and to court the risk of his own
condemnation might after all be acting unfairly to his father's memory.

Contact with the outer world cooled and damped in a singular way his
ardour; and the feverish tension of his emotions gradually relaxed,
giving place to a more normal state of mind. He was confronted with
reasoning instead of anathemas, courteous words instead of threats--and
this worked a soothing and beneficial influence on his nature. He
projected plans, and prepared himself with composure and deliberation
for what the future might have in store for him.

At the same time the magic fascination the wild girl had exercised on
him was becoming dimmer in his recollection. Every new face, every new
thought, alienated him further from her. Gradually he ceased to
reproach himself for having acted with merciless cruelty towards her,
and the mastery she had acquired over his senses was now
incomprehensible to him. Nevertheless, often when he sat alone at dusk
in his private room at the hostelry, he saw those eyes again flashing
soft fire, and felt her presence thrill through his veins. Then it
seemed as if the scar, that furrowed horizontally his under lip, began
to burn like an inflammatory record of that kiss, the only one that the
lips of a woman had ever imprinted on his, for his shy and reserved
manner had all his life repelled, and kept women at a distance. At such
times his whole existence seemed compressed into that one moment's
ecstasy. But of course this was only a freak, illusive reverie played
his senses, which lamplight and work soon dispelled.

He had written to her once or twice in order to set her mind at rest on
the subject of his sudden departure, or rather flight--had asked for an
answer, and promised a speedy return.

Once he had had news of her--a letter written in bold characters and
correctly expressed. After all these years of bondage, the lessons she
had learnt in the old pastor's school still evidently stood her in good
stead.

In prospect of his near approach to his home, he drew the sheet from
his pocket, and read sitting in the saddle the lines, which, in spite
of himself, he almost knew by heart.


"My dear Master,--Don't be anxious on my account. No one will do
anything to me. They do not know down in the village that you are gone
away, and they are frightened of the wolf-traps, for no one has told
them that we cleared them away. Every night I see to the pistols and
guns in case they should come; but they won't come. As for the wound, I
have quite forgotten it. The grocer at Bockeldorf gave me some English
sticking-plaster, and when it peeled off, it was entirely healed. The
thaw and floods are now over, thank God. For several days I was obliged
to go with very little food, because the water was too high on the
meadows for me to wade through, and I would rather have died than go
down to Herr Merckel. Ah! dear master, I am so glad that you are coming
home soon; for I seem to have nothing to live for, when I have not you
to wait upon. I climb up on the Cats' Bridge very often and wait for
you there, so that when you come you shall not find it drawn up. Please
don't come in the night, nor on Thursday before seven, because then I
shall be going to Bockeldorf. The snow is all gone now, and the grass
is beginning to get quite green. Yesterday I heard the swallows
twittering in the nest they have built in the eaves; but I haven't seen
them yet. Now and then I suffer from stitch in my side, and giddiness,
and I have not much appetite. I believe it comes from being so much
alone, which I cannot bear. But I don't know why I should tell you all
this. Perhaps it is because you were always so kind to me. I can't help
always remembering your great kindness to me.--Your _Hochgeboren's_
humble servant,

                              "Regina Hackelberg."


This letter had filled him with pleasure and satisfaction, for it
showed on the one hand that she had very reasonably bowed to the
inevitable, and that there was no cause for his anxiety; and on the
other, that she still faithfully clung and belonged to him heart and
soul. And glad as he might be to feel his blood purged of the
unwholesome excitement with which she had inspired it, he could not
help being pleased at this proof of her remaining ever his true and
willing servant.

His belief in Helene's sacred influence on his destiny had, he
imagined, received a new impetus, since her note had saved him in an
hour of imminent danger. He wore it gratefully as a talisman on his
heart, even if he did not read it so often, and with such delight, as
he read Regina's.

Soon after his arrival in the capital, an intense yearning had drawn
him to the Cathedral, where he had sought out the old altar-piece,
which contained her living image. He experienced a bitter
disappointment. The Madonna amidst her lilies and roses appeared
absolutely ridiculous. She looked to him now as if she had been baked
out of _Marzepan_, and the flowers, with their stiff stalks and
drooping heads, appeared as unnatural and insipid as their doll
custodian.

And this was what he had carried about with him for years, as the
_facsimile_ of his beloved! Certainly it was high time she appeared in
her own person before his bodily eyes, otherwise he would be in danger
of loving a mere phantom.

And now, in this the hour of home-coming, it was not she at all with
whom he looked forward to a joyous meeting; his senses saw only the
picture of a girl waiting and watching for him, whose fresh and
unbounded loveliness was no myth.

It was early morning and the sun was shining. He had made his last
halt, the night before, at a hamlet not far from Wartenstein, as he
proposed to pass rapidly through the town, to avoid being gaped at, and
exciting idle curiosity. Once there he was within three miles and a
quarter of home, and hoped to enter his native village at the hour for
vespers, for his stalwart followers were used to rapid marching. As he
rode up to the moss-grown ramparts, eight sounded from the belfries of
Wartenstein, and he counted on being able to quit the town quite early,
and so escape awkward questions.

Thus, he was little prepared for the surprises awaiting him within its
gates. The sentinel, instead of stopping him and demanding his
passport, shouted up to a window in the gateway tower--

"Ring the bells! ring the bells! The first detachment is here!"

Then he saluted with his pike, while a merry peal clashed from the
watch-towers of Wartenstein to announce Boleslav's arrival.

"What can be the meaning of it?" he asked himself, shaking his head;
and his astonishment increased, when on riding through the streets he
found them thronged with crowds of men, women, and children, who waved
their caps and handkerchiefs, and welcomed him with resounding cheers.

His Lithuanians, who had been accustomed on their triumphal marches to
being received everywhere with open arms, took the present ovation as a
matter of course, and responded to the hurrahs with lusty lungs.

But to Boleslav it was plain that there was some misunderstanding,
which in the next few minutes would be explained.

As he entered the market-place, which, like the streets, was filled
with an enthusiastic crowd, the Landrath, at the head of an impressive
procession, consisting of the Burgomaster, Corporation, and other
magnates of the town, advanced to meet him. He laid his delicate, bony
hand on his breast, and cleared his throat with a rasp, preparatory to
speaking.

When he recognised Boleslav, who had quickly sprung from his horse, he
drew back in embarrassment. Nevertheless he began--

"I congratulate you, Freiherr von Schranden, on your being the first
who has hastened here with your troops----"

"Not so fast, _Herr Landrath_," Boleslav interrupted. "There is an
error somewhere. These people are workmen, whom I have recruited in
Lithuania for domestic use. I am on my way with them to Schranden."

An amused smirk passed through the ranks of the town magnates. They
enjoyed seeing the Landrath make a fool of himself, even if they
themselves were made to look foolish in the process.

"And you really haven't heard yet?" he stammered out, concealing his
annoyance.

"I have come straight from the remotest corner of Prussia, _Herr
Landrath_."

"You haven't heard that Napoleon has escaped from Elba, and that the
King has again appealed to his gallant Prussian subjects to arm?"

Boleslav felt a rush of mingled horror and joy flood his heart.

So once more the world's history had absorbed the solution of his
career in its own, and he would be saved further self-doubt and
suspense with regard to it. His vast schemes, the work to which he was
to consecrate his life, lay shattered at his feet scarcely begun, and
now ended perhaps for ever. But away with all regrets and fears. Did
not the Fatherland, _his_ Fatherland, call him?

"Thank you, _Herr Landrath_," he said, while he endeavoured to still
his wildly beating heart. "I feel honoured at your thinking so well of
me and my contingent of Schrandeners. We will prove ourselves worthy of
your high opinion, and in four-and-twenty hours be in readiness."

The Landrath held out his hand. He retreated a step or two, and was in
the act of repaying the Landrath in his own coin for the insult he had
not long ago subjected him to.

Then he reflected. The Fatherland calls you, and what is your petty
hate or love weighed in the balance? And he seized the bony hand, which
its owner, offended, had already withdrawn, and shook it heartily.

Then he learnt further particulars. The evening before the King's
proclamation, dated April 7, had reached Wartenstein. All night the
administration had been hard at work getting the decrees ready for
local heads of departments, and arranging to send out special mounted
messengers to distribute them.

"Will one be sent to Schranden?" asked Boleslav.

"Certainly," was the answer.

"Then may I add a military order?"

"Yes, if you wish."

He tore a sheet of paper from his pocket-book and hastily scribbled the
following lines:--


"At five o'clock in the afternoon all troops liable to service are to
muster in the churchyard square, bringing with them accoutrements and
canteens. The hour for marching will then be stated.

                             "Von Schranden, _Landwehr Captain_.

"To the local administrator."


"And what will become of Regina?" was a question that rose warningly
within him.

But he would not listen to it. He was almost delirious. The fever for
action possessed him.

He called his workpeople together, explained to them that he no longer
needed their services, and bade each to return as quickly as possible
to his native place, from there to join his respective company. He paid
them off, and took leave of them with a shake of the hand and a
blessing.

The stalwart youths, who had lost their hearts to him, kissed the hem
of his coat, and went their way with tears in their eyes. Then he found
a place of safety for the waggons, whose freight alone represented no
small capital, made arrangements for the sale of the seed and
provender, and left the horses at the disposal of a dealer.

Only the one on whose back he rode did he keep for his own use.

It was half-past two before he had transacted his business, and was
free to start on his homeward road.

He had seen hanging up for sale in a tailor's shop an undress
state-uniform, which, as the officers of the Landwehr were forbidden
any gorgeous display of ornament, and it happened to fit him exactly,
he purchased promptly, first having the braided collar replaced by a
plain scarlet strip.

Thus respectably fitted out, he was ready to confront his Schrandeners,
whom he now saw delivered into his hand in a rather different manner
from the one he had anticipated.


                           *   *   *   *   *


While Boleslav was riding home, Lieutenant Merckel was pacing up and
down the back parlour of the Black Eagle in furious excitement.

"I won't, no, I won't submit to being under the command of that
scoundrel," he roared at his father, who, to soothe him, had the best
wine in his cellar (the best was sour enough) set on the table, and
never wearied of refilling the raving youth's glass.

