It was now night, but not dark; the moon illuminated the valley with a
light almost as bright as day, and displaying every object, even in the
remotest distance, in trenchant outlines of light and shade. The
pinnacles of Reichenberg, of Rotund, and of the tower of "Helf mir
Gott" were bathed in a mysterious splendour. Once upon a time a maiden
who was wooed by a wicked knight threw herself from this last-named
tower down into the valley, but fell unhurt, for the saints spread out
their mantles to bear her up. This was the story that the little girl
told the monks; but in a low voice, as if her prattle could wake the
sleepers upon the heights, and her soft voice mingled with the murmur
of the Ram which danced along in the moon-light close to their path.
"Do you know this neighbourhood?" asked Porphyrius.
"Certainly. I was here as a child when the pretty lady used to come and
see me at night, and the handsome man whom I used to call father; and
then mother had to fly with me to the Trafoy Thal where the Three Holy
Springs are, and then, as we were never safe there, across the heath to
the forests by Finstermünz. I know every road and turning far and
near."
"Why had you to hide so constantly?" asked Porphyrius. "Had your mother
committed some crime?"
"Oh! no, my mother never did anything wrong. But she was always afraid
they would try to kill me."
"Very strange! What then did she live upon?"
"The pretty lady gave my mother money, and with that we bought food and
clothing. It lasted till I was a big girl, but now it is all gone; and
we wanted to work by the day, but they drove us away everywhere, and at
last we were obliged to beg. Begged bread is hard bread--my mother died
of it." The child wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and was silent.
"Here is some dark secret," said Porphyrius softly to Donatus.
"Poor child, when did your mother die?" asked Donatus.
"Last night, in the forest."
"Why, then she is not buried?"
"I laid her in a hole where the storm had uprooted a tree, and I
covered her with branches, and I rolled some stones down on her too, as
many as I could; and a little wooden cross that she always wore--I
stuck that in and prayed by it."
"What was your mother's name?" asked Donatus thoughtfully.
"Berntrudis, my lord, you know her well, for she was your nurse."
"Berntrudis," exclaimed Donatus sorrowfully; "was she your mother?"
"No, she was not really, but she brought me up and I called her so."
"Alas, poor woman, and was this your end--like the beasts of the field,
on the wet earth, in storm and whirlwind, and now to lie unburied like
them. Could not the Church even give you Christian burial, you who
reared a son for her, and why, child, did you not fetch one of us this
morning, so that we might have given her a grave in consecrated
ground?"
"Whom then should I have fetched? I dared not go up to your people any
more since the cruel man drove me away in the night. Ah! if you had
only come to her you would certainly have made her well again, and she
would not have died."
"I? How could I guess it! If only you had come to fetch me."
"But I did go to fetch you, but the dark man kicked me away from the
door."
"Who?"
"The pale dark man, with black eyes--"
"Correntian!" cried Donatus. "Did you tell him that it was Berntrudis
that was ill?"
"Indeed I did, and I entreated him to send you to comfort her at the
last. But he threatened to tread me to death like an adder."
"You!" groaned Donatus, and as if it were his part to protect her, he
threw his arm round the child's shoulder, and pressed her closely to
him. "Correntian!" he repeated, "may God recompense him!"
Porphyrius laid a warning hand on his companion's arm. "Donatus!" he
said.
But Donatus heeded not.
"To cast out this child in the night and storm when she had come to ask
for the last consolation for a dying woman! Woe to Correntian! That is
not the spirit that ought to inspire us," and he held the child clasped
to him as a father might. "Poor, forsaken orphan! here, here you have a
home, I will make up for what the hard man did to you; I will repay to
you, her nursling, all that my faithful nurse did for me, all she
suffered for me! Yea! I will, as true as the spirit of Love lives in me
which Correntian so outraged."
"Oh, my dear, dear master," said the child, her voice husky with
blissful joy.
But Porphyrius shook his head. "What are you doing, Donatus? I am only
a humble lay-brother, but it seems to me that it can be no duty of
yours to pick up girls by the wayside, and offer them a home in your
affections."
"The brethren picked me up by the wayside, and shall I not pity the
forsaken? Rather is it well for me that I may at last know the joys of
compassion."
"But you lack moderation in it, as in everything," warned Porphyrius.
