It was towards the close of an autumnal evening, in the commencement of
the sixteenth century, that a crowd of human beings was dispersing from
the old market-place of Hammelburg, an ancient and, at that time,
considerable town of Franconia, after witnessing the performance of a
hideous and living tragedy. The Ober-Amtmann, or governor of the town,
who had presided over the awful occasion, had left, attended by his
_schreibers_, or secretaries, the small balustraded terrace which
advanced out before the elevated entrance of the old Gothic town-hall.
The town-guard were receding in various directions, warning the crowd to
seek their homes, and sometimes aiding with a gentle admonition of their
pike-heads those who lingered, as, slowly retreating, they moved down
the different narrow streets that led from the central market-place,
like streams flowing off in different channels after an inundation.
Window after window was closing in the quaintly-carved and
strangely-decorated gables of the houses; and many a small casement had
been pulled to, over sundry withered old faces, that, peering from the
dark and narrow aperture, and illumined by the glaring light that had
filled the market-place, had resembled some darkly-traced picture placed
against the opening. In the middle of the square still smoked, in a
heavy volume of cloud, the last gleaming ashes of a lately blazing pile,
still filling the air with a noisome stench. The night was closing
darkly in, and one human being alone seemed yet to linger in the
market-place.
It would have been difficult, indeed, to discover that the dark object
just discernible upon the edge of the blackened mass of smoking cinders
really was a human being, so shapeless was the form, so strangely was it
crouched down before the spot where the pile had been consumed. From
time to time only an upward-flung movement of two thin arms, as if in
the violent emotion of earnest prayer or deprecation, showed that this
object was a living thing; until, when the moon rose from behind the old
town-hall, disengaging itself, ever and anon, from among the heavy
clouds of a gathering storm, its light fell full upon this indistinct
apparition, and revealed the form of a man, curiously bent together in a
half-squatting, half-kneeling position. His head was bare. His long
tangled black locks hung around a swarthy face, young still in years,
but worn and withered, and prematurely aged by sickness, sorrow, or
violence of passion--perhaps by the constant operation of all three. At
this moment it was ghastly pale, and bore the marks of the faintness and
exhaustion attendant upon a reaction after intense excitement. The dress
of this creature was not the usual costume of the lower classes, and
consisted almost entirely of a ragged and soiled garment of coarse brown
linen, made somewhat in the shape of a modern _blouse_, and bound round
his waist by a coarse leathern band. Around his neck hung a square bag,
or satchel, which at once designated his calling to be that of a common
beggar, privileged by the religious authorities of the place. The stoop
of his broad shoulders, between which the head was deeply sunk, told a
tale of long sickness, which had broken a frame originally bold and
strong, and given a peculiarly ill-favoured appearance to a form
naturally well built; and when he arose from his squatting posture, the
bent and withered appearance of his crooked legs, which no longer
possessed sufficient strength to support the bulkier frame above, gave
painful evidence that the wretched man had suffered cruelly from those
common scourges of his class at that period--rheumatism and ague.
Clasped between his hands was a rosary of wood; and, as he rose, he
pressed it to his lips, and then deposited it in the upper part of his
garment.
"No, no!" exclaimed the cripple aloud, when he had staggered to his
feet. "No, it is not vengeance--it is not, God knows; although the
malevolence of those hideous and accursed hags, those lemans of
Satan"--and he spat upon the ground--"have made me the wretched outcast
of humanity I am. The blood of the foul one has been shed for His glory
only, and that of the blessed Virgin, to the destruction of the
arch-enemy of mankind and his delusions!"
"Thou knowest it is so," he added, again clutching forth the rosary from
his bosom, which, after gazing upon a rude personification of the
Virgin, stamped upon a tiny plate of copper at the end of the string of
beads, and devoutly making the sign of the cross, he returned to its
usual depository.
"I have cried against the handmaid of Beelzebub--uttering cry for cry as
she shrieked out her wretched soul. I have prayed earnestly and long,
and I am athirst," continued the cripple, as he dragged his distorted
limbs with difficulty over the rough stones towards a large covered
well, which occupied the lower part of the market-place.
As the beggar approached the parapet of the well, to drink from one of
the buckets which reposed upon its edge, he became first aware of the
presence of another human being. Half-concealed behind one of the
twisted columns that supported the Gothic pavilion above, sat upon the
parapet a female figure, dressed in a black garb of such a form and
nature, that, without being the exact costume of any known religious
order, it bore a monastic character. Her face, as she sat with her head
bent down over her clasped hands, in an attitude of mournful
humiliation, was fully concealed by a black hood. But when, upon the
approach of the beggar, she started up hastily, as if impelled by
feelings of horror and disgust, the moon shone full upon her, and
revealed the features of a woman of an advanced period of life, who
formerly might have possessed much beauty, although now so washed out by
tears, and furrowed by sorrow, that the whole character of her face was
changed. Her years, too, were probably very much fewer than her
appearance denoted, for the signs of age upon her face bore less the
marks of time than of mental suffering. The symptoms of aversion which
her manner displayed upon the beggar's approach, although instinctive
and involuntary, and almost immediately restrained, had not escaped his
eye. His features expressed the bitter resentment of his heart at this
insult, and worked with ill-repressed feelings of anger and spite.
"Ha! Mother Magdalena--it is thou! Why flinchest thou at my approach?
Hast thou cause to fear me, then?" exclaimed the cripple with a sneer,
as he drew nearer.
The female thus addressed shuddered at the sound of his voice; and,
hastily pulling her dark hood more closely over her face, endeavoured to
pass on without reply; but the beggar caught her by the arm.
"Not so fast, beldam!" he cried. "I would have a word with thee. Dost
thou not know me?"