"Felixchen," he supplicated, "be sensible. If the King has ordered it
so, and the authorities demand----"

"But what if my honour demands the contrary, father?" cried his son,
angrily twirling the ends of his moustache. "I am an officer, father; I
have some sense of honour, and my sense of honour bids me die by
putting a bullet through my body with my own hand, rather than follow
and serve under that son of a traitor."

"But if the King----" repeated the old man in desperation.

"The King! what does he know about it? He has been taken in, deceived,
kept in the dark. But I, _I_ will open his eyes. I will say to him,
'Here, your Majesty, are thirty brave soldiers, and an honourable,
upright officer, who would rather----'"

"Drink, Felixchen," entreated the old man, and wiped the sweat of
anxiety from his brow; "this wine cost me, to begin with, a thaler the
bottle. Nowhere else in the world could you get anything to compare
with it."

"The devil take your swipes!" exclaimed the dutiful son, smashing the
bottle with his sabre-hilt. "I don't intend to sacrifice my honour for
any Judas reward. My honour is not to be bribed into silence. My honour
dictates that I should tear the hound's heart out of his breast. And
I'll do it. The Fatherland must be rid of such a scandalous reproach
once for all. This plague-spot in the Prussian staff of officers must
and shall be branded out. I'll see that it is. So sure as I am a brave
soldier I will do it, even if I die for honour's sake.... Good-bye for
the present, father; I must go now and bid my little sweetheart
farewell." And rounding his lips for a defiant whistle, the
half-inebriated young man swaggered out, his sabre-blade clanking the
ground at every step.

Boleslav, as he entered the village shortly after four, found the
street full of women and old people, who ran from under the horse's
hoofs, maintaining a glum silence, and then followed like evil spirits
in his wake. He felt for the pistols in his side pockets, and loosened
the scabbard of his sabre; then he fully expected a skirmish of some
sort. "Even if they have no other officer with a soldier's coat on,
they may be planning to attack me from the front this time," he
reflected, and his breast expanded proudly at the thought.

The crowd was denser in the churchyard square, and he was obliged to
rein in his horse to give it time to get out of his way. Here and there
a smothered laugh or a half-whispered imprecation fell on his ear.
Otherwise total silence was the order of the day. Close to the church,
some twenty paces from its flight of stone steps, he saw the troops
drawn up in double line, about fifteen or sixteen squadrons in
strength.

Lieutenant Merckel was parading up and down, giving first one and then
another--as it seemed--a word of encouragement. His face was aflame,
his gait uncertain; once or twice his cavalry sabre got entangled with
his legs and nearly tripped him up.

Boleslav cast one rapid, searching glance at the parsonage. Its windows
were closely curtained, and in the garden too there was no sign of
life.

He drew a deep breath, and rode into the heart of the crowd, which
closed behind him.

Once again he stood single-handed, face to face with the Schrandener
wolves, but this time he was master.

The sense of iron calm and perfect coolness, which he had always
experienced at moments of life and death issues, did not forsake him
now.

"I am waiting for your salute, _Herr Lieutenant_" he cried in a
threatening tone.

He was answered by a drunken, jeering laugh.

So they intended to mutiny! His suspicions had not been ill founded.

He tore his sabre from the scabbard. "Halt!" he commanded.

There was a murmur of dissent. Two or three stepped out of the ranks,
and Lieutenant Merckel, with an abusive epithet, drew his sabre and
rushed at Boleslav.

This was a moment in which hesitation would have been fatal. A flash of
steel, a whiz, and Lieutenant Merckel sank howling on the sandy earth.

The ranks broke their line, made as if they would spring on him: but
surprise and terror petrified them.

"Halt!" The command came forth for the second time in a voice of
thunder; and no one dared move an eyelash.

Boleslav drew a pistol from the saddle-pocket, and, holding it with the
trigger cocked in his left hand, he let the reins slip into his armed
right.

"Men of the Landwehr!" he shouted in a voice that reverberated through
the square, "you know that during the last six hours you are bound in
obedience by a war-decree, and that the slightest attempt at
insubordination will cost you your lives. What has taken place up to
this moment I will overlook, but whoever does not instantly comply with
my commands without grumbling will find that I shall not scruple to
send a bullet through his brain on the spot."

Felix Merckel, who was bleeding copiously from a wound in his head,
regained consciousness, and tried to raise himself. But the blood that
streamed over his face blinded him.

"Take away his sabre and bind him!" were Boleslav's instructions.

The men exchanged glances; they had nothing to bind him with.

Again to hesitate would be to lose the day; so with a quick resolve he
sprang off his horse, tore the bridle from its bit, and handed the
thongs to the flügelman on his left.

"Set to work, and two others help."

Reluctantly, and with evil sidelong glances, they obeyed. The prostrate
man hit out with hands and feet, and endeavoured to wipe the blood out
of his eyes with his sleeve, but his struggles were in vain; the reins
bound his wrists, and the foam-spattered curb served as a gag.

Meanwhile the spirited black charger had broken away, and was rearing
among the terrified rabble.

Boleslav saw, as he looked behind him, that the church door stood open
for a farewell service, and that the key was in the lock.

"Put him in the church," he commanded; and at the same moment the old
landlord of the inn appeared on the scene, whimpering and wringing his
hands.

"Felixchen!" he yelled, "what are they doing to you? Don't give in; cry
for help. Help him, dear people. I order you to help him. I am your
mayor. I insist--I command you."

"It is my place to issue commands here," exclaimed Boleslav loftily.

Then the old man changed his tactics, and, by cringing, tried to soften
the disciplinarian's heart.

"_Herr Captain_, have compassion on a wretched father. I have known you
since you were a little boy, who sat on my knee, and I always, always
was fond of you. Isn't it true, you people? Wouldn't any of us have
willingly given our lives for the _Junker_?"

Had his corpulency permitted, he would have thrown himself at
Boleslav's feet. On seeing his son hustled away, he ran after him in
despair, and made a futile attempt to hold him back by the coattails.
But the door was promptly closed on him.

"Give me the key!" shouted Boleslav.

The old man hurled himself on the steps, and pounded the oak panels of
the door with his fists.

The key was delivered up by the flügelman and his companions.

"Your name?"

"Michael Grossjohann!" the Schrandener answered curtly.

"And yours," turning to the two others. "Franz Malky."

"Emil Rosner."

He entered the names in his pocket-book.

"You three will keep watch on the prisoner through the night, and are
answerable for him with your heads."

Old Merckel, finding the church door did not yield to his furious
onslaughts, came to his senses, and squinting askance at Boleslav,
sneaked off in the direction of the parsonage. The latter thought he
knew what he wanted there.

"Three more of you," he continued, "will kindly guard the vestry door,
the key of which I have not got in my possession, and take care that no
one goes in and out except the barber, who is to bandage the prisoner's
wound."

Three voices quivering with suppressed anger assured him his orders
should be obeyed.

"Now then, to business!" he exclaimed. "According to the lists the
village of Schranden is capable of supplying troops to the number----."
And the mobilisation began.




                              CHAPTER XVI


Two hours later Boleslav quitted the gaping crowd, who glowered at him
with a sort of stony superstitious awe, as if he were a magician, and
as he crossed the open common he felt as if he had just left a cage of
wild beasts, the duty of taming which, had fallen to his share. The
danger seemed safely over for the present. "Having mastered them
to-day, they won't dare to mutiny to-morrow," he thought, and revelled
in the joyous sensation of having won a victory.

Now he had only to take leave of Regina, and his troubles would be at
an end. The world was all before him once more; an unknown future
seemed to be enticing him onwards with bugle-peals and battle-cries.

"Regina! now for Regina!" welled up in him with such jubilation, from
the depths of his soul, that he was frightened at himself. He took a
round by the wood before approaching the Cats' Bridge, to brace and
harden his nerves for this last and most arduous encounter.

The sun pierced the topmost boughs of the trees. Over the tender young
green of the meadows floated a shadowy haze, and an odour of fermenting
slime rose from the damp ditches. Only the fir-wood looked as dark and
mysterious as in winter, with scarcely a light-green spike peeping
anywhere from its black, bare branches.

He threw himself on the mossy ground and watched the sunbeams glint
through the purple haze that hung over the surrounding thicket.

Once again he reviewed the daring enterprise of the last few hours, and
the thickly curtained windows of the parsonage recurred to his memory.
How careful she had been to keep herself out of his sight and reach,
and how well she had succeeded! Surely she must know what had brought
him into the village--must know that to-morrow he would quit it,
perhaps never to return.

Had she no longing to see him just once before his departure, and to
wish him God speed? The hour she had told him to wait patiently for,
was it not time it came to-day? What availed the letter he wore close
to his heart, if the hand that penned it was refused to him? Her image
was now quite effaced from his heart; it could no longer lead him to
battle, unless the impression was renewed.

"If she loves me, she will send for me. If she doesn't send for me, she
must be lost to me for ever."

Having arrived at this conclusion he left the wood and bent his
footsteps in the direction of the river. The park, in its new spring
dress of lightest green, smiled him a welcome. A shimmering crown of
silver rested on the tall poplars, and the dark masses of ivy glistened
on their slender trunks.

How beautiful was this home, that had been a source of such infinite
pain and sorrow! How his whole being yearned for that impoverished
dwelling where he had lodged like a criminal! Was this longing owing to
the woman who had voluntarily shared his loneliness and wretchedness,
and who had tried to make her own misery the foundation of a new
happiness for him?

But he had no reason to fear what was to come. He felt that since the
Fatherland had summoned him, he was safe from all weak and vicious
instincts. Even long before this he believed he had completely freed
himself from her influence. Their relations now were merely those of
master and servant.

One more night, and the priest's curse would be remembered only as an
old man's idle babble. Yet what would become of her? She must look
after herself. He had provided for her future. No one could say he was
bound to do more. And to-day he would renew his bounty twofold or
threefold, so that she would stand in the position of a wealthy widow.
When thousands of women and children would perish of hunger in
broken-hearted distress, without any one heeding their fate, why should
he concern himself so much about deserting this one strange girl and
leaving her in solitude?

