"The Duchess is gone," was the terrible news which the porter announced
to Donatus. "There is no one here now of all the court but Count
Reichenberg, whom the Duchess came here to seek. Will you speak with
him?"
"God have mercy! Let me go--quickly--away at once!" cried Donatus, "he
must not see me, not for worlds. Tell me which way the Duchess went,
and can I overtake her?"
"She set out for Saint Mary's; if you do not linger you might yet meet
with her. But will you not first take a morsel to eat? The convent lets
no one pass the threshold without some hospitable entertainment, and
least of all a holy brother."
"No--no--nothing; if the Count of Reichenberg sees me it will be the
ruin of my cloister. Let me go without any delay, and do not betray me
if you have any reverence for the sacred will of the Abbot of
Marienberg. Farewell, and the Lord protect your holy house."
"And good luck to you on your way," the gatekeeper called after him.
The door closed, and the two wanderers again stood alone on the road.
"Beata," said Donatus gravely, "it is God's will; he has delivered me
into your hand as helpless as a child; will you guide me farther
still?"
"God be thanked, God be thanked!" cried the girl with a fluttering
heart, and her cheeks crimson with delight. "You will stay with me and
I with you, for ever--for ever."
"Child, your thoughts are as busy and erratic as wild bees. The most
impossible things seem sure to you, and what we count by hours to you
seems eternal. You are but a child, but the Lord has said, 'Suffer
little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'
And so I think that your simplicity must be pleasing in his sight. But
let us walk faster. I tremble at the thought of Reichenberg."
"I am walking as fast as I can, but if I go too fast you will fall, and
then we shall be lost indeed."
"I shall not fall while you guide me. Oh! make haste, you know not what
the stake is."
"But here there is no need, it is woody here, and my mother taught me
how to hide from the sight of men. And I learned it so well that she
often said, it was as if I had the art of making myself invisible, I
could creep away so quickly, and keep so very still."
"Why was your mother always afraid of losing you?"
"Because they had taken you away from her, and she was in terror lest
they should take me too. She often said how foolish she had been not to
fly away with you into the woods, as she did with me. It would have
been a very different thing no doubt, for they would have hunted for
you, but no one ever wanted me.
"Did your mother often speak of me?"
"Oh, very often, constantly; not a day passed that she did not tell me
something about you; but her recollections were always of a little boy,
so I could only fancy you one, just as we always picture the Lord Jesus
Christ as a baby in a manger. And oh! I loved you so dearly. At first,
to be sure, when I was very little I was often jealous of you when my
mother cried for you, but as I grew older she taught me to love you as
she herself loved you, and taught me to pray for you."
"Oh wondrous Providence! There lived on earth, though far from me and
unknown, a soul that had thoughts of love for me while I, alone and a
stranger to the world, prayed within convent-walls. Was it you who were
present to me in the spirit when I flung myself with fevered longing
down in the grass, or on a grave, and believed that some response must
come to my soul's cry, either from above, or from the abyss below! Was
it you?"
"Indeed it must have been, for I often shouted your name to the
distance, and thought you would hear it and come. We waited for you,
day after day, but at last my mother could wait no longer and she took
me to Burgeis, to be nearer to you. Yes, and when I saw a pretty little
boy, with dark curls and brown eyes, I asked my mother if you had not
looked like that, and if she said 'yes,' I would take him up and nurse
him and kiss him and call him Donatus. And when I saw you in the
procession, I did not know you, because you were no longer a boy, but
tall and dignified. I took you for an angel; but mother knew you again.
Still, now I have you with me and you are so poor and helpless I can
quite make you out to be the same with the little boy I used to
picture. Oh! I wish you were still so little."
"And why?"
"Because then I could carry you in my arms and shelter you in my bosom
from wind and weather and every danger."
"Oh merciful Providence--what wonders dost Thou create. Yes, you are a
wonder, you pure and holy child-spirit. It is such as you that God in
his mercy sends to lonely pilgrims on the way to Heaven to fare forth
with them and strew the path of death with flowers. All my wild longing
was but a vague seeking for you--pure and holy child--for you too are
not of this world; you, like me, are not of the earth, earthly; you,
like me, have no hope but in the other world."