"Not know thee!" exclaimed the dark female. "Who in this wretched town
does not know Schwartzer Claus, the witchfinder? What wouldst thou with
me? Let me go!"
"Why dost thou tremble, then, and turn away thy head?" continued the
cripple. "Why does Black Claus, the witchfinder--since such thou callest
me--make thee shudder thus in every limb? The innocent have no cause to
fear."
"Thou askest me why I shudder?" said Magdalena in an excited tone,
forgetting in her agitation her purpose of self-control. "Thou hast
forced me to speak, and I will tell thee. Is not thy hand yet reeking
with the bloody ashes of thy last victim? Has not a seventh unhappy
woman suffered this very day a cruel death at the stake upon thy hideous
denunciation; and thou askest me why I shudder?"
"Beware, woman--beware!" cried the witchfinder, lifting up his long
right arm with a gesture of menace. "Those who defend the evil-doer, and
malign the just and heaven-directed accuser, are not far from being
arraigned as accomplices themselves!"
"What! thou seekest already another innocent sacrifice, wretched man!"
continued the female, tearing away her arm, which the beggar still held
clenched in his left hand. "Thou art not sated with the innocent blood
thy false witness has this day shed?"
"It is a lie!--it is a damning lie!" screamed the cripple, foaming with
passion. "I have borne no false witness! Besides, did not she avow her
deeds of darkness? did she not confess her complicity with the spirits
of hell, and her harlotries with the arch-deceiver of mankind?"
"Ay! when, tortured in mind and body, her poor weak old head gave way,
and she unconsciously affirmed all that her torturers had for hours past
been pressing upon her wavering understanding. Ye had driven her mad,
poor wretch!"
"'Tis false again!--'tis false!" repeated the witchfinder. "The truth
spoke out of her at last, when her treacherous paramour, the demon, had
deserted her. God's glory and that of the holy church, for which I work,
had triumphed over the powers of darkness."
"Thou serve the holy church! Hear not the blasphemy, O Lord!" cried the
excited woman, raising up her hands to heaven. "Thou, miserable wretch!
who, for the favour of the Amtmann or the priest, for the pittance
bestowed on thee in reward of thy discovery of the supposed foul
practices of witchery and magic, art ever ready to sell the innocent
blood of the aged, helpless, and infirm!"
"For the lucre of gain!" screamed the cripple, but in a tone as much of
despair at this accusation as of wrath. "For the lucre of gain! No--no;
as God is my judge, it is not! My motives are pure; God and the Holy
Virgin know they are! It is not even a spirit of revenge that instigates
me. No--no! it cannot be; it _is_ not! If the words of my mouth have
condemned and killed, it is because my voice was uplifted in the cause
of religion, and to the confusion of the prince of evil!" But as he
spoke, the beggar covered his face with his hands, with a shudder, as
though there passed in his soul a struggle with himself--a doubt of his
own real motives.
Magdalena was about to quit in haste her dangerous companion, when a
sentiment of pity at the sight of the cripple's evident emotion seemed
to mingle strangely with her disgust and aversion to the witchfinder. It
was even with an uncontrollable feeling of interest that she stopped for
a moment to look upon the wretched man.
After a pause, the beggar removed his hands from his face, and uttering
in a low tone the words, "I thirst," staggered to the edge of the well,
and seized the bucket within his hands. He bent over it but for a moment
to drink, and could scarcely have swallowed many mouthfuls, before,
flinging back the bucket into the well, he started up, and spat the
water from his mouth.
"Horror!" he said, with a look of mingled terror and insanity--"it
tastes of blood!"
"It is thy own conscience, poor man, that troubles the taste of the
fresh element," said Magdalena solemnly; "the water is pure and sweet!"
"Thou hast done this, old hag!" cried the witchfinder wildly; unheeding
her remark. "Thou hast corrupted the waters at the source. Why did I
find thee sitting here, cowering over the surface of the well, if it
were not to cast malefick spells upon the water, and turn it into
poison--in order to give ills, and ails, and blains, and aches, and
pains, and sickness, and death to thy fellow-creatures? Ha! ha! I have
long thought it. Thou also art one of the accursed ones!"
"Thou ravest, miserable wretch!" replied the female; "thou knowest not
what thou utterest. God forgive thee, cripple, thy wicked thought, and
change thy perverted mind!"
She was again about to turn away, and leave her angry questioner, when,
fearing the result of the evil feeling now fully excited in the
witchfinder's mind, she again paused to excuse herself in the eyes of
the dangerous man, and added--
"Thou canst not mean what thou sayest, Claus; I sat by the well but to
cool my heated brow in the night-air, and taste the breath of heaven;
for my mind was saddened, and my head whirled, with the horrors that
this day has witnessed."
But her words were but oil upon the flame, and only served to augment
the wild infatuation of the witchfinder.
"Ah! thy mind was saddened! Thou hadst pity for that vile hag of hell!
Was she thy comrade? Perchance thou hadst fear for thyself? Thou
thought'st thy own time might come? Thy own time _will_ come, old
Magdalena. My eye is upon thee and thy dark practices; it has been upon
thee since thou camest, unknown and unacknowledged, to this place, none
could tell when, and whence, and how. Ay, my eye is upon thee,
and--beware!"
Willingly would the woman now have shrunk away before the maddened
witchfinder's objurgation; but the wild accusation thus thundered
against her froze her with terror, and riveted her to the spot.
"I have marked thee well," continued the frantic man, "and I have seen
thee pause upon the threshold of the holy house of God, and kneel in
mockery upon the steps before it: but thou hast never dared to enter it.
Thou knewest well that the devil thou servest would have torn thee in
pieces hadst thou done it. Ha! do I catch thee there?" he continued, as
at these words the woman buried her face between her hands.