He steeled and hardened his heart, for it had begun to beat faster....

And as he mounted the steep ascent to the Cats' Bridge, he caught sight
of the familiar figure among the bushes above, illumined by the setting
sun.

"Regina," he called. But she did not move.

"Come and meet me, Regina!"

Then with elevated shoulders she slowly glided nearer, the fingers of
her left hand outspread, and pressed against her breast.

He looked at her, and was horrified. "My God!" he exclaimed, "how
changed you are!"

Her appearance was wild and distraught in the extreme. Her clothes were
torn, her hair, which under the frequent use of the comb had begun to
fall into such splendid glossy waves, once more hung over her forehead
and cheeks in a shaggy, unkempt mass. Her eyes shone with feverish,
almost uncanny lustre from dark-blue cavities, and she dared not raise
them to his.

"She is pining away," something cried in him. "She will die, because of
you." He took hold of her hand and it lay limply in his palm.

"Regina, do speak. Aren't you glad that I've come back?"

She ducked her head, as she had been in the habit of doing when she
instinctively expected blows instead of kind words.

He stroked her rough, dry hair. "Poor thing!" he said. "You must have
had a dreadfully dull time of it, with not a human soul to speak
to----"

She shrank from his touch and was still silent.

"Why did you not write and tell me that you found it so terribly
lonely?"

She shook her head, and then said timidly, "It wasn't the loneliness."

"What was it then?"

She looked at him nervously and said nothing.

"Well, what was it?"

"I ... I thought ... you weren't coming back."

"But, you foolish girl, didn't I write and say I was?"

"Yes, you wrote and said, 'I am coming perhaps in about ten days,' and
I went to the Cats' Bridge, and there I waited day and night-day and
night--but you didn't come. And then three weeks afterwards you wrote
again, 'I shall come home perhaps in about ten days.' And you never
came, and then I thought you were only putting me off with promises ...
so as not to break it to me suddenly that you weren't coming back at
all. And I thought you repented being good to me, because I didn't
deserve it, and because I----" She broke off and buried her face for a
moment in her hands.

"But your letter was so sensible."

"Yes, _Herr_," she faltered. "Would it have done for _me_ to write
differently?"

He bit his lip, and stared before him into the lacework of the young
green foliage. Did she suspect what would befall her in a few hours?

"But now all is right again, isn't it?" he asked unsteadily.

With a cry she sank on the ground, and clinging to his knees exclaimed,
"Yes, oh yes, _Herr_. When you are here everything is right, everything
is different. If you were to go away again, _Herr_, what should I do?"

No, she suspected nothing. The heaviest, most crushing blow of all was
in store for her. He felt as if there were a thunderbolt concealed in
his sleeve, which the next time he stirred would descend and shatter
her to fragments. But he had still time to dispose of as he pleased. A
few hours to devote to this poor creature, in which to revive and make
her happy again before signing her death-warrant, and in which she
would unconsciously gather up strength for the ordeal.

"Stand up, Regina," he said gently. "Let us enjoy ourselves, and not
think of the future."

Then they walked side by side through the dusky garden, the neatly kept
paths of which were strewn with white gravel, and skirted, like
glittering rivulets, the smooth turf. The shrubs exhaled an
indescribable fragrance, the breath of spring mingled with the scent of
dying things, and in the tree-tops that waved above their heads, they
heard the subdued whispering twitter of home-coming birds.

"How beautifully everything has come out here since I went away!" he
exclaimed.

"Yes, _Herr_," she answered. "It has never been so beautiful as it is
now."

"It has become so all at once?" he asked, smiling. He looked at her
sideways and noticed the hollows in her cheeks. But an exquisite colour
was already tinging them.

She has begun to live again, he thought to himself, and it seemed as if
the next few hours were to be the last vouchsafed to him too of a
vanishing happiness.

"In spite of everything, you have worked hard," he said, striving to
retain his tone of condescending patronage, and he pointed to the neat
borders in which auriculas and primroses were planted.

She gave a proud little laugh. "I thought to myself you should find
everything in order if you _did_ come back, _Herr_."

"But you have neglected yourself, Regina. How is that?"

She turned her face away, blushing hotly.

"Shall I tell the truth, _Herr_?" she stammered.

"Of course," he said.

"I thought ... I ... was ... going to die ... and so ... it wouldn't
matter."

He was silent. It was as if she poured forth an ocean of infinite love
with every word, and that its waves rolled over him.

The lawn on the farther side of the Castle, sloping gently down to the
park, now opened before his gaze. There stood the weather-beaten socket
of the Goddess Diana's pedestal. Regina had collected the pieces and
put them together again, but the torso had been beyond her strength to
lift, and it lay in the grass, while the head, with its blank white
eyes, looked down on it. A few steps farther on, a dark four-cornered
patch stood out in relief from the emerald turf. That was the spot
where he had first seen her busily employed in digging a grave for her
seducer, whom every one else refused to bury.

"I left it as it was--in memory of me," she said apologetically,
pointing to the turned-up clods that, now overgrown with grass, had
joined and formed a bank.

Then they walked on towards the undergrowth that surrounded the cottage
like a thick hedge.

"And I have mended the glass roof too," she said.

"Ah! indeed!"

Their eyes met for a moment, and then they both quickly looked in front
of them again. There was an aspect of peaceful welcome about the little
house. Its window panes had caught a ray of the departing sunlight,
while all else lay buried in deepest shadow.

A sense of contentment at being at home, and of gladness that this was
his home, overcame him, and for a moment allayed his gnawing
restlessness.

"Go," he said, "and cook me something for supper; I am hungry and
exhausted after a long ride."

He remembered his horse for the first time, and wondered where it had
galloped to. Then the next instant he forgot it again.

"And make yourself neat," he continued. "I should like you to look your
best when you come to table."

"Yes, _Herr_--I'll try."

They separated in the vestibule. He went into the sitting-room, and she
to her kitchen. He threw himself with a deep sigh on the sofa, that
creaked beneath his weight. Everything seemed the same as on the night
he had left it, except that the curtain had been taken away from the
corner by the stove, and the couch removed; the portrait of his
grandmother, too, had disappeared. The shot which grazed Regina's neck
had proved its final destruction, and reduced it to ribbons.

One of the windows was open. The strange perfume of fermenting earth,
which to-day he could not get out of his nostrils, flooded the
apartment. But here it might possibly come from a lime heap, which had
been shovelled up at the gable end of the house.

From minute to minute his unrest increased. Why shorten for him and her
the all too scanty time? He could tolerate solitude no longer, and got
up with the intention of going into the kitchen, but when on the
threshold he saw her cowering on the hearth with naked shoulders,
mending her jacket by the firelight,--he retreated, shocked. But in a
few seconds she came herself to open the door to him, fully dressed.

"Is there anything I can do for you, _Herr_?" she asked respectfully.

"Show me where you have repaired the roof," he replied, not being able
to think of anything else to say. He praised her work, without looking
at it. Then he took up a position on the hearth and stared at the
tongues of flame in the grate. By this time it was nearly dark, and the
firelight flickered on the rush walls.

"I'll help you to cook," he said.

"Ah, _Herr_! You are laughing at me," she answered. But her face
lighted up with pleasure.

"What am I to have for supper?"

"There isn't much in the house, _Herr_. Eggs and fried ham--a fresh
salad--and that's all."

"I shall thank God if I----" he stopped abruptly.

He had nearly betrayed the secret of which as yet she had no suspicion,
and she should not, must not, suspect anything. Till the dawn of
to-morrow her felicity should last.

"Very well, make haste," he laughed, while his throat contracted in
anxious suspense, "else I shall expire of hunger."

"The water must boil first, _Herr_."

"All right, we'll wait, then." He squatted on one of the wooden boxes.
"And, Regina," he went on, "come here; do you know I am not satisfied
with your appearance even now? Your hair----"

"I've not had time to comb it yet, _Herr_."

"Comb it now at once, then."

She flashed at him a look of shy entreaty.

"While you are here, _Herr_?" she asked hesitatingly.

"Why not? Have you become prudish all in a minute?"

"It wasn't that----"

"Then don't stand on ceremony."

She went into the far corner of the apartment, where her bed stood, and
with a quick movement loosened the floating wealth of tresses till they
hung below her hips. In the middle of her combing, aware that his eyes
were fixed on her in admiration, she suddenly spread out her arms, as
if overcome with shame and joy, and threw herself on her knees by the
bed, burying her face in the pillows.

He waited silently till she got up. When her hair was done she went to
the hearth and busied herself among the pots and kettles, without
looking at him.

"Tell me, Regina, what have you been doing with yourself all this
time?"

She shook her head. "Bockeldorf was the same as ever; besides the
grocer and his wife, I never saw a single soul. During the floods I
didn't go once down to the village. As I told you in my letter, I had
to starve for a time, but I didn't mind. And then, during the last few
weeks, some letters have come, from Wartenstein, and Königsberg
too--and to-day one--from----"

"Ah, never mind! I'll look at them later, when you've brought some
light."

What concern had he with the outer world to-day, when he had burnt the
bridges that connected him with his past, and nothing remained of all
he had suffered and lived through?

Then when the supper table was spread, and the lamp shone at him from
Regina's hand, he crossed over with her to the sitting-room.

"You have not laid a place for yourself," he remarked.

"May I, _Herr_?"

"Of course you may."

"And, _Herr_, what wine?"

He drew a long breath--"None!"

And so once more they sat opposite each other in the soft lamp-light,
as they had so often done on winter evenings, when the snow was driven
against the window panes, and gales shook the roof and rattled in the
beams. Now grey moths flapped gently to and fro, bringing with them
into the room whiffs of the balmy outer air, and the rising moon, which
was full for the first time since Easter, shimmered through the young
foliage.

He pushed his plate away. Not a morsel could he eat. The precaution of
leaving the wine in the cellar had done no good, for the excitement he
had wished to shun was, notwithstanding, creeping over him. He took a
stolen glance at Regina, and trembled. Her eyes rested on him in such a
transport of happiness, that she seemed oblivious of everything in
heaven and earth, except the fact that he was sitting near her. Every
trace of sorrow and distress had vanished from her face as if by magic.
Its curves had taken a new roundness, a new freshness bloomed in her
cheeks. But what struck him as most lovely in her, was the languorous,
yielding tenderness of her whole being, as if she had loosened herself
from the trammels of earth and floated in space.