"Moderation! Who shall set the limits to loving kindness? This is the
first creature to whom I have ever been able to do any good; do you
know what that is?"
"A vagabond girl who herself confesses that she has been driven out
wherever she went; is she worthy of your kindness?" grumbled the more
deliberate monk. "Child," he shouted at her, "confess, why have you not
earned your bread honestly by the labour of your hands, why were you
hunted from place to place, if no evil report attached to you?"
The girl turned pale and trembled, "I--I cannot tell you."
"What, you hesitate!" cried Porphyrius. "Why do you tremble so if your
conscience is clear?"
"Oh, my lord, you will abominate me and drive me away from you."
"Is it so? God preserve us! we have indeed been deceived in you,"
roared Porphyrius. "Confess at once, confess, are you a witch or a
sorceress?"
"Indeed, my lord, I do not know. Folks say so because my brows grow
together and I have little feet. I have never done a harm wittingly to
any one, really and truly never, and yet the boys run after me wherever
I go and scold at me because they say I oppress them in their sleep and
am a witch; and the women throw the three white gifts after me, and the
children throw stones, and laugh at me and hang wisps of straw about
me. And so I fly from place to place, but it pursues me everywhere, and
nowhere can I find peace, and the child burst into heartrending sobs.
"Now we have it!" cried Porphyrius clasping his hands in horror. But
the child in her anguish clung to Donatus.
"Oh! my lord! Oh master! do not cast me out, have pity upon me. I will
confess everything. Yes, indeed, it is true I have many signs about me
that I myself am almost obliged to believe in. I have always been glad
to creep into a hollow tree and sit and dream that I really was a
night-bird and shunned the light, for by day they were always
tormenting and hunting me--so how should I love the daylight? And
often, often I have felt as if I must squeeze my mother to death for
love; and when I have had some pet animal, a lamb or a little dog, I
have hugged it till its breath was almost spent, but I never did
squeeze one to death, and I was always sorry when I had hurt it at all.
And often when I had no living thing I have run into the wood and bent
down the little young trees till they split, and then I felt better
again. Nay, my lord, I will confess to you, that even with you, who are
to me so high and sacred, I have felt tempted. When I held your hand,
and led you along, a feeling came over me as if I must press your hand,
till I almost dropped down dead. Tell me, is that sorcery? But you know
even witches can be made good, and if I am one, help me that I may
fight with my nature--I am to be saved, do not let me fall away, my
lord!"
Donatus felt her sink at his feet--felt her whole frame trembling with
deadly anguish, and he raised her with his strong arm. "Be you what and
who you may," he said, "I believe in you."
Then he suddenly felt that the slight form was flung violently to the
ground, and he heard a low cry from the girl; then a strong arm gripped
his and tried to force him from the spot.
"What is that?" he cried.
"Away with you!" whispered Porphyrius. "Do you think I will let you
league yourself with such a being? Get thee gone, accursed witch!" and
again Donatus heard a blow fall as it were on some soft body. Something
was all at once roused in him, as if only in this moment he had
suddenly grown to manhood. With one hand he pulled up the ill-used
child from where she was lying at his feet, the other he raised against
the monk.
"If you touch her again it is at the peril of your life."
"Donatus," screamed the horrified monk, "are things gone so far with
you?"
"So far?" cried Donatus. "Do you dare, you miserable man, to doubt me,
me the votary of death? Is the impenetrable darkness that shrouds me
not too sacred for your suspicions to spot it? This child is my child;
I have put myself in her father's place, and I will protect her with my
heart's blood."
The poor little head had sunk wearily on his breast like a scared bird,
he felt her painful breathing, and rage and grief gave him a giant's
strength; still the imprudent monk ventured once more to try to part
them, but the fist of his aggravated companion, though blindly aimed,
hit his temple so that he fell tottering on to a stone and lay there
unconscious.
"Woe is me!" cried Donatus who heard the heavy fall. "Is he dead?"
The child knelt down by the fallen foe and rubbed his brow and temples.
"No, he is alive, but he has hit himself against a stone and is
bleeding."
"Great God, what have I done? Raised my hand against a brother; what
evil spirit possesses me? God have mercy upon me!"