"Thou canst not deny it!" shouted the witchfinder with an air of
triumph.
"God best judges the motives of the heart," murmured Magdalena.
"I will tell thee more, vile hag, and thou shalt hear it face to face,"
pursued the cripple, seizing the poor woman's arms with his long bony
fingers, and dragging her hands from before her face, in spite of her
efforts at resistance. "Thou watchest at street corners and in doorways,
on the bridge or on the causeway, to see fair Fraulein Bertha, the
Ober-Amtmann's daughter, ride past upon her ambling jennet, or mount the
church-steps, her missal in her hand. Thou watchest her to cast thy
spells upon her. Thou hatest her for her youth and beauty and spotless
purity, like all thy wretched tribe, whom the sight of innocence and
brightness sickens to the heart's core. Thou wouldst fascinate her with
thy eye of evil and thy deadly incantations."
The moon, the light of which still struggled faintly through the
fast-accumulating clouds, shone for a moment upon the face of old
Magdalena, as the cripple pronounced these words. Her features were more
deadly pale than usual, and convulsed with an excess of agitation at
this mention of Bertha's name, which she evidently struggled to control
in vain.
"Ah! I have thee there again!" screamed Claus in triumph a second time.
"Already have I seen her cheek grow pale, her head bow down like a
blighted flower, her walk become weary with faintness. Hast thou already
been at thy filthy machinations? But Black Claus, the witchfinder, is
there to wrestle with the powers of evil. And hear me! That fair sweet
girl is the only comfort of my wretched life. My soul grows calm and
soothed when I look upon that lovely face. A ray of sunshine gleams upon
the darkness of my path when her smile beams upon me. My heart leaps
within me for joy when her small white hand drops an offering into my
beggar's bowl. She is my only life, my only joy, and my guardian angel.
And couldst thou harm her, woman, no torment should be too horrible for
thee, body and soul. The chains of the stake still lie upon the
market-place--the ashes of yon pile still reek with heat; and the pile
shall rise again, the chains shall bind once more. Wretched hag! I bid
thee again beware!"
As with one hand the raving witchfinder pointed to the spot where one
unhappy woman had already perished that day, a victim to the
superstition of the times, Magdalena, who, during his praise of the fair
girl, had again looked at him with awakened interest, disengaged herself
from the other. "God's will be done!" she said with humility. "I am
prepared for all. But thou, unhappy man!" she continued, "beware in
turn, lest, before thou hast time to repent thee of the hardness and
cruelty of thy heart, His judgement fall on thee, and his justice punish
thee."
She spoke with hand upraised to heaven; and then, pulling her hood over
her face, hurried from the market-place.
The witchfinder gazed after her, fixed to the spot, and for a moment
awe-struck by her words. As he still stood struggling with his various
passions, the storm, which had been gathering ever since sunset, began
to burst over his head. The rain came down in torrents.
"Ah! was it that?" screamed the beggar, with a fit of wild laughter.
"The miserable old beldam! she stretched out her finger to the sky, and
it was to bring down these waterspouts upon my head. Curses on the foul
malicious fiend!" And he spat upon the ground, as if to exorcise the
evil spirit.
"But I must find shelter," he murmured. "Already pains rack my limbs; my
bones ache; a shudder runs through my frame! The old hag has worked her
spell upon me. _Apage, Sathanas!_ Anathema!"
Speaking thus, the wretched man shuffled along as fast as the crippled
state of his limbs, and the acute pains of rheumatism, which the damp
night-air had again brought upon him, would allow him to proceed. He
staggered to the shelter of a doorway, which was placed under the
advancing terrace of the town-hall, and between two staircases which
descended on either side on to the market-place. The protruding vault of
the Gothic archway afforded him some refuge from the storm, which now
burst down with increased violence. But the excited witchfinder's brain
seemed to wander, as he caught an indistinct vision of the gaping jaws
of the dragons and other grotesque monsters, which protruded as
waterspouts from the roofs of the surrounding houses, and now disgorged
torrents of rain.
"Spit, spit, ye devils all!" he shouted aloud. "Ye cannot reach me here.
Ha! ha! rage, storm, spew forth your venom, do the bidding of your
mistress--I defy you!" And as the wind swept round the corners of the
building, and spattered some of the water of the gushing cataracts in
his face, he cried, "Avaunt!" as if speaking to a living thing, and,
clinging to the bars of an aperture in the upper part of the door,
turned away his face.
As he thus came to look upon the strongly-barred opening in the door,
the current of his ideas changed. Within was the small and wretched
prison of the town, which just occupied the space of the terrace
above--a miserable hole.
"There she lay this morning," he murmured, looking into the interior,
which was now in utter darkness, and quite empty--"there she lay, old
Martha Dietz, and called in vain upon the demon who deserted her. There
have lain all the foul hags who tortured my poor aching limbs. There
shall _she_ lie also, the scoffer and reviler, the worker of evil. The
witchfinder will be revenged. Revenge! no, no! He will do the work of
the holy church. Who shall say the contrary? Not thou, old Martha--nor
thou--nor thou. If ye say so, ye lie in death, as ye have lied in life.
Ay! glare upon me with your lack-lustre eyes. Ye are powerless now,
though ye are there, and make mouths at me. One--two--three--God stand
by me! There they are--_all seven!_"
With a wild scream of horror, the cripple covered his eyes with his
hands, and rushed forth into the tempest.
Situated in the picturesque and fertile valley of the Saale, the town of
Hammelburg stands upon a gentle declivity, commanding one of the
numerous windings of the river, and sloping downwards to its banks. A
part of the old walls of the town is thus bathed by the waters of the
stream, which, calm and peaceful in the summer months, become
tumultuous, and even dangerous, during rainy weather, or after the
melting of the snows. From the ancient gateway of the town on the river
side, a triple bridge of great length and many arches, which, in the dry
season, seems to occupy a most unnecessary space across the narrower
waters, but which, at other times, scarce suffices to span the extent of
the invading inundation, affords a communication with the high-road.