"Regina," he whispered. His heart seemed throbbing violently in his
throat. A voice of warning rose within him, saying, "Take care. Be on
your guard--this is the last time she will lead you into temptation."

"The last time!" came a melancholy echo.

"Yes; she will die--perish of heart-sickness and unsatisfied longing."

The scar on his under-lip began to burn.

"Take her in your arms and then kill her; that will save her all
further misery," was the next thought that rushed through his brain.
"But it would be literal madness to do such a thing," he added to
himself, shuddering.

And again their eyes met and sank in each other's depths. Their souls
knew of no resistance, even though their bodies still sought
despairingly for weapons of defence.

"Save yourself!" cried that warning voice again. "Think of the curse!
Keep yourself pure and unspotted for the Fatherland!"

He tried to think of words to speak that would break the spell of
blissful enchantment; but none would occur to him. Then he rose and
walked to the open window to bathe his hot brow in the cool night air.
"Speak--act--end this silence," he exhorted himself. He thought of the
letters she had spoken of.

"Give me the letters," he said. His voice sounded harsh.

She fetched a packet of white covers, which she laid by his plate. He
opened the first he came to, and stared vacantly at the unfolded sheet.
Would it not be better to allude now to the unavoidable? Why spare her
allusion to a parting which was inevitable? But he put the idea from
him in horror. "Till midnight she shall be happy. Take her in your
arms, and then----"

"His Hochwohlgeboren the Freiherr Boleslav von Schranden is hereby
informed that his appeal for an inquiry into the causes and events
which eventually led to the destruction by fire of Castle Schranden, on
the 6th of March 1809, is receiving attention, and that a day has been
appointed for----"

With a discordant laugh he tossed the communication to one side, and
fumbled for the next letter. His eye fell on Helene's handwriting. A
feeling almost of aversion shot through him. What did she want now? Why
disturb him at this the eleventh hour?


"My Dearest Boleslav,--I can't let you go to the war again without once
seeing and speaking to you. I beg and implore you to meet me this
evening at nine o'clock, near the churchyard side-gate, where I will
wait for you.--Your Helene."


"Why not before," he murmured, "when there was plenty of time to
spare?" Then suddenly it flashed across him that again in an hour of
danger his guardian angel had put forth her rescuing hand to him, and
that it would be criminal folly on his part to disregard the sign, and
not respond to the summons.

"You must--you must," he said to himself, "or you won't be worth the
cannon-ball that at this moment is being cast for you in France."

Was it not a special dispensation of divine grace that the daughter
should intervene at such a perilous crisis as this to transform the
father's curse into a blessing? He looked at the clock. It wanted only
a few minutes to the hour mentioned. He dragged himself on to his feet.

"I must go down to the village," he said. "There is some one who wants
to see me." And though he avoided meeting her eyes, her pathetic,
beseeching glance penetrated to his innermost soul.

"I shall soon be back," he stammered.

She folded her hands, and placed herself silently before him.

"What is it?" he asked.

She could hardly articulate her words.

"_Herr_! I am so frightened--I feel as if something dreadful was going
to happen!"

"Since when have you been given to presentiments?" he said, trying to
joke.

"I don't know-but I feel so strange, _Herr_! ... something in my
throat--as if ... Oh! I know it's stupid of me, but I pray you--not to
go--not to-night----"

He pushed her gently to one side. The hand that she stretched out to
hold him back fell helplessly.

"Please-please don't go! ... _Herr_!"

He set his teeth and went--went to his guardian angel.




                              CHAPTER XVII


The Schrandeners, as many as could leave their homes and property, were
meanwhile gathered together at the Black Eagle, engaged in a farewell
orgie.

Old Merckel served them himself. He stood behind the bar, refilling
unceasingly the empty glasses, with the melancholy smile, which to-day
there was every reason to believe was not put on.

"Drink, dear friends," he exhorted; "don't let the unhappy event in my
family prevent you! What does it matter even if he is shot? He will die
a noble death for his honour and his Fatherland!"

He wiped the sweat from his shiny forehead, while his little eyes
wandered in uneasy anticipation from one face to the other.

"Go and take a glass, Amalie," he said, turning to the barmaid, "over
to those on guard. I won't bear them malice for helping to bring him to
his ruin!"

The Schrandeners, deeply touched at the expression of so much
high-minded sentiment, gazed into their tankards in moody anger. They
would have been ashamed of rushing to the inn and displaying such
avidity for a carousal in the face of their landlord's private
misfortune, had they not felt they could not better show their sympathy
than by taking advantage of the old man's generous impulses. So they
poured beer and schnaps down their throats in positive streams, and
emulated each other as to who could drink the fastest.

The barmaid, as fat and cunning as her master, slipped out with a tray
containing a dozen foaming tankards, after she had received a few
whispered instructions from him, accompanied by a knowing nod and wink.

"And if you should see old Hackelberg about," he called after her, "ask
him in--ask him in. He has suffered too at the hands of the scoundrel.
He ought not to be missing on this sad occasion."

"Brave soldiers," he continued, wiping his eyes, "drink! drink! You
must try to forget that this day your honour has been forfeited. Yes,
indeed, your case is lamentable--even more lamentable than that of my
poor son, to whom it will at least be granted to meet death for
honour's sake. But you! faugh, for shame! What will be your feelings
to-morrow morning, when you have to march away under the leadership of
that son of a traitor, the villain whom our revered _Herr Pastor_ has
cursed? It'll be 'Braun, clean my boots!' and 'Bickler, hold my
stirrup!' and that sort of thing."

The two men mentioned thus by name started up with an oath.

"And all you others, however much he may oppress and bully you, you
must submit because he is your commander; and if you dare to mutiny,
you'll only be shot down like vermin for your pains. Such, my poor dear
friends, is your pitiable lot! Therefore I say drink, and bid farewell
to your military honour. To-morrow the very dogs will hesitate to take
a crust of bread from your hands!"

A half-stifled murmur ran through the room, more ominous than a howl of
rage.

Then the carpenter Hackelberg, who had been loafing about in the
neighbourhood of the inn, reeled into the common parlour, half-drunk as
usual.

He was received in silence. But old Merckel advanced solemnly to meet
him, seized him by the hand, and led him to a seat of honour.

"You, too, are an unhappy father," he said to him in a voice quivering
with emotion. "Your heart, like mine, has been broken by the ruin of
your child. You, as well as myself and us all, has the tyrant up
yonder, on his conscience. So sit down, you miserable man, and take a
drop of something with us!"

The drunkard, who was used to being fisticuffed and held up to
derision, even by those who bore him no ill-will, scarcely knew what to
make of this highly flattering reception. He glanced suspiciously round
him with his fishy eyes, and appeared to be considering earnestly
whether he should begin to brag or to weep. Meanwhile he drank all he
could lay hands on.

"Look at this deplorable victim of baronial lust," Herr Merckel
continued. "A man who is deprived of the possibility of revenge must
lose his self-respect as he has, and degenerate into a sloven. Day and
night he broods inwardly on the wrong that has been done him. But even
the trodden-on worm turns at last, and who can blame us if we wish with
all our hearts that the miscreant should not live to see another day?"

"Strike him dead!" spluttered the carpenter, suddenly waxing furious,
but there was only a faint echo in response, for to the men who were
now soldiers under orders for active service the glibly made suggestion
seemed no longer a trifle.

Herr Merckel assumed an air of holy horror. "For shame, dear people! we
must not listen to such treason. I, being your mayor, cannot
countenance it. To strike him down in broad daylight would be an
unwarrantable act of violence, and I wonder you dare entertain such an
idea for a moment. But who can stem the torrent of righteous wrath that
vents itself in imprecations and anathemas? And so it is my most
earnest desire that our arch-enemy and tyrant may die in his bed
to-night, or disappear and never be seen again, or that his body may be
found to-morrow morning in the river Maraune. Then it would at least be
clearly proved that there is still a God above to judge and condemn
sinners. Amen."

"Amen," growled his listeners, and folded their horny hands.

"But, alas! it won't come to pass. We shall live to see the miscreant
fatten and prosper, and grow grey in this vale of tears. To-morrow he
will ride up triumphantly and drag out my Felix like a lamb to the
slaughter. And others who have demurred by a word or look will be
sacrificed too. Indeed I shall be very much surprised if any of you
escape with your lives. It is his intention, I firmly believe, to
extirpate every Schrandener from off the face of the earth. Like a herd
of cattle that has been purchased for the shambles, he'll drive you
forth tomorrow morning, leaving your widows and orphans behind to weep
and bewail your fate."

An ejaculation of fury arose, so loud and violent that even the inciter
of it recoiled in alarm.

"Quietly, dear people, quietly! No law-breaking. Although, truly, there
is no informer amongst us, we would sooner bite our tongues out than
betray each other. Hackelberg knows that. Thereby hangs a tale, eh, old
friend? But who knows that our _Herr Captain_ may not himself be
hanging about outside, spying through the windows."

Five or six heads turned, and were pressed against the panes.

"You think he wouldn't presume to spy on us? Oh, I can assure you he is
not the one to stop short at any low trick. I know what you'd like to
say, and I can't blame you for it--that if you catch him sneaking
around at night-time, woe betide him!"

"We'll strike him dead! Strike him dead!" fumed the topers.

"Don't be for ever screaming that, children; it offends my ears. So
much can be achieved quietly. Thus, bang! Some one has fired. Bang
again--another report. Simply a poacher in the forest. It swarms with
deer, eh, Hackelberg?" He laughed, and clicked his tongue.

"You mustn't sit dozing there, my man. One would think you had no more
blood in your veins than a jelly-fish. Have you forgotten how the late
Baron had you flogged till your skin hung in ribbons. _Potztausend_!
How you danced and bellowed! It was a charming spectacle."

Hackelberg writhed and grunted over his glass.

