"Oh, Else," she said, "how altered he is! Are you sure he will live,
even now?"
I tried to comfort her with the hope which was naturally so much
stronger in me, because I had seen him in the depths from which he was
now slowly rising again to life. But something in that glimpse of him
seemed to weigh on her very life; and as Fritz recovered, Eva seemed to
grow paler and weaker, until the same feverish symptoms came over her
which he had learned so to dread, and then the terrible tokens, the
plague-spots, which could not be doubted, appeared on the fair, soft
arms, and Eva was lying with those dim, fixed, pestilence-veiled eyes,
and the wandering brain.
For a day we were able to conceal it from Fritz, but no longer.
On the second evening after Eva was stricken, I found him standing by
the window of his room, looking into the street. I shall never forget
the expression of horror in his eyes as he turned from the window to me.
"Else," he said, "how long have those fires been burning in the streets?"
"For a week," I said. "They are fires of cypress-wood and juniper, and
myrrh and pine gums. The physicians say they purify the air."
"I know too well what they are," he said. "And, Else," he said, "why is
Master Buerer's house opposite closed?"
"He has lost two children," I said.
"And why are those other windows closed all down the street?" he
rejoined.
"The people have left, brother," I said; "but the doctors hope the worst
is over now."
"O just God!" he exclaimed, sinking on a chair and covering his face; "I
was flying from thee, and I have brought the curse on my people!"
Then, after a minute's pause, before I could think of any words to
comfort him, he looked up, and suddenly demanded,--
"Who are dead in _this_ house, Else?"
"None, none," I said.
"Who are stricken?" he asked.
"All the children and the father are well," I said, "and the mother."
"Then Eva is stricken!" he exclaimed--"the innocent for the guilty! She
will die and be a saint in heaven, and I, who have murdered her, shall
live, and shall see her no more, for ever and for ever."
I could not comfort him. The strength of his agony utterly stunned me. I
could only burst into tears, so that he had to try to comfort me. But he
did not speak; he only took my hands in his kindly, as of old, without
saying another word. At length I said--
"It is not you who brought the plague, dear Fritz; it is God who sent
it!"
"I know it is God!" he replied, with such an intense bitterness in his
tone that I did not attempt another sentence.
That night Eva wandered much as I watched beside her; but her delirium
was quite different from that of Fritz. Her spirit seemed floating away
on a quiet stream into some happy land we could not see. She spoke of a
palace, of a home, of fields of fragrant lilies, of white-robed saints
walking among them with harps and songs, and of One who welcomed her.
Occasionally, too, she murmured snatches of the same Latin hymns that
Fritz had repeated in his delirium, but in a tone so different, so
child-like and happy! If ever she appeared troubled, it was when she
seemed to miss some one, and be searching here and there for them; but
then she often ended with, "Yes, I know they will come; I must wait till
they come." And so at last she fell asleep, as if the thought had
quieted her.
I could not hinder her sleeping, whatever the physician said; she looked
so placid, and had such a happy smile on her lips. Only once, when she
had lain thus an hour quite still, while her chest seemed scarcely to
heave with her soft, tranquil breathing, I grew alarmed lest she should
glide thus from us into the arms of the holy angels; and I whispered
softly, "Eva, dear Eva!"