At the commencement of the sixteenth century, this bridge was only
constructed of wood, and although put together with rude strength,
ill-sufficed to resist the force of the torrents, and had been
repeatedly swept before them.
Not far from the town gateway that commanded this bridge, stood a huge
mansion, constructed as a palace for the Prince Bishops of Fulda, the
sovereign rulers of the district; although, at the period in question,
it had been ceded to the Ober-Amtmann, a near relation of the reigning
bishop, as his official dwelling. On the side of this ancient palace
furthest removed from the town gate, ran, along the river's banks, its
spacious gardens, abutting at their extremity upon the premises of an
extensive Benedictine monastery, from which they were only separated by
a narrow lane, that led from the town to the river. At the very angle of
this lane, where it opened by a small water-gate upon a narrow
towing-path, skirting alike the town-walls and the banks of the stream,
there stood a low building attached to the monastery, the upper story of
which thus overlooked the old gardens of the palace on the one hand,
and, on the other, the river banks.
At one of the windows of this humble dwelling, that which overlooked the
palace gardens, stood a young man, intently gazing through its small
octagon panes. Two or three times he turned away with a heavy sigh, as
if wearied with long and vain watching, and as often returned again to
his previous occupation. At length the opening of the door of the room
startled him from his position; and as if ashamed of being caught in the
act of looking out, he hurried to a table in the middle of the room, and
flung himself into an old chair.
The various objects with which the table was covered, as well as those
which filled and littered the room in all directions, clearly designated
the young man's employment to be that of a sculptor and colourer of
images for the ornament of churches, as well as an illuminator of
missals and manuscripts--an occupation at that time still pursued,
although gradually falling into disuse since the invention of printing.
Scattered about upon the table were several old parchment manuscripts,
which had served as models for the artist's use, or had been confided to
his hands to clean. Old illuminated missals, some of the gorgeous
illustrations of which were open, as if lately retouched by the hand of
the young painter, lay here and there. At the further end of the table
stood a small figure of a Virgin and Child, delicately and exquisitely
carved, and painted with the richest colours. The group was bright with
its fresh finish, and evidently had not long been completed by the hand
of the artist. Upon an elevated bench or dresser were littered the tools
of the sculptor and wood-carver, with a few unfinished trials of small
saintly figures; and around the room were fragments of wooden images of
saints, some discoloured, some broken, a few in tolerable preservation,
which were either destined to be restored and repainted, or had served
as studies for the artist. Upon the walls hung a few pictures of female
saints, bedecked with garlands of flowers, which showed them to be
objects of devotion and respect in the eyes of the possessor. Among all
this confusion, space was scarcely left, in the small chamber of the
artist, for the pallet-bed and cumbrous press that formed his only
furniture.
Immediately before the chair into which the young man so hastily flung
himself, lay a rich missal, upon the adornment of which he had been
employed, before other thoughts and feelings had sent him to the window;
and when he again resumed his work, it was upon the face of a fair
saint, which formed the headpiece of a chapter, peering out from among
the various graceful arabesques that twined in the brightest colours
along the margin of the leaf.
In truth, the face of the young artist was almost as fair as that of the
bright being he was engaged in painting. His light brown hair was parted
in the middle, over a high white forehead, and fell in faintly waving
curls almost to his neck, forming a frame to the soft oval face, to
which his violet-blue melancholy-looking eyes, his calm,
finely-chiselled features, and the serious repose of his imaginative
mouth, imparted an air of gentleness and thoughtfulness combined. His
dark, sober-coloured, simple dress, although somewhat too severe to suit
his youthful figure, accorded well with the character of his
physiognomy. His falling collar displayed a full white throat, which
might have served as a model for a statue of Antinous, had it not borne
more the stamp of genius in its proportions than of physical
voluptuousness. The hands, which now hastily resumed their neglected
occupation, had all the fairness and well-moulded contour of a woman's,
without that delicacy of size which would have stamped them as
effeminate. Had he been aware of his own beauty, he might have copied
his own graceful form for a personification of the lily-bearing angel in
a group of the Annunciation.
The person who had startled him from the window, by opening the door of
his room, was an aged-looking woman, in a plain dress of coarse black
serge. She bore in her hands a coarse brown porringer filled with
steaming viands, a lump of dark homely bread, and a white cloth.
"Ah! my good Magdalena, art thou there?" said the young artist, raising
his head with an almost unconscious affectation of surprise, as though
unexpectedly disturbed at his work.
"You forget all hours, and all human wants, in your zeal for your
beautiful art, Master Gottlob," said the woman. "I bring you your
noon-day repast, which you would never have called for, had I allowed it
to stand by even until sundown. But I have ventured to transgress your
orders. You must be faint with long fasting;" and the old woman made a
movement as if to place the food upon the table before the artist.
"Thanks, good Magdalena! thanks!" said the young man, looking at her
with that sweet smile, and tender expression of his mild blue eyes,
which had procured him, among all who knew him, the constant designation
of "Gentle Gottlob;" but at the same time repelling the porringer. "Not
here. Place the food elsewhere. I will eat anon. I am not hungry now;
and I must not leave my work. I have promised it to his noble reverence
the prior, for the eve of the fete of St Ursula, and to-morrow is the
very day. There is still much to do. It seems as if I could never give
sufficient finish to this face, or impart to it, with my dull colours
and rebellious pencil, that look of heavenly brightness that ought to
dwell upon it. And yet, alas! I would it never could be finished! It
will break my heart to part with it--although I love not my own work,
nor deem it excellent. But still I cherish it--all imperfect as it is--I
know not why; and when to-morrow comes, and I must give it up into his
reverence's hands, it seems that my life and spirit would depart from me
with its loss, and that all around me would be dark and joyless."