"At that time you were a sportsman, a terror to your master, and your
bullet never missed its mark. Drink away, man! It's difficult to
believe now that you were ever a good shot."

"I am, still," lisped the carpenter.

"Ha, ha!--pardon my laughing, old fellow. To begin with, you don't even
know what you've done with your gun."

"But--I do."

"And besides, your hand has become too slack, and your honour has
evaporated, and your courage with it."

The carpenter laughed. An evil light gleamed in the corners of his
eyes.

"What? You would maintain that you have a spark of honour left in your
composition when you submit without a murmur to your daughter being
brought to shame? And what's more, you can bear to see her and her
seducer at large. Didn't she, your own flesh and blood, scorn you and
slap away your proffered hand? Ungrateful, disrespectful wench that she
is!"

The carpenter staggered to his feet.

"No one follow me," he roared, and shook his fist

"Where are you going?"

"That's no business of any one's."

The Schrandeners, even in their wrath, could not resist making fun of
the drunkard, but Merckel signed to them to let him go in peace.

"He is going to scratch up his gun from the dungheap," he explained.
"Still, what good will it do?" he added with a sigh, while his eyes
wandered uneasily to the door. "He'll take care not to deliver himself
into our hands at night. Tomorrow, at dawn of day, he'll come, when
none of you can defend yourselves, and hand you over to your
executioners, along with my son Felix, and none of you will see
Schranden again. So drink your last, children--take leave of old Father
Merckel---- Ah! there comes Amalie," he said, interrupting himself, and
the lackadaisical expression of his face changed to one of cheerful
expectancy.

The door was thrown open, and Amalie burst in greatly excited. She
whispered something hurriedly in his ear.

He beamed, and folded his fat hands as if in prayer.

"Children," he cried, "there is yet a judge in Heaven. The Baron is in
the village."

The Schrandeners rose from their seats yelling with delight.

"Where is he? Who has seen him?"

"Tell them, Amalie!" he urged the barmaid, and sank back exhausted,
like a person who is satisfied that his day's work is done.

And Amalie told them. She had waited till the men on guard had finished
their beer, and had taken a little stroll in the moonlight to get a
breath of fresh air. Then she had seen a man coming across the fields
from the Cats' Bridge. He was going in the direction of the churchyard,
and wore an officer's coat with scarlet collar and gold buttons.

"Was he armed?" inquired a cautious son of Schranden.

Yes; she had seen his sabre flash in the moonlight.

This information afforded food for reflection.

"He has gone to inspect the guard," suggested some one, scratching his
head.

Herr Merckel laughed ironically.

"Since how long has it been customary to review sentinels in the
churchyard?" he exclaimed. "I tell you what he has gone there for. He
wishes to pay his dear, chaste _Herr Papa_ a visit--to swear on his
grave that he will avenge him, so soon as you are delivered into his
hands as soldiers. Congratulate yourselves on the expedition."

At this juncture an ally cropped up on whom he had ceased to count. The
old carpenter rushed in at the door, flourishing in his right hand an
old fowling-piece, on which hung straw and manure. He seemed in a
perfect transport of fury, beating his breast and capering about like
one possessed.

"Who said I had no sense of honour," he screamed; "and that I allowed
my child to be ruined? Where's the hussy who has brought shame and
disgrace on my grey hairs? I won't make her a coffin. No; I'll shoot
her down--I'll shoot them both."

"Come along to the churchyard," cried a voice among the villagers, who
felt their courage rising.

The old landlord winced. "No, not to the churchyard," he exhorted them.
"In the first place, the ground is sacred; and in the second, you might
miss him there. If you really wish to settle matters quietly with him
once for all--I'm not supposed to know what you have against him, and
don't wish to know--well, my advice to you is to go to the Cats'
Bridge. Just there, you know, the bank is wooded--not thickly,
certainly, but thick enough for you to hide behind."

"But suppose he returned by way of the village and the drawbridge?" put
in the cautious trooper again.

Herr Merckel knew better. "Not he!" he laughed. "The Cats' Bridge is
handier."

"Let's be off, then, to the Cats' Bridge," yelled the carpenter,
bumping the butt-end of his gun against the chairs and tables. There
was a general stampede. Herr Merckel crammed bottles of schnaps into as
many pockets as he could catch hold of, as his customers hurried out.

"Take it, friends," he cried, "and welcome! Defend your honour--defend
your honour!"

Then, when the last had gone, he mopped his perspiring brow, and
folding his hands, exclaimed with an uneasy sigh--

"Ah, Amalie, if only they don't offer him violence!"




                             CHAPTER XVIII

On reaching the highroad Boleslav saw the figure of a girl come out
from the shadow of the churchyard yews, and advance to meet him with
hesitating footsteps.

The moment to which he had looked forward with tender yearning for
eight years had come at last, yet his heart beat no quicker. "You ought
to be pleased; congratulate yourself," he said inwardly. "She loves
you! She saved you ... has freed you from Regina." And something echoed
sadly within him, "From Regina!"

The contour of the too slender figure was sharply defined against the
moonlit background. The shoulders looked angular, and her hips fell in
straight, ungraceful lines from the high-waisted bodice.

He jumped over the ditch, and held out both his hands to her. With a
prudish simper she placed hers behind her back.

"Don't be so impetuous," she lisped.

He was amazed. The action chilled him, and almost excited his contempt;
but he was ashamed of the emotion, and tried to suppress it.

"You have kept me waiting a long time, Regina."

The face she turned on him was illuminated by the moon, and he saw
plainly how insignificant and meagre it had become. She tossed her head
scornfully.

"My name is _Helene_," she said. "I am sorry you have forgotten it;"
and pouting, she turned her back.

He winced. "Pardon," he stammered; "it was a slip of the tongue."

This was certainly an unfortunate beginning. She made another grimace,
but seemed disposed to accept his apology.

"Don't let us stay here," she begged. "I'm afraid."

"What of?"

"Of the churchyard ... if you _will_ know."

Again he had to struggle against a feeling of contempt. In all she said
and did he found himself involuntarily comparing her with Regina, and
the comparison was immeasurably to her disadvantage.

"You know how timid I am," she said, as they retraced their steps. "It
was rash of me to have chosen this place for an appointment; indeed it
was exceedingly rash to come at all--and if it weren't----"

Instead of finishing her sentence she cast at him an affected sidelong
glance. Then, as he offered to help her over the ditch she gave a
little scream and said, "No, no!"

His half-defined sensation of disappointment now gave place to blank
astonishment. She gazed round her nervously.

"We can't stay here either," she whispered, "If I were caught here
alone with a gentleman, I believe I should die of shame."

"Where do you wish to go, then?"

"You must decide."

"Very well. Come into the wood."

She clasped her hands together with an agitated old-maidish gesture.

"What are you thinking of?" she exclaimed. "At night ... with a
gentleman!"

He rubbed his eyes. Was it really possible, what he heard and saw?
Could this be Helene, the guardian angel to whom he had looked up, as
to a being belonging to another world?

But perhaps it was he who was to blame. Perhaps the language of
innocence and virtue was no longer intelligible to him because of the
fair savage who had perverted his tastes, and filled his imagination
with impure pictures.

"Then let us walk quietly along the highroad," he said.

"But if some one comes?"

"We can see that no one _is_ coming."

"Yet some one might ..."

He was at a loss for an answer. A silence ensued, and then he said,
"Won't you take my arm?"

"Oh, I don't know whether I ought," replied the love of his youth.

And again they walked on in silence. It almost seemed as if they had
nothing at all to say to each other.

"Regina is waiting!" a voice cried within him.

"How silent you are!" Helene lisped, playfully pinching his elbow with
two of the finger-tips that lay on his arm. "You wicked man! Haven't
you a little bit of liking left for me?"

He felt he had no right to say "No." She had been true to him, had
trusted his word for eight long years; he dared not prove himself
unworthy now of her faith in him. When he had reassured her with a
stammered "Of course, of course," she sighed, a deep-drawn, languishing
sigh.

"I hear such dreadful things about you," she said, "that I don't know
what to believe. Tell me it's not true."

"What?" he asked wearily.

"Ah, a girl can't discuss such matters. Immoral things, I mean. In old
days you were a good, noble fellow, and I can't believe it's true that
you've altered so completely."

She drew a little closer to him. In doing so, she dropped her blue silk
reticule. As he stooped--with her--to pick it up, the peak of his cap
brushed her face.

"Oh, take care!" she simpered, drawing back hastily.

"A thousand pardons!" he answered, in a tone of rigid politeness, and
bit his lips.

"Well, you don't answer my question," she continued. "Perhaps it is
true, then, what people say! I should be sorry to think that poor
unhappy me had been so deceived in you. But papa always thought you
would come to a bad end." She said this with such a ludicrous little
air of superiority, that he could not help smiling.

She seemed to discern that she was appearing absurd in his eyes, and
went on in a deeply injured tone, "Ah, it's all very well to laugh at a
poor girl, whose intentions towards you are so kind, and who would give
anything to prevent your ruin."

"Please, do not trouble yourself on my account," he replied.

"Now you are making yourself out worse than you are," she interposed.
"I know you have a noble nature at bottom. And if fate parts us for
ever, I shall always, always keep a warm place for you in my heart. Oh,
what bitter tears have I shed for you many a time! And I've prayed
every night to God to keep the dear friend of my youth from sin, and
from wicked revengeful thoughts, and to give him a good conscience."

"I am afraid the behaviour of the Schrandeners is not exactly
calculated to cure a man of revengeful thoughts," he replied.

She turned up her sharp little nose. "The Schrandeners are an uncouth
lot," she remarked. "And one can't have much to do with them. I would
much rather stay altogether with my aunt in Wartenstein. There at least
one associates with respectable, well-mannered townspeople, who lift
their hats to a lady when they meet her in the street. Not a single
Schrandener, with the exception of Herr Merckel, and Felix of course,
dreams of doing such a thing. Felix," she added with a sigh, "has the
manners of a gentleman and an officer." Then as if something had
suddenly recalled the events of the afternoon to her mind, she
screamed, wrung her hands and said, "Oh, Boleslav, Boleslav!"

"What is it, Helene?"