The girl meanwhile had sprinkled water on the unconscious man and he
opened his eyes; Donatus stood by wringing his hands and helpless. The
monk pointed up in the direction of Reichenberg. "Look there!" he
exclaimed.
The little girl looked up--lights were glancing in the castle, and just
above a low copse they could see the heads of men on horseback who were
riding quickly down the road.
"Those are the Count's men--we are lost!" groaned the wounded monk, "If
you are not wholly a child of hell, save him, in God's name."
"And you? can you not come with us?" she asked.
"No, my strength fails me, I cannot stand; leave me, it matters little;
but everything depends on him, save him and God will show you mercy for
his sake."
The riders were already turning the corner of the copse. "Away, away!"
The child seized the blind man with supernatural strength and dragged
him, half springing half tumbling, down the bank into the thick
willow-scrub that at this spot bordered the deeply excavated bed of the
river. "Lie still and do not stir," she commanded him in a whisper, and
she hid him as much as possible among the bushes; she herself crouched
down beside him, and the tepid waves washed round the couple, softly
and soothingly, like the downy cushions of a cool, freshly made couch.
"Here lies a priest!" cried one of the horsemen, pulling up his horse.
"That is a good find, for the Count has promised us a gold piece for
every monk of Marienberg that we take him."
And they dismounted to examine the wounded monk.
"You have had a blow. Who has been beforehand with us?" asked one with
a laugh.
"No one," said Porphyrius. "I fell over a stone."
"Were there not a couple more with you? I thought I saw something of
the kind as we came round the corner."
"Yes, yes, it was like a shadow that slipped down into the water,"
cried another.
"You saw rightly," said Porphyrius quietly. "It was my cloak; I lost it
when I fell down." The horsemen leaned over the edge of the road-way,
but could perceive nothing. "It is washed down the stream long ago.
Wait a bit, friend monk, we will take you to a place where you will be
hot enough even without your cloak! Your time is come, you fat monks;
in seven days we are to have a jolly butchery up at Marienberg. Now you
may ride with us to bid the guests to the feast." And they lifted him
on to one of their horses and rode off with shouting and laughter.
Their hoofs sounded for a long time in the distance; at last they died
away and deep silence reigned on the lonely road. Donatus and his
companion still listened for some time in their hiding-place; at last
the lights were extinguished in the castle and they were safe once
more.
The girl helped the blind man up the steep bank with much
difficulty--again and again he slipped back on the sandy declivity in
his wet robe. But she was as clever and resolute as she was slight and
supple, and she succeeded in getting him to the top. There they stood,
the two of them alone, a blind man and a defenceless child; but they
feared nothing, they had each other and they asked for nothing more.
"Child, what am I to call you? My soul would fain utter your name to
the Lord in praise and thanksgiving. My heart is full of you, let it
know your name that it may overflow in praise of you."
"My name is Beata."
"Beata! you have saved me--God is with you. Now lead me on that I may
rescue my brethren. We must not lose an instant, for the danger is
pressing."
"Come my lord--my Angel! Here below I will lead you, you shall lead me
above! But in order to guide you I must know where you are going? I
should never have dared to ask while that stern brother was by, but now
you must tell me everything, for now you have no one else to take care
of you."
"I am sent to St. Gertrude's, the convent of nuns, with a message to
the Duchess; lead me thither by the nearest way."
"Good--you shall soon be there. Ah! do not be sad; it is so delightful
now I have you all to myself." And she pressed the hand by which she
led him so tightly in the extremity of her joy that he started
involuntarily; but she released it as if in alarm. "No, no, I will not
squeeze you--no, I will not indeed!" she said, controlling herself.
"Poor child, I know just how you feel--there was a time when I too used
to clasp the wooden cross to my breast, and kiss the cold earth in my
impetuous and unspeakable longing; when I could have exhaled my very
soul in one single embrace, in my thirst for love."
"Yes, yes--that is it," whispered the child, quivering with excitement.
"But I have found what will quench that thirst and that longing; the
water of which Jesus spoke: 'Whosoever shall drink the water that I
give him shall never thirst.' I will teach you to draw that water and
peace will be with you."
The girl walked by his side in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground so
that no stone might hurt the blind man's foot, for the road was rough
and ill-constructed. So they went on together without speaking.