After placing the porringer and bread upon a spare corner of the
sculptor's working bench, Magdalena moved gently behind the young man's
chair, and having asked respectfully his pardon, looked over his
shoulder. At the sight of the fair face upon which the young artist was
bestowing so much care, her looks betrayed feelings of surprise, mingled
with much emotion. Once or twice she passed her hand over her eyes, as
if doubting the reality of what she saw. It was some time before she
could sufficiently master her agitation to speak; and when at last she
spoke, after a long-drawn sigh, it was with a tone which still betrayed,
in spite of her efforts, the interest inspired in her by the painter's
work of art.
"It is indeed a fine performance, and right bravely limned," she said;
"and in truth the countenance you have given to yonder saint, with the
pale glory, is one of exquisite beauty. I wonder not that you should be
grieved to look upon so sweet a face no more; although, methinks, I know
a face as fair, to which it bears a marvellous resemblance."
"What meanest thou, Magdalena?" said the young artist, bending his head
still lower over his work. "Whom dost thou know who could bear a
likeness to this creation of my own imagination?"
"Of your own memory, Master Gottlob! you should have said," pursued
Magdalena. "Surely--or my eyes deceive themselves most strangely--although
in that sweet face they were not easily deceived; surely the face is
that of"----
The old woman again paused, as if to suppress her emotion.
"Of whom?" enquired Gottlob in a low tone, also in much agitation.
"Of the fair Fraulein Bertha, the noble Ober-Amtmann's daughter."
"You think so, Magdalena?" replied the young man. "Perhaps it maybe a
slight shade of a resemblance, caught unconsciously"----
"It is she herself," exclaimed Magdalena. "It is the same angelic
smile--the same beam of innocent brightness athwart her brow! It is
she!"
"Perhaps thou art right," stammered Gottlob, still in much confusion,
but evidently well pleased with the species of praise thus bestowed
upon his performance. "There is, in truth, more resemblance to the
Fraulein Bertha than I had thought."
Magdalena seemed for a minute lost in her reflection, as if a new and
painful idea had struck her; and after giving a long and anxious look at
the window, from which the young artist had drawn back upon her
entrance, she pressed her hand heavily to her heart, as if to support
her in a sudden resolution, and, advancing to the artist's side, said in
an earnest tone, "Young man! thou lovest her!"
"Magdalena! thou knowest not what thou sayest," cried Gottlob, more
harshly than as the wont of his gentle nature.
"Oh! pardon me if I have offended. Condemn me not!" said the excited
woman. "But I do entreat you, tell me! Tell me your secret as you would
confide it to a mother--to your own mother, Gottlob. It is the purest
interest for you--for her--that guides me! I swear it to you! Oh! tell
me--is it not so? You love that fair and gentle girl!"
The young man looked at his strange interrogator with some astonishment
at her evident agitation. The tears were swelling in her eyes. But
without pausing to question the reasons of her emotion--so absorbed is
love in its own self--he rose, and took the old woman's hand.
"Yes! I will speak; my heart has long been overcharged with its own
secret, even to bursting," he said; "and it throbs to unburden itself
into some sympathizing heart! And why not thine, good Magdalena? Ever
since fate has brought us so strangely together, thou hast been like a
mother to me!"
"Do not I owe you all?" interrupted the old woman; "my life--my daily
bread--a shelter for my old limbs in the cell below?"
"Alas! I have but little to give, poor Magdalena!" said the young man
kindly.
"And that little thou hast shared with me as a son," continued Magdalena
bending her head over his hand as if to kiss it.
"Yes, thou shalt know all," pursued Gottlob; "for it would seem as
though the destiny that threw thee in my way were linked with hers. Her
image it was that led me to the spot where first I saw thee. It was the
last day of the Carnival, at the beginning of this year, and there was a
fete at the palace of the Ober-Amtmann. I had long gazed with adoration
upon that angelic face, and treasured it in my heart. I already
worshipped yon saintly portraits, because in one--God forgive me the
profane thought!--I had found a faint forth-showing of the beam of her
bright eye; in another, the gentle, dimpled smile of her sweet mouth; in
a third, her pure and saint-like brow. It was not for such as I, a poor
artist, to be invited to the noble Amtmann's fete; but I thought that,
through the windows in the illuminated halls, I might perchance trace
her passing shadow. I fancied that, by some unforeseen accident, she
might come forth upon the terrace, overhanging the river's banks--a
foolish fancy, for the night was wintry and cold. I hoped to see her, no
matter how; and I wandered out of the town--for its gates were open for
that holiday--to look upon the lighted windows of the palace from the
opposite side of the stream. The snow was on the ground. My mantle
scarcely preserved me from the bitter cold. But I felt it not. It was
only when a groan sounded near me, that I thought on the sufferings of
others in such a night. I looked around me; and there, not far from me,
on the snow, before the very windows of the palace, where within was
music and dancing, and feasting and mirth, lay thy form, poor Magdalena!
Feeble, helpless, stiff with cold, thou appearedst to me in the last
agonies of death."
"Yes; I had laid me down to die, in sorrow and despair. It is too true,"
sobbed the old woman, in a voice choked with tears. "But your hand
raised me up--your arms warmed me into life--your voice encouraged me,
and gave me force. You brought me to your home, fostered me, and nursed
me--me, an unknown outcast, whose very history you did not even seek to
know--whose silence and secrecy you respected. Your kindness saved me
from despair, and gave me hope; and I lived on, in order to pay, were
it possible, my debt of gratitude to my preserver."