"Boleslav, how could you be so wicked! Poor, poor Felix! I did not see
it myself, for I was in the back-garden drawing radishes, but they told
me afterwards how you slashed at his head with your drawn sabre, till
it poured with blood." She shuddered and shook with suppressed sobs.
Then she wrenched her hand out of his arm and skipped to the opposite
side of the road. "Go! I won't have anything more to do with you," she
cried. "You acted in a harsh and cruel manner----"

"But you don't understand, dear Helene," he protested.

"And he was your schoolfellow and playmate, and used to play
hide-and-seek with us both in the garden. He often climbed over the
hedge for you to get your ball when you had tossed it too far, and he
used to give you guinea-pigs. Have you forgotten everything? You ought
to remember the dear old times."

"Because of the guinea pigs, eh?"

"Oh,--and to think that you have shut him up in the cold dark church!
Papa is of opinion that you have no business to do it; he says he will
report your conduct to the _kommando_, and that probably you will get
the worst of it."

She resembled her father so little, he thought, that his words of
thunder when repeated by her lips sounded the most insipid chatter. And
it was on this cackling little hen that he had let the great question
of to be, or not to be, hang!

She had now come back to his side, and with a mincing gesture pushed
her hand again through his arm.

"They say that you intend carrying him off to-morrow a prisoner, to be
tried by a court-martial, and that he will be shot dead for certain.
But it must be a lie. It is, isn't it? You couldn't do such a thing; I
wouldn't believe it of you. You are not so bad as all that."

He suppressed an exclamation of impatience.

"Say you won't?" she besought, wiping her eyes. "If _I_ ask you, dear
Boleslav, to let him go free, you will grant me the favour--I know you
will."

She spoke calmly, as if the request she made were merely a casual one.
But there was secret anxiety in the eyes that glanced at his
suspiciously.

"Dear, dear Boleslav!" she continued more urgently, her arm trembling
violently, "if you care for me the very least little bit, don't let us
part before you have promised me this. I will cherish your memory
always in my heart, if Fate is cruel enough to separate us for ever,
and will at least never cease to pray for you and bless you."

"I am sorry, Helene," he said, moved to speaking more warmly by her now
evident distress, "if I must seem hard and inexorable to you. But it is
all of no good. Your wish cannot possibly be fulfilled."

She had not in the least expected this answer, and regarded him for a
second with a cold, angry expression. Then suddenly she burst out
weeping, and sank against the trunk of a tree for support, with her
thin hands before her face.

At the same moment the report of a gun was heard in the distance, the
echo of which slowly rolled through the woodlands.

Helene gave a frightened cry, and, throwing up her hands, sobbed out--

"Now they have shot him for certain, because you, inhuman monster, have
commanded it! Oh dear! have you _no_ mercy?"

Listening in the direction from which the gunshot had come, he did his
best to soothe her.

That the shot had anything to do with Felix Merckel was, of course, out
of the question.

It had undoubtedly been fired in the wood, on the farther side of the
Castle, probably by a poacher on the track of a wild red deer.

But she sobbed more violently than ever--

"It's all very well ... but you ... you ... intend dragging him out to
his death--you know you do."

Her increasing agitation began to bewilder Boleslav. He assured her he
would do everything in his power to ameliorate Felix's sentence. He
himself would testify to his being hopelessly intoxicated at the time.
His old rancour against himself, his wounded vanity, all should be
cited in extenuation of his offence, and might influence his judges to
mildness.

But she was not satisfied, and at last dropped on her knees in the clay
soil, and cried aloud--

"Be merciful! be noble! Save him!"

"For God's sake, stand up!"

"No, I shall not. In the dust I'll kneel to you and implore your
mercy."

"But don't you see that I shall be imputing to myself a murderous
design if I represent him as innocent?"

"Never mind," she sobbed. "If you really love me, you won't object to
making this little sacrifice for my sake."

Then it began to dawn on him that it was not for the pleasure of seeing
him she had summoned him to her side, but, in accordance with a
preconceived plan, to make use of his love for her on behalf of
another. And of such stuff as this the woman was made, of whom for long
years he had considered himself unworthy! This was the radiant angel
who had represented his ideal of purity and goodness, whose name he had
held too sacred to mention in the same breath as Regina's!

And Regina, the dishonoured, the outcast! What worlds she seemed now
above this sly virtue!

A wild laugh burst from him. "Why did you not tell me at once that you
were in love with some one else?"

She started. "That is a slander!" she cried. "I am an honest, innocent
girl!"

"Well, I presume you are betrothed?"

She began to cry again, though even in her grief she did not forget to
carefully brush the mud from her skirts.

"Oh, Boleslav," she wailed, "it's all your fault. Why did you keep me
waiting for you so long? And why have you given people so much cause to
gossip about you? And then you know, there was papa! His consent could
never have been won! What was I, poor girl, to do?"

"Please, say no more. It really doesn't matter!" he broke in cheerily.

"You aren't angry with me, then?"

"Oh no! not in the least!"

In silence he accompanied Helene back to the village, took a friendly
farewell of her, and promised to do all he could to save her _fiancé_.

She thanked him, made a formal little curtsey, and they parted.

And so ended the great love of his life.

As he watched the shadow of her meagre little figure disappear behind
the houses, his whole soul cried out for Regina in uncontrollable
boundless jubilation. Now the road was free--free for sinful, exultant
love.

But what was sin, when virtue had collapsed so deplorably? How could
there be any evil, when what was good appeared so absurd and
contemptible?

"Take her in your arms--crush her to your breast--even to-morrow shall
not cheat you of her.... She shall follow you to the camp, from battle
to battle--let her wear men's clothes like that Leonore Prohaska, the
heroine whom all Germany admires and honours!"

"Regina! Regina!" he carolled anew, stretching out his arms exultingly,
in anticipation. He bounded over the moonlit meadows, and higher and
darker every minute rose the wooded bank of the river before him.

She would be standing on the Cats' Bridge looking out for him, as she
had always done.

"Regina!" he shouted over the river. But no answer came. Deep silence
all around. There was only a faint rustle among the young leaves of the
willows that sounded like slumberous breathing through half-closed
lips; and a gentle splashing came up from the invisible river. Its
waters were low, and broke on the sharp pebbles. He climbed the steep
steps.

"Regina!" he called again. Still silence. Then he saw that in the
centre of the plank, the rickety hand-rail had given way: rotten
splinters hung on either side. Horror-stricken, he looked down at the
river.

On its silver surface floated a woman's corpse.




                              CHAPTER XIX


When the Schrandeners left the Black Eagle they dispersed to their
homes, with the intention of arming themselves to the best of their
ability.

Half of them did not turn up again. The others--about twenty in
number--careered in detachments behind the limping carpenter, round the
Castle island in the direction of the Cats' Bridge. Once united under
the shelter of the bushes, they believed they would be unseen and
unfollowed. They sneaked in silence through the damp grass; only the
old drunkard insisted on keeping up an incessant chatter and mumbling.
He conversed excitedly with his gun as if it had been a human
being--shook and exhorted it not to fail him. From time to time he held
the butt-end to his cheek in an aiming position, and when his range of
vision became confused by the sight of his own dancing fingers, or
imaginary bats and fireflies, he would take a long pull at his bottle
to clear it.

On reaching the Cats' Bridge, which darkly spanned the river, its
rivets glittering in the moonlight, the Schrandeners divided, some
going to one side of it and the rest keeping to the other. As
noiselessly as their half-drunken condition would permit, they slid
down the decline in order to screen themselves behind the alders. Those
who had firearms, led by the old carpenter, stationed themselves on the
edge of the sand-bank, so that they might bring their victim down from
the plank bridge, should he by any chance escape the meditated attack
from below of pikes, scythes, and flails.

For the space of five minutes there was scarcely a sound audible,
beyond the crackling and swishing among the twigs caused by some one
stretching out a hand for his bottle of schnaps. Death-like stillness
reigned too on the island.

Then the carpenter, whose eyes were momentarily sharpened by brandy,
and who was on the alert like a tiger crouching for a spring, discerned
a figure emerge and walk slowly and softly on to the Cats' Bridge. It
must have been cowering in the boscage above, on the opposite bank, for
several minutes.

As the figure came out of the shadow into the full light of the moon,
he recognised his daughter. Clearly she had discovered the assassins,
and was now on her way to warn the Freiherr of his peril.

"Go back, you vermin!" he cried, all a sportsman's fury at being
deprived of his certain prey taking possession of him and clouding his
erratic brain.

She ducked her head, but glided forwards, holding on to the hand-rail.

"Back, or I'll aim!"

With one frantic leap she tried to propel herself forwards, but a shot
was fired at the same instant, and she sank noiselessly against the
rotten balustrade. It snapped in two, and a dark, lifeless mass fell
from the heights of the Cats' Bridge into the river. The water rose and
fell in sparkling cascades. In the shallow bottom the stones rolled and
ground against each other.

Then slowly the whirling, swaying body rose to the surface of the
ripples, till the face gazed upwards and was brilliantly illumined by
the moon.

A profound stillness reigned on the bank.

Motionless, and with bated breath, every one stared down on the dead,
upturned face, with its wide-open eyes, which seemed full of warning
and rebuke. A corner of her skirt had caught on a gnarled stump of a
tree, which projected into the river; thus she was anchored, and
prevented from drifting down with the stream.

Softly and cautiously, as if playing with it, the current moved the
body to and fro, and no one, however much he might wish to avoid it,
could help seeing the head as it reposed on the water.

The silence lasted a full ten minutes, and then one of the
Schrandeners, who had helped to incarnate the evil conscience of the
village, shyly with bent head slunk away, making the bushes crackle and
rustle as he went. A second followed; a third, a fourth, ... until at
last the scene of the catastrophe was deserted.

The carpenter, who had been contemplating his daughter's dead face,
grumbling, and talking to himself the while, found himself alone.

Suddenly he roared out hoarsely, "Fire! fire! fire!" and hurled his gun
at the corpse. It went splashing to the bottom of the river, and he
staggered after the others as fast as his legs would carry him.

Nothing stirred now near the Cats' Bridge. Boleslav was safe!