"Your hand is as hot as fire," said the girl at last, "and it throbs
and beats as if there were a little hammer inside; and your step is
uncertain. Do your wet clothes hinder you, or are you ill?"
"Oh! child--ask me no questions."
"But you frighten me. Trust me and let me know about your troubles."
The blind man stood still for a moment and pressed his hand over his
eyes.
"They burn and ache like live coals! My God, my God! grant that I may
not be discouraged."
The little girl was overcome with grief at seeing him stand thus
wringing his hands in a convulsion of pain, as he pressed them to the
aching sockets.
"Oh! poor, poor man--and I cannot help you. If I could cure you by
tearing out my heart, oh! how gladly would I do it."
"Your words are balm, they have a wondrous healing power. Come, now I
can go on again."
"Wait a little while--I will fetch some water and bind you up afresh,"
said the child, and she would have gone to the river, but he held her
firmly.
"No--not an instant more. Let us hasten onwards--every moment is of
importance. Think of my poor brethren."
"I can think of nothing but you and your suffering!" cried the
child--but she had to obey and to lead the blind monk forward. He
pulled her on without farther delay.
They were now passing by the foot of the fortress of Reichenburg, and
the little girl looked anxiously up at the blank and towering walls.
"God be thanked!" she sighed, when they were past, "Reichenburg is
behind us! now we have nothing more to fear."
"How long will it be before we reach Saint Gertrude's?" asked Donatus.
"Before sun-down we shall be there. What shall we do then?"
"There I shall beseech the Duchess to grant me an escort and an
efficient force to protect my brethren at Marienberg, and I shall
hasten back with them. I shall give you into the noble Lady's charge
that she may obtain your reception among the brides-of-heaven who dwell
in the cloister of Saint Gertrude, for that is the path-way of the
blessed in which I promised to lead you, and there flows the well of
living water of which you must drink."
"Jesu Maria!" shrieked the child. "You will shut me up in a cloister!"
"What else could I do with you that would be pleasing to the Lord?"
"Oh!--no, never, never!--" the child groaned under her breath.
"Beata--is this your obedience?"
"I will follow you, as faithful as a dog, for that is my destiny--but
free--of my own free will. I will not be imprisoned, I will not be shut
up, if you mean to rob me of my freedom, I will fly from you--and no
one will ever be able to find me again."
"Woe to you, Beata! will you spurn the salvation that I offer you?
Unhappy child. To-morrow I must go home to my convent and then you will
see me no more. What then will be your lot? You will wander about
homeless as before, and hunger and freeze, while there you would find
food and nurture for soul and body."
"Do you think I am afraid of hunger and cold? I--the homeless, the
vagabond? Offer a wild dove the handsomest cage under a roof, the Host
for food and holy water to drink--it will sooner creep into a hollow
tree in the hardest winter, and starve rather than be captive. And the
Lord will have pity on the wild bird and will forgive it, for it is He
himself that has made it so that it cannot live except in freedom."
Donatus stood still in astonishment and drew his hand out of hers.
"Child! what spirit is this that speaks in you? What power possesses
you? You fear not that which man fears--that which tempts others does
not tempt you; nothing earthly has any influence over you and you are
sacred in your innocence. The beasts of the forest spare you, and sin
cannot touch you. Yes, your simplicity has vanquished me, and I bow
before your childish wisdom. I will lead you on, wild dove, according
to your destiny. Perhaps, indeed, God has called you to bear the olive
leaf to some lonely and erring soul that it may be reconciled to
humanity." He took her hand again and walked on. "Now lead the blind
traveller to his goal and then spread your wings and fly away--my soul
will know where to find you, flee where you will. And when storms rave
round our towers and a feeble wing beats against my window, when the
snow covers the land and the starving birds crave their crumbs of
us--then I will think of my wild dove out in the wood--God preserve
her!"
He was suddenly silent; a strange and unfamiliar pain overcame him, and
the words died on his lips. The child looked up at the stars with
moistened eyes and an expression of immutable faith on her innocent
brow. Those stars above could never purpose that they should part--it
could not be--nay, it would never happen.
They neither of them spoke again till the towers of Saint Gertrude's
were visible through the darkness. The little girl's heart beat faster
for all her confidence, and she involuntarily slackened her pace as
they neared the spot. But at last they had reached it, they stood at
the gate--the moment of parting was come.