"Good Magdalena," said the young man soothingly, taking her withered
hands between his own, "I did but the duty of a Christian man."
"And you love her, then?" resumed Magdalena, recalling her young
preserver to his promised confidence.
"Love her!" exclaimed Gottlob with an impassioned fervour, which gave
his gentle face a look of inspiration. "Love her! She is my vision by
day--my dream by night. When I read, it is her voice that seems to speak
to me from the Minnesinger's poesy. When I paint, it is her form that
grows under my pencil. When I pray, it is her seraphic smile that seems
to beam upon me down from heaven. I wander forth: it is to meet her in
her walks. I kneel in the church: it is to breathe the same air as she!"
At these words, Magdalena covered her face, and uttered a suppressed
groan. "I rise from my labour, which of old was a labour of love to me,
and now is oft an irksome task: it is to watch for her coming forth into
the garden. I have neither rest by day nor by night. Where there was
repose in my heart, there is now eternal fever."
"And she?" said Magdalena with a low tone of anxiety, as if fearful of
the answer she might receive. "Does she know--does she return your
love?"
"How should she deign to remark a worm like me?" was the young artist's
answer. "How should I dare to breathe my affection in her ear, were it
even possible for me to approach her? And yet she looks upon me kindly,"
continued the young lover, encouraging himself in vague hopes, at the
same time that he condemned their presumption. "When I doff my cap to
the noble Amtmann's daughter, as she ambles forth by her proud father's
side, she will answer with so sweet a smile, and greet me with a wave of
her riding-switch--with what a grace!--and then grow red thereby, and
then grow pale. When I offer her the holy water as she passes from the
church, she will cast down her trembling eyelids, and yet will see
withal who offers it; and when I stand at yon window, as she rambles in
the garden, she will pluck flower after flower, as though she knew not
why; then fling them all aside, then pick them up with care; then
disappear as if she had gone back, and yet come forth again."
Magdalena's brow grew thoughtful and anxious as Gottlob proceeded in his
enumeration of these symptoms. Her bosom heaved painfully, her hands
were clenched together.
"Poor child! should it be so!" she murmured, casting her eyes upon the
ground; and then, raising them again to Gottlob's face, into which she
looked with scrutinizing eagerness, she said aloud--"And yet you do not
think she loves you?"
"She love me!" cried the young man. "Such a dream of bliss were madness!
Can I forget the immeasurable gulf that separates the noble daughter of
the high-placed Amtmann from the poor and humble artist--the dependent
of a cloister? No, Magdalena. I must die as I have lived, the poor
unloved and uncared-for orphan--die without a sigh of pity, without a
tear of sorrow from her eye."
"Have you, then, no friends, poor youth?" said Magdalena.
"None. Yes! I am ungrateful. I have one--a kind protector; but he is far
removed, and I have seen him seldom."
"The Prince Bishop of Fulda!" repeated the old woman, with some degree
of agitation. "Perhaps--yet it is a wild and foolish thought--perhaps
all hope is not shut out to you."
"What sayest thou, then, old Magdalena?" said the youth. "Hope were but
torture were it vain; and so it must be"----
"Yes. I was wrong. Heed not my words! But know you not that your patron,
the bishop, is close at hand? Already I have heard that he arrived this
morning at his castle of Saaleck, at half a league's distance from the
town; and he will probably shortly enter Hammelburg, as is his wont."
"These are glad tidings!" said Gottlob, his eyes beaming with joy. "I
will at once to Saaleck, and, if the prince admit me to his presence,
throw myself at his feet, assure him of all my gratitude for the past,
and offer him my poor service for the future."
With these words the young man hurried to his cumbrous chest, and
pulling out a short cloak, flung it around him. A small cap of black
velvet, of the cut of the time, which showed off to advantage the beauty
of his youthful face, was hastily thrown upon his head. He was about to
quit the chamber, when Magdalena caught him by the arm.
"Thy repast, Master Gottlob."
"Have I time to think of that?" said the eager youth, swallowing,
however, in haste a few mouthfuls of the broth, to satisfy the old
woman's look of supplication.
"And when you mount or descend the mountain-path that leads to the
castle on its brow," said the old woman, during Gottlob's hasty meal,
"if you can still have a thought for poor old Magdalena, she begs you
enter the chapel on the mountain-side, which is esteemed so holy that it
is permitted to be a sanctuary of refuge to the criminal, and say a
short prayer for her soul's weal."
"Can those so good and kind as thou, Magdalena, need the prayers of such
as I?" said the young man.
"The fervent supplications of the young and pure at heart are always
acceptable," replied Magdalena evasively, but in a sad and earnest tone.
"So be it--and fare-thee-well," said Gottlob, finishing his last
mouthful, and hurrying to depart.
"And heed you, gentle youth," again cried Magdalena, "as you cross the
bridge to leave the town. The river is much swollen with the late rains,
so much as to threaten destruction to the tottering fabric."
"I fear no such danger," was the young man's reply; "and besides, have I
not thy charm?" he continued, laughing, holding up a black ring
inscribed with strange characters, that hung about his neck.
"Oh, say not so!" said the old woman earnestly, as a recollection of the
Witchfinder's dreadful threats the night before came across her mind.
"Call it not a charm! The holy church permits not of such dealings. It
was but a remembrance that I gave you, to think sometimes on the poor
wretch whose life you had preserved. It was of little value; but I had
nought else to give. I prayed only that it might bring happiness to you,
boy, for it had brought nothing but misery and wretchedness to me."