The girl leaned her face on his arm and wept softly, but she was
weeping for happiness; for had he not himself said that God had created
them for each other, and whether for life or for death, it was all the
same to her. They were two stricken souls flung together into a dark
sea; for an instant they might cling to each other, and then, clasped
in that embrace, must sink in the hopeless depths--but that one moment
was worth a whole lifetime.
Thus they went on to the little village of Saint Mary--the namesake of
Marienberg. It was only three quarters of an hour from Münster, but he
had to gather up all his strength to drag himself along; Beata felt
with increasing anxiety how he gradually leaned more and more heavily
on her shoulder, and how his power was failing. If only they could
reach their destination, thought she with an anxious sigh, then he
could rest. But no such good fortune was in store for them.
They had reached St. Mary's, here was the same terrible news. "The
Duchess is gone."
"Whither?"
"On a pilgrimage to Trafoy, to the three Holy Wells."
"All-merciful God!"
Trafoy was eight miles away--a day's journey; and his feet would hardly
carry him. They must return all the way to Glurns, almost three miles,
for there was no path which a blind man could climb across the
mountains that divide the three valleys. Past the convent at Münster
and the towers of Reichenberg, where they might meet the dreaded Count,
once more under the burning sun, over the shadeless fields of Galfa,
which they had traversed last night in the cool moonlight, and all this
with strength impaired by fever and pain.
"Almighty God, Thy hand is heavy upon me!" sighed Donatus. But he did
not pause to consider, he did not hesitate.
"Forwards," he exclaimed seizing the child's hand, "God will help us;
Beata, we must go on!"
A short rest, for Beata's sake and not for his own, at the farm in the
village he did however allow; once more she dressed his wounds. Then
they set out on the whole weary way back to Glurns, and from thence to
the wild valley of Trafoy and the three Holy Wells.
"Oh, my brethren, how anxiously you will be waiting," lamented Donatus.
"Woe is me, for a useless worm that can only crawl when wings are
needed. Woe is me--I have done you an injury by injuring myself, and
you were very right to punish me; my eyes belonged to you, I had no
right to rob you of them."
"Do not be disheartened, dear master. When we reach Trafoy you can
moisten your eyes at the Holy Wells; perhaps that may make you see
again."
Donatus shook his head with a bitter smile.
"Everything else on earth may heal and grow again--a withered stick may
blossom again as a sign of grace; the body of the Lord may grow for us
in the dryest bread, but eyes cannot grow again--never, never."
He was forced to stand still, a dull groan broke from his lips. He felt
something light and soft laid upon his breast; it was the child's hand,
she dared not speak, but she longed to comfort him, and a stream of
sweet peace seemed to flow from that little hand; the tumult of his
despairing heart subsided under that innocent touch. He stood for some
time struggling for breath and holding the consoling hand tightly to
his breast.
"You heal every pain," he said. "You are one of those of whom the Lord
said, 'Behold, in thy hands I have signed thee'--!"
"They belong to you, so you may make use of them; my hands, my
eyes--all that I have is yours," said the child, and a solemn thrill
ran through the blind man.
The sun shone with pitiless heat down in the valley, the naked cliffs
of gneiss and micaceous schist that shut it in reflected the burning
rays with double fervour, and out of the sea of glowing vapour uprose
the frowning towers of Reichenberg on their rocky height. The girl
shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up--a line of armed men at
that moment were riding up the mountain-side, at their head a leader on
a black horse--the child thought she recognised the Count; she clung to
Donatus in terror.
"There they are," she whispered, "they can see us as well as we can see
them--your black robe betrays you."
"What can we do?" said Donatus.
"All around is bare--but there is a shepherd's cart and close by it the
man himself minding his flock. I will ask him to hide you in it till
night-fall--we cannot go on by daylight. I will mind his sheep for him
till evening, in return."
"Great God! must another day be wasted without our being any nearer to
the goal?" said Donatus.
"There is no other way. If Count Reichenberg finds us you will never
reach it at all, for he is of a bad sort and is plotting evil against
you."