                           *   *   *   *   *


Some time elapsed before he was able to take in what he saw. He stared
in stupefaction, first at the floating corpse, then at the broken
balustrade.

"You should have had it repaired long ago," he thought, and toyed
dazedly with the fragments.

Then, as if waking from a dream, he went back to the bank, and climbed
down the ravine, where he found broken branches lying about, and
freshly-made footmarks. A vague suspicion of what had happened dawned
on him, and then quickly died out; the hope that there might yet be
time to restore her to life absorbing his mind, to the exclusion of
every other emotion.

He crawled cautiously along the tree-stump as near the body as he could
get, and drew it ashore with the hilt of his sabre.... Now she lay on
the shining sand, and a hundred little rivulets ran from every part of
her. He took his sabre-blade and cut her wet jacket off her, and became
aware of the blood that had dyed her chemise crimson. As he ripped this
away, too, he found the fount from which the stream flowed in a wound
beneath her left breast.

Now he knew what that gunshot had meant. And when the first wild
impulse for vengeance, which seemed to scream in his ear, "Go and burn
their houses to the ground, and hew them down till you yourself are
hewn down!" had subsided and consumed its own rage, he flung himself on
the corpse, and broke into passionate weeping. He lay thus for a long
time, then slowly rose, and, bearing her on his shoulders, carried her
through the footprints of her murderers up the steep incline over the
Cats' Bridge to the island. She was no light burden, and three times he
sank on to his knees, gasping under her weight.

Near the shrubbery that surrounded the cottage he was obliged to put
her down, for he feared he should swoon from his exertions. She lay on
the same spot where he had found her, motionless and bleeding, after
his father's funeral.

Now as then the moonbeams played on the still pale face; only now she
would not revive, could never be recalled to life.

"They have succeeded at last!" he cried, breaking into a loud, bitter
laugh.

A sharp spasm of pain shot through the back of his head; he felt as if
he must go raving mad if those fixed, glazed eyes continued to look up
at him much longer.

But his anxiety to get the corpse interred before he went away brought
him to his senses. The Schrandeners were capable of laying the murdered
girl beneath the earth somewhere in the heart of the forest; thereby
removing all evidence of their crime, and crippling the hands of
justice.

The one person he felt could be relied on to do what was right in the
matter was the old pastor. Much as he might have denounced and
slandered her hitherto, he, at all events, would not be a party to this
last foul outrage. Boleslav therefore resolved to rouse him from his
bed, and to bring him to the spot, so that later when he himself was,
God knew where, a witness might not be wanting.

The belfry clock struck eleven as he reached the village street. The
sentinels were parading noiselessly up and down in front of the church
door, otherwise the whole world was apparently wrapped in profound
slumber.

But from one of the cottages he passed, loud blows, oaths, and scolding
cries fell upon his ear. He looked over the hedge, and saw the green
coffin which was the carpenter Hackelberg's trade-mark, looming
uncannily from its stand.

The drunkard's imbecile formula occurred to him. "His wish is likely to
be fulfilled," he thought; "he has now the chance of making a coffin
for his daughter;" and in a bitterly ironical mood he determined to
communicate to the old man, if he were still in possession of his
faculties, his child's terrible end, and to demand the fulfilment of
his promise.

He entered the gloomy passage. From a room on the right proceeded the
gurgling cries of the thick, drunken voice which excited his
involuntary disgust. Mingled with it was a spasmodic hissing and
whizzing that he could not explain, till he had lifted the latch and
witnessed a spectacle so horrible and revolting that, rich as the day
had been for him in horrors, he recoiled before it faint and
shuddering.

The old carpenter, his clothes half torn off, bleeding from the throat
and arms, the moonlight bringing into prominence the hideous filthiness
of the room, plunged about as if seized with an attack of St. Vitus's
dance. Every limb quivered violently, and he foamed at the mouth. His
eyes rolled in a maniacal frenzy, and the muscles of his face twitched
convulsively. A huge plane hung from his right hand, the handle of
which, formed in the shape of a ring, had grazed his knuckles, and
which he vainly endeavoured to steady with his palsied fingers.
Whenever he came to a wooden surface, whether on the table, the walls,
or the planks that covered the floor, he tried to plane it, and this
caused the hissing sound which always ended abruptly with a rasping
jerk.

"It'll soon be ready now!" he cried. "One more blow" ... ssh ... "and
the shaping's done." ... ssh ... ssh ... "Damn the bats . .. why can't
they leave a man alone?" ... ssh ... ssh ... "Forwards ... Listen!
Fire! fire! The Castle's on fire! Fire! fire! Keep out of the way, you
baggage--if you tell any one you've seen me--with the tinder and the
bundle of flax" ... ssh ... ssh ... "I won't finish your coffin." ...
ss ... ssh ... "Get out of my sight, you snake." He lunged against
Boleslav, who, with a presentiment of what ghastly disclosures were to
be made to him, had planted himself in his way. The drunkard appeared
to be labouring under the delusion that Boleslav was his daughter.
"Go back-off the Cats' Bridge--the Baron shall get his deserts
today--back--or----" He laid the plane against his cheek, and took aim;
then, as if confronted by another vision, he yelled once more at the
top of his voice, trembling with fright, "Fire! fire!" and made an
attempt to creep under the table, planing the tattered tails of his
coat as he went. "Fire! fire! Get away--I didn't do it! My daughter is
a liar.... The flames are spreading. Fire! fire! Look at the flames!"

With the flames he seemed to reach the zenith of his delirium, and then
gradually descended again to the bats, which he made a feint of
chivying out of his way with his arms and legs, and then resumed
planing the legs of the table.

"Nearly ready, dear sir." ... ssh ... ssh ... "Just a couple more
boards." ... ss ... ssh ... "My daughter's debauched ... There can be
no mistake," ... ss ... ssh ... "finely polished." ... ss ... "Now
there she lies, and will howl no more." ... ssh ... "What, not gone yet?
Your father'll drive you out." ... ss ... ssh ... "The Baron will get a
shot lodged in his ribs to-day." ... ssh ... "We want extra hands.
Hurrah, men!--Hurrah, Merckel!" ... ss ... "Come off the plank--down
from the bridge, you beast. Have you any more French behind you? If you
don't go at once----"

Here he made for Boleslav. He looked in the moonlight, with his
tottering legs, his palsied head, and his flapping arms, like some
ghastly phantasmal monster, whose limbs were pieced together by a
hundred movable joints. Just as he was reaching his goal, the flames
began to pursue him once more, and to escape from them he crept, with a
piercing shriek this time, beneath a stack of wood, where, with dense
swarms of bats, the fearful cycle of his delusions recommenced.

Boleslav, shaken to the foundations of his being by the awful truth the
old man had revealed in his delirious ravings, felt he could no longer
bear to gaze on such a hideous scene.

He fled from the house as if the imaginary flames which so terrified
the maniac were pursuing him too, and he did not pause till he had left
the village behind him, and found himself encompassed by the shadows of
the ruins.




                               CHAPTER XX


The church clock had struck the midnight hour, by the time Boleslav got
back to the spot where he had left Regina's soulless body.

A protecting darkness now veiled the white face, for the moon had
passed behind a bank of clouds, yet even from the darkness the great
lustreless eyes gazed appealingly up at him, as if asking a question to
which there was no answer here or hereafter.

He threw himself on his knees beside her, and, saying good-bye to the
two stars, whose light had gone out, he tenderly closed their lids. She
now looked as if she were asleep, and he breathed more freely. He felt
something almost approaching a painful satisfaction as he watched by
her. "You belong to me, only to me," he said. "No one else shall have
any part or lot in you, in death as in life."

What he had resolved to do, in a spirit of defiance, as he left the
murderer's house, in his present calmer mood still seemed the most
commendable course to take. Past events appeared to him now like a
brazen chain of guilt, to which for years one link after the other had
been added. And into this chain had been forged, till it was made a
component part of it, an unlawful love. For the sake of this love which
was sinful as hell and pure as heaven, that which only the silence
of the night had witnessed should in the silence of the night be
buried--buried with this corpse.

What retribution could be rendered by the poor tribunal of man, in a
case in which fate had so clearly interfered and pronounced sentence?
Would it not be profaning the dead body to drag it into the glare of
publicity, and so expose it to the snivelling curiosity of the vulgar
herd?

Should he permit the priest who had cursed her in her lifetime to
consign her to the grave with a perfunctory blessing? And would not
this involve her being laid in a coffin manufactured by her father's
blood-guilty hands, followed by his accomplices as mourners, hooting
and throwing stones?

Ah no; it should not be! She should be the prey, now she was dead, of
no Schrandener wolves. He alone, for whom she had lived, for whom she
had gone to meet her death, must prepare her last resting-place. He
would hide her in the lap of mother earth, and smooth the turf so
carefully above her that no body-snatcher would ever discover and
profane the holy spot. He lifted the corpse in his arms and carried it
to the grass-plot. The moon had risen high in the heavens and shrouded
the landscape in a veil of silver. From the dewy glistening grass rose
the fragments of the old Diana statue in dazzling whiteness. Here he
bore her and let her sink on the turf, her neck supported by the
cracked pedestal, so that with her face turned towards the moon, she
looked as if she had fallen asleep in a sitting position. Then he
sought a burial-place. His eye fell on the black, four-cornered patch
which Regina had intended for his father's grave. How vividly she came
back to him, as she had looked then, in the full splendour of her
sunburnt strength and beauty, driving the heavy spade into the ground
with her naked foot, as if it had been a ramrod. If he had not then
interrupted her in her work, he would to-day have been spared his.

The service of love she had wished to render his father it was now his
duty to do for her. What could be simpler than to go on digging deeper
the grave that she had begun that day, little dreaming it would be her
own?

He fetched a spade from the kitchen, where the fire she had kindled was
still smouldering, and began with all his strength to throw up the sod.
From time to time he paused and glanced at her. She seemed well content
to sit there in the bright moonlight, and quietly contemplate his
labours. Now and then, when the shadow of a cloud flickered on her
face, he half fancied she moved, and was going to rise to her feet.