Long before old Magdalena could complete her sentence, the eager youth
had left the room. The old woman looked after him for a time with a look
of gratitude, and then, hurrying to the artist's table, threw herself
down upon her knees beside the open missal, and gazed with intense
eagerness upon the picture of the fair saint upon which he had been
painting. She approached her lips as if to kiss it; then again drew
back, as if she feared to mar the colouring by her caress: then gazed
again, until her eyes filled with tears: and at last, with the cry,
"Yes! it is she--her very self!" burst into a fit of convulsive sobbing,
and buried her face between her hands.
As she still lay crouched upon her knees, a partly-concealed door, which
led towards the monastery, and was almost in disuse, slowly opened, and
a figure, enveloped in a monk's robe and cowl, entered the room.
Magdalena was not at first aware of the entrance of the stranger; and it
was only when, after looking about the room, as if to assure himself
that no one was there, he approached the table, that she heard the
footstep, and lifted up her head in surprise. The intruder evidently as
little expected to find the room already tenanted; for he also started
upon seeing the kneeling woman. But the astonishment of both parties was
greatly increased when their eyes met each other. Far from attempting to
rise from her knees, Magdalena remained in an attitude of supplication
before the stranger, who was an aged man of mild aspect, and folding her
arms across her heart, bent down her head like a penitent, in order to
avoid his scrutinizing look.
"Magdalena! thou here!" said the seeming monk, in a tone of voice which,
naturally that of benevolence, he evidently strove to render harsh and
severe. "How comes this? Thou hast left, without my knowledge, the
seclusion of the convent in which I placed thee? In defiance of thy
solemn promise, and thy accepted vow of penitence, thou hast approached
this town--thou hast sought, perhaps, forgetful of thy oath"----
"No, no," interrupted the agitated woman, "that cruel oath has sealed
my lips for ever. God knows, and you, reverend father--you know, that I
had accepted the bitterest trial woman can bear on earth, in expiation
of my past sin. Long did I observe my vow of penitence without a murmur
to heaven or to you. But I thought to die. A fever had seized me, and a
burning thought came over me that I no longer could withstand. O God,
forgive me--but my head was turned--I knew not what I did! I longed to
see once more on earth that object that was my only earthly joy. That
uncontrollable desire overcame the stubborn resolution of a vow, which
long years of tears and mortification had striven to fortify in vain. I
fled. I hoped once more to glad my eyes--but once----but once, my
father, and then to lay me down and die, trusting in God's pardon and
your reverence's." And Magdalena bowed her head to the ground, as a
criminal awaiting her sentence.
"Thou hast erred, woman--bitterly and grievously," replied the stranger
harshly, adding, however, with a feeling of indulgence that his kindly
nature evidently could ill suppress, "but the struggle of the spirit
with the weakness of the body, in sickness and in fever, is heavy to
bear. And yet," he continued, again assuming a severity of manner, "thou
livest, and I still find thee here. Thou hast remained to feast thy eyes
upon thy earthly treasure, in forgetfulness of thy vow of mortification
for thy soul's weal."
"Pardon!" cried Magdalena, raising her hands in supplication.
"But thou must leave this place forthwith," continued the monk. "Return
to the convent, and employ thyself in such acts of penitence as my
orders shall prescribe."
"Pardon!" again cried the unhappy woman, "for my vow is heavier than I
can bear. It is a task beyond the force of human nature!"
"Foolish woman!" exclaimed the stranger. "Wouldst thou compromise the
happiness and peace of mind of the being thou lovest best, by the danger
of a discovery to which thy presence here might lead? Thy expiation is
severe. Such as we, alas!" and the monk heaved a sigh, "who cannot feel
the vibration of some of the tenderest chords of humanity, know not how
to sound in its profundity; but I can judge that it must be grievous to
bear. Still it must be so. Go, then, in peace--but go. What I command no
longer in the name of thy salvation, I ask of thy heart, for the repose
of thy heart's treasure."
"Father," said the penitent, sobbing at his feet--"I obey! But I have
still a secret to impart to you, upon which depends, perhaps, the
happiness of that beloved one. Oh! deign to hear me."
"In three days hence, let me receive thy shrift at the convent of Saint
Bridget," continued the ecclesiastic. "There also I will hear thy
secret. But tell me," he added, looking round the room with some
surprise--"how comest thou here in gentle master Gottlob's studio?"
"It was he who saved my life," answered Magdalena, striving to repress
her sobbing, "when in the midst of the snows, and the keen blast of
winter, death had laid hands upon me. Ever since, he has cherished and
nourished the unknown outcast in his abode."
"Generous youth!" said the stranger. "I came to witness, alone and
unbiassed, his progress in his noble art; and I find that the heart
soars as nobly as the head. So should ever be true genius! Yes, yes!" he
murmured to himself, looking around, "he advances towards perfection
with rapid strides. This arabesque is exquisite. And this head, how
beautiful! And yon statue of our Holy Mother--what heavenly grace in its
fashioning!"
And with more of such commendatory observations, interspersed now and
then with a few gentle criticisms, which showed the connoisseur as well
as the gratified admirer, he took up and examined the various designs
dispersed upon the table. When his curiosity seemed fully satisfied, he
again turned to Magdalena.
"I must away," he said; "for I have still many arduous and painful
duties to perform, and my time is limited. I rely upon thy strict
secrecy, Magdalena. I would not it should be known that I was here. And
remember, in three days at Saint Bridget's convent!"
With these words he stretched forth his hand. She again knelt, and
kissed it devoutly; and pulling his black robe and cowl more closely
about his face and person, the monk disappeared by the concealed door.
Magdalena still knelt, overcome by her various emotions, when a sound
from the window looking into the river startled her, and caused her to
turn round. An involuntary scream burst from her lips; for from among
the branches of a tree that grew upon the river's banks, and overhung
the window, peered, through the dingy panes, the pale face of the
witchfinder.