"What, do you know him?"
"Of course I do, he was with my mother just lately and they talked of
all sorts of things that I did not understand; they stormed and
threatened at the convent up there, and I could plainly see it was no
good that they were promising."
"And your mother was in league with him? Oh Berntrudis!"
"She was furious with the fathers of Marienberg on your account."
"Oh! woe is me that I must say it--we deserve it, for they made her a
bad return for all her love and fidelity. But I bring misfortune and
fatality on all that come near me."
"Not on me--you have not brought them on me," said the child, and
Donatus felt as if he could see the smile of rapture with which she
spoke the words.
They had reached the shepherd's hut, Beata stood still in front of it.
"Now hide yourself in here while I speak to the shepherd."
"Beata--devise some plan for God's sake--I dare not wait till evening,
for if we miss the Duchess all hope is lost."
"I know of no plan--unless you will change dresses with the shepherd.
He must give you his smock and you must give him your clothes instead."
"What! lay aside the dress of my order?" cried Donatus horrified. "I
can never do that--the rules forbid it."
"Then you must stop here till night-fall--one or the other is the only
possible course."
Donatus wrung his hands, "What can I do? disobedience and infraction of
the rule are my fate wherever I turn. And yet if I must infringe one
law it had better be the lesser. More depends on my saving the brethren
than on the outward observance. Call the man here for God's sake; I
will change clothes with him that I may go on unrecognised."
"But--one thing more," said Beata reflecting. "If afterwards the Count
were to see the man in your monk's cowl--that might betray you. I would
rather burn it and give the shepherd something more valuable for his
smock frock."
"Have you any valuables then?" asked Donatus in surprise.
"Yes--here, feel; I have a ring that Count Reichenberg gave me. At
first I flung it away, but my mother put it on me again, and said, 'who
knows of what use it may be yet!'"
"The Count gave you a ring?"
"Aye--and a gold piece. That I have kept--we can buy bread with that
when we have none left. He gave them both to me that night. The ring I
was to show to the warder of the castle that he might admit me. He
wanted to adopt me as his child."
"And you did not go?"
The child smiled.
"Why, how should I? I went with you."
"But by-and-bye--consider--the ring will be the key to a new life of
pleasure and splendour."
"And even if it were the key to the cavern of the blessed--what do I
want with it--I have you."
Donatus stood overpowered by this simple fidelity; at this moment the
shepherd came forward, curious to see the strangers.
"Blessed be the name of the Lord!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "How
comes a cloister-brother here?"
"Here, you man," said Beata quickly, "have you another smock frock?"
"Aye--my Sunday clothes and my cape; what does the girl want with
them?"
"Give them here, coat, cape, and hat, this blind Brother has
enemies--they are plotting against his life and that of his
brethren--and if he cannot disguise himself in your clothes danger
threatens him."
The man shook his head. "I want my clothes myself," he said,
"particularly the cape and hat; I cannot do without them."
"Consider--you have a house to shelter you from wind and weather, and
he has nothing if you refuse to give him the cape and hat. Look here, I
will give you this ring for them, it is of pure gold--you may believe
me, only don't consider any longer. I will mind your sheep--help him to
put them on, and then we will burn the monk's dress."
"The girl is no fool!" said the shepherd, laughing and turning the ring
about as it sparkled in the sun, "for such a jewel as this you might
strip me of my skin as well as my shirt." He glanced at the girl as she
ran lightly off to keep the sheep together. "A smart girl she is! and
it all slipped off her tongue as easily as a Pater noster."
And he fetched the things out of the hut, and began to help the blind
man to put them on. In a few minutes Donatus appeared from behind the
hut, another man. His breast and arms were bare, for the scanty garment
scarcely met round his shoulders and loins, and he had modestly wrapped
the ragged cape round his slim white knees.