Then that tormenting scepticism that all experience in the presence of
their beloved dead overwhelmed him. He called her name and rushed to
her side. Her hand rested on Diana's head, which lay close to her in
the grass. He dared not touch her, and stole back to his work, his face
buried in his hands.

The grave began to grow deep, and he feared that soon he might not be
able to climb on to the edge again. He went to get the flower-stand out
of the green-house, on the shelves of which she had ranged the plates
and dishes in such beautiful order.

"No one shall eat off them again!" he said, and dashed the earthenware
crockery on the floor, where it broke to atoms. He placed the stand
against the inside of the grave, to serve as a ladder, and then
continued throwing out the soil as before.

By the time the clock in the village had boomed out the second hour of
the morning, his melancholy task was finished. He had no coffin for
her, but to prevent her lying on the black moist earth, he fetched from
his bed, which she had always taken pains to keep so daintily clean and
tidy, a quilt, and two feather pillows, and lined the grave with them.

And now the time for parting had come. He raised her in his arms, and
bore her to the edge of the pit; then sitting down on the mound of turf
to take breath, he lifted her head on to his knees. Never before had he
been able to look at her so leisurely, for he had never dared trust
himself to let his eyes rest on her for long. Now he studied lovingly
every feature of the dead face, caressed the stiff cheeks, and wrung
the water from her heavy curls. A cold shiver passed through his frame.
He had held the wet body, with its dripping skirts, so long in his
arms, that his own clothes were damp from the contact.

"Farewell!" he murmured, and kissed her on the forehead. He was going
to kiss her on the lips, but drew back quickly.

"You disdained them in life," he said to himself, "so in death they may
not belong to you."

And then he edged the corpse nearer the grave, and jumped down on to
the top step of the stand. Slowly and cautiously he lifted her in,
stretched her on the quilt, and cushioned her head on the soft pillows.

Once more he wanted to kiss her, but was afraid to leave the stand that
bridged her feet; so he contented himself with stroking her hands,
which he could reach from where he sat; then he clambered out of the
grave, drawing the stand after him with the top of the spade-handle.
But afterwards he found he had forgotten to draw a corner of the quilt
over her face, to prevent the soil from falling on it. "Flowers," he
thought, "will do as well;" and he went in search of them. Under the
trees in the park grew great masses of anemones and bluebells, and
there were violets and primroses, that she herself had cultivated, in
the garden.

He gathered all he could see in the uncertain light. The anemones and
primroses had closed their calyxes in sleep, but the violets looked up
at him with their confiding blue eyes, as if inviting him to pluck
them.

With his hands full he returned to the grave, and, as he looked down
into it, stood spell-bound at what he saw. It was indeed a picture of
almost magic loveliness. The moon had passed its height, and, shining
at the foot of the grave, illuminated it on the east side, so that the
head, reposing in its deep resting-place, was thrown out clearly in
relief, while the blood-stained body was hidden in darkest shadow.

The still, white face seemed to smile up at him, as if lapped in
blissful dreams.

He threw the flowers aside, and, crouching down in the loose earth he
had thrown up, stared and stared down on her, holding a solemn and
silent wake.

Thoughts chased each other through his brain in a confused whirl, until
gradually he came to a calmer and more rational frame of mind.

He reflected on how she had gone through life despised and guilt-laden,
and yet unrepentant, appearing to be satisfied with her past rather
than regretting it.

Once, in an hour of dire perplexity, he had asked himself whether it
was the dull indifference of the brute or the wiles of a devil that
made her will so strong and her conscience so lax, and he had not known
what to answer.

To-day, when it was too late, her true nature was revealed to him.

No, she had not been a brute or a devil, but simply a grand and
complete human being. One of those perfect, fully developed individuals
such as Nature created before a herding social system, with its
paralysing ordinances, bungled her handiwork, when every youthful
creature was allowed to bloom unhindered into the fulness of its power,
and to remain, in good and in evil, part and parcel of the natural
life.

And as he pondered thus, it seemed to him that the mists which obscure
the source of human existence from human knowledge had dispersed a
little, and that he had been granted a deeper glimpse than most men
into the fathomless gulf of the Unknown. What is generally called good
and bad drifted about anchorless on the cloudy surface, but below lay
dreaming in majestic strength, the Natural.

"And those whom Nature favours," he said aloud to himself, "she lets
take root in her mysterious depths, so that they spring boldly into the
light, with vision undimmed and conscience untrammelled by the
befogging illusions of morality and worldly wisdom."

Such a highly favoured, completely-endowed human creature was this
abused and abandoned woman.

"And I for whom she lived and died, have I deserved such a sacrifice?"
he meditated further. "Was I worthy of the trust and confidence she so
unhesitatingly placed in me?

"With ruthless severity he sat in judgment on himself, and he came out
of the ordeal anything but unscathed.

"Of course I belong to the other type," he thought, "to the people who
are torn all their life long between right and wrong, and who lose
their way in the fog. We regard the tribute Nature demands of us as
impurity and vice, and yet the restraint of moral laws often appears to
us hollow and far-fetched. Thus we vacillate perpetually between
defiance and fear of them. We crave for the good opinion of the world,
in which we don't believe, and tremble in face of its condemnation,
which we despise and contemn in our hearts. Once I thought it would be
an indelible disgrace to bury my father in this unconsecrated ground;
now I should be glad if I had done so. Once I tried to forget my
bitterness in the ambition of restoring my ancestral inheritance to its
pristine glory; now I am delighted at the thought of shaking its dust
from my feet. Then I held the Schrandeners to be mere barbarous
savages; but to-day I awake to the fact that my own race has made them
what they are.... _Then_ I thought this woman too degraded to take
bread from her hand; to-day I am weeping by her grave. All my heart was
centred on the extinguished flame of youth's first foolish fancy; I
insisted on making the arbitress of my destiny a simpering, prudish
minx, for whom I really had long ceased to care ... and I repulsed in
horror the most splendid and satisfying of natural loves. But truly
this natural love represented deadly sin, and tempted me to contaminate
my blood.

"Yet when the worst came to the worst, and the life that flowed in my
veins had burst from the control of all laws, human and divine, could I
not have made atonement by paying the penalty of death?"

And then the question occurred to him, whether the body he talked so
lightly of surrendering at his own caprice belonged exclusively to him?
What if it were the Fatherland's inviolable possession? Certainly,
then, he was not privileged to desecrate it.

"It is well that in an hour of chaos like this, when good and evil,
right and wrong, honour and dishonour, seem to be swaying about in
hopeless confusion, and when the old God of our childhood with His
Heaven seems to have vanished away ... it is well for swooning men to
have one prop left to lean on, one firm rock to cling to, on which even
to be shipwrecked were a delightful relief. Such a prop, such a stay,
have I in my country."

Thus spake the son of his country's betrayer, and fervently folded his
hands.

The moon had shifted its radiance away from the grave, and the dead
face it had illumined now lay in shadow. It was scarcely possible to
distinguish it from the surrounding earth.

"The time has come," he said, and looked round him.

In the east glimmered the first rosy streak of dawn. A bluish haze
suffused the landscape, and above him in the branches began the dreamy
twitter of awakening birds. He was in the act of throwing the flowers
into the grave, when suddenly he changed his mind, and with a frown
cast them aside.

"What need of such fastidious effeminacy?" he asked himself rebukingly.
"Dust has no reason to fear meeting dust."

Then he seized the spade, and shutting his eyes, began with zest to
shovel the dark earth over the beloved body. A quarter of an hour later
the grave was full. He laid the turf carefully in its original place,
and took care to remove the remnants of superfluous soil and scattered
flowers, so that when the sun rose no one could have found the place
where Regina slept for ever.

As he searched for a stone to commemorate the sacred spot, his eyes
fell on the head of the ruined statue, which smiled at him in stony
vacancy. He lifted it, and planted it in the turf.

"Diana, the chaste," he murmured, "shall serve her as a tombstone. The
sister by whom she will keep eternal watch is not unworthy of her."

And again he flung himself on the grass and became lost in meditation.
On the stroke of six he rose, and made preparations to depart.

"They will be fools indeed," he muttered to himself, "if they don't
make an end of me to-day."

He filled his pistols with new cartridges, and sharpened his sabre, for
he was determined his life should be dearly purchased.

But when he crossed the drawbridge to the village, he was greeted by
familiar and friendly faces. They belonged to Heide's sons, who were
making their way to the Schranden depôt. They pressed round him and
offered him their hands.

"We are come," said Karl Engelbert, "to put ourselves under your
command, for we wish to make amends for our conduct to you in the
past."

"I thank you with my whole heart," he replied. "All is forgiven and
forgotten."

Then he walked up to Schranden's gallant troopers, who, pale and with
chattering teeth, cowered near the church door, like criminals awaiting
execution.

His comrades pointed out to each other in dismay the blood-stains on
his clothes, but not one dared ask him to explain how they came there.

"Bring out the prisoner, and get a waggon for him," he ordered. Felix
Merckel was led out, but Boleslav did not deign to give him a glance.

When farewells had been said, and all was in readiness for the march,
the old pastor made his way through the crowd. His face was haggard and
his hands shook.

He hastened to Boleslav's side and whispered in his ear: "I hear that
Regina met her death last night.... I am willing to give her Christian
burial."

"Many thanks, your reverence," answered Boleslav, "but I have already
buried her with Pagan rites," and he turned away.

A Schrandener, who, to ingratiate himself, had probably spent part of
the night in capturing Boleslav's horse, now came forward holding it,
with a servile grin.

He swung into the saddle, and his sabre flew out of the scabbard. His
voice rang out clear and threatening above the heads of the crowd as he
gave the word of command.

"Right, left. Quick march!"

They left the village behind them; the woods loomed nearer.

He did not look back.


                           *   *   *   *   *


Of the career of Boleslav von Schranden afterwards, very little is
known. It was considered advisable by the military authorities to
gazette him again into his old regiment, owing to the mutiny that had
taken place under his command.

While the East Prussian Landwehr remained behind in the ancient
provinces, he obtained the much-coveted permission to go direct to the
seat of war.

It is supposed that he fell at Ligny.




                                THE END










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