"How handsome you are!" said the girl, gazing up in innocent
astonishment at the manly young form that had hitherto been so
completely concealed by the monk's black frock and cowl. Donatus
blushed involuntarily, the simple words disconcerted him; to this
moment he had never thought whether he were handsome or hideous, and he
was full of regret at having to exhibit himself in such a guise before
the eyes of men. Already he was considering whether it might not be
possible to face all the danger of proceeding in his monk's dress. He
was overwhelmed with shame, shame at his undignified disguise--when he
suddenly perceived the unpleasant odour of burning wool; the girl with
quick decision had flung the monkish garb on to the fire by which the
shepherd was cooking his midday meal; it gave Donatus a shock of
horror, it was as if he himself were being burnt.
"The sacred garb that you wear smells of the scorching of your
too-easily inflamed desires," Correntian had said to him in that last
night. Now the flames had indeed taken possession of it and consumed
it. He stood by in brooding silence, and with deep sighs he made the
sign of the cross over the fire and himself. Then he pressed his
breviary and the cross of his rosary to his lips and hid them carefully
in the scanty robe that covered his breast.
"Beata, where are you?" at last he asked, putting out his hand.
"Here," said the child, going quickly up to him.
"Let us go."
"Here is the hat," said the little girl with prudent forethought, and
she put the hat of coarse straw plait on his head. "Now we can go on.
Farewell shepherd, and as you hope for salvation do not betray us,
promise me that, by the Holy Virgin."
The shepherd laid his right hand in hers which she held out to him.
"The Holy Virgin need not trouble herself when you forbid it. I think
no one could refuse you anything. Go in peace, I would rather you
should stay with me and help me to mind my sheep, but it is better so,
for if I had you to look at I should forget the sheep! It is well that
the pious brother there is blind, for if he had eyes to see you it
would go hard with him."
"Farewell," said the child, interrupting him and hurrying Donatus away.
"You are trembling, Beata. Do not let his idle prating annoy you. The
world is full of these baser souls, but they cannot come near us; they
vanish before us like the dust clouds that whirl up beneath our feet."
"Ah! but you see, my lord, this is what happens to me wherever I go,
first they torment me with friendly advances, and then when I fly from
them they curse me and call me a witch."
"Poor little witch!" and an expression played upon his lips, a faintly
sweet and merry smile.
"Oh! you are smiling, you are smiling," cried the child joyfully. "I
can see you smile for the first time!" and again she would have said,
"How handsome you are!" But for the first time in her life she coloured
consciously, and the words died on her lips.
Donatus laid his hand on the child's head. "Let me feel how tall you
are?" said he, "are you quite grown up?"
"I should think so," said the child, leaning her head on his breast.
"See I reach up to there." Donatus felt the height with his hand.
"Only so far! Oh! then you will certainly grow taller yet. How many
summers old are you then?"
"That I do not know."
"What, child, do you not even know how old you are?"
"Wait, not by summers, but I can count by trees."
"By trees?"
"Yes, wait a little. Every year since I could run alone my mother made
me cut a cross in a young tree when the birds were building their
nests. Now here in Münsterthal there was one tree," she reckoned on her
fingers, "on the road to Marienberg there was one; two at Nauders, and
five in Finstermünz, and in the Ober-Innthal three, that makes twelve,
then there are three in Lechthal, and one on the way down, in
Vintschgau; that makes sixteen little trees. So that since I came into
the world there must have been seventeen springs, for when I cut the
first cross I was so tiny that my mother had to guide my hand with the
knife; so she told me, for I cannot remember it."
"Then you are already seventeen summers old? I thought you were still
quite a child," said Donatus thoughtfully.
"And what colour are your eyes?" he went on presently. "Brown or blue?"
"Brown I fancy, but I cannot be certain, for I have no mirror but the
water, but mother used to say they shone at night like owl's eyes."
"And your hair?"
"Reddish-brown. The children used to call me Hairy-owl when they saw me
combing it, because I could cover myself all over with it like a cloak;
here, feel my plaits, they are as long as I am tall. I have to fasten
them up." And she laughingly drew the thick, half unplaced locks
through his hand while he wondered at their length and weight.
"And your eyebrows grow together, the true sign of a witch?"
"Alas, yes."
"And a little rosy baby mouth?"
"Yes, may-be--I do not know."
"Beata! oh, would I could see you!" he said for the first time since
they had been together. It thrilled her with delight as he said it, she
herself knew not wherefore.