It was about the hour of vespers; and an unusually dense crowd of the
town's people of Hammelburg, of all ages, ranks, and sexes, swarmed in
the small open space before the fine old Gothic church of the town, and
stood in many a checkered group--here, of fat thriving _bourgeois_ and
their portly wives, dragging in their hands chubby and rebellious little
urchins, who looked all but spherical in their monstrous puffed hose or
short wadded multifold petticoats, the miniature reproductions of the
paternal and maternal monstrosities of attire--there, of more noisy and
clamorous artizans, in humbler and less preposterous dress--on the one
side, of chattering serving-damsels, almost crushed under their high
pyramidical black caps, worn in imitation of an ancient fashion of their
betters--on the other, of grave counsellors and _schreibers_ in their
black costumes, interlarding their pompous phrases with most canine
Latin--here again, of the plumed and checkered soldiers of the civic
guard--there, of ragged-robed beggars, whose whine had become a second
nature--all in a constant ferment of movement and noise, until the
square might be fancied to look like the living and crawling mass of an
old worm-eaten cheese.
The congregation of the multitude had been induced by a report prevalent
throughout the town, that the Prince Bishop, whose arrival from Fulda at
his castle of Saaleck, close at hand, had been announced, was about to
make his entrance in grand state, and that a holy and solemn service to
celebrate this event was to be performed at the high church.
Already, however, other rumours were afloat among the crowd; and it
began to be confidently stated, that a sudden change of plans had forced
the Prince Bishop to renounce his intention.
Listening with anxiety, on the outskirts of a group, to the discussion
upon the probabilities or improbabilities of the service taking place in
the absence of the Prince, stood Magdalena. She was attired in her usual
dark semi-monastic dress; but to this was now added the scrip, wallet,
and tall crossheaded staff of the wandering pilgrim. As the prevailing
opinion appeared to be that the Ober-Amtmann would attend, at all
events, at the celebration of the church rites intended to be performed,
Magdalena turned away with a calmer air, murmuring to herself the
words--
"I shall see her once more--once, and for the last time: and God surely
will forgive the sin, if such it be. One look of last farewell! and then
again a long expiation of penitence and prayer."
So saying, she traversed the small square to the broad stairs of the
church, where she sat herself down upon the highest step, among a group
of beggar women and ragged children, and, sinking her head to the
ground, seemed to dispose herself to wait with patience.
Shortly afterwards, a young man also began to mount the steps leading to
the great entrance of the church, as if with the intention of placing
himself near the arch, in so favourable a position as to be close by all
those who should pass into the interior. He bounded upwards with anxious
haste and beating heart--although there was yet a long interval before
the commencement of the service--and with a movement so hurried and
agitated, that he brushed rudely against one person of a group in his
way. He turned, with a gentleness of feeling unusual at the time towards
the lower classes, to crave of the female he had pushed a pardon for his
awkwardness. At the sound of his voice the old woman raised her head.
"Magdalena!" cried the young man with surprise, as he recognised upon
her the evident symbols of travel and wayfaring peculiar to that age,
"What means this pilgrim's garb?"
"Alas! kind, gentle Master Gottlob," replied Magdalena in a tone of the
bitterest sadness, as she rose from her seat, "my hour is arrived, and I
must leave you. Ask me not why. I must go as I have come, in silence and
mystery. But oh! I beseech you, deem me not ungrateful. I had not
quitted you without a last farewell--a last assurance that all your
gentle charities are engraven here, upon my heart for ever."
"Magdalena!" again exclaimed Gottlob, still astonished at this
unexpected announcement, "thou leavest me thus abruptly?"
"Again, I pray you, gentle Master," said the old woman sobbing, "think
me not unkind or cold. The will of another is far stronger than my own.
The will of God is above all. We shall meet no more on earth, young man;
at least I fear so: my destiny leads me from the world. But my prayers
shall be offered up, morning and evening, at my noontide meal as at my
lying down; at all times, and in all places, whenever it shall please
Heaven to hear them, for my generous benefactor."
"But you must not quit me thus," said the young man--"thus unassisted,
in penury and want. I have but little, it is true, but that little shall
be thine. What matter the gauds I thought to purchase? the dainty plume
to deck my cap?" Still, in spite of himself, an unconscious sigh broke,
as he spoke, from the breast of "Gentle Gottlob," at the anticipated
renunciation of the braveries that were to give him a price in the eye
of the fair object of his adoration. "Can my poor savings be better
bestowed than upon thee?"
"I need not thy generous sacrifice, kind youth," replied Magdalena. "The
pilgrim lacketh nothing in a Christian land; and soon I shall be beyond
all want."
"Oh! speak not thus sadly," said Gottlob, taking her hand.
"I meant it not so sadly as you deem. I am resigned still to live on,
until it please God to release me from this world of sin and sorrow,
more easily resigned and with a calmer spirit, since, through the mist
of solitary darkness around me, I see a way of hope that shines not upon
me, but upon the bright forms most dear to me."
"What meanest thou, Magdalena?" cried the young man.
"Strive not to comprehend me," said the old woman in a more subdued
tone--"I would not foster vain delusions;" and, as if to remove the
impression of what she had said from Gottlob's mind, she hastily added,
"You have not seen the Prince at Saaleck?"
"Alas, no!" replied the young artist. "My noble patron had already left
the castle with a small retinue, and I was too late to meet him. It was
said that he was gone upon a visit to all the various monasteries in
this part of the country, in order to hold secret counsel with the
different dignitaries of the church in his domain, respecting the late
heresies that have appeared, and already spread so widely throughout the
land."
Magdalena was about to answer, when a new and general movement among the
crowd, showed that the expectation of the multitude was aroused. The
tapers upon the altars in the church had been lighted in splendid
profusion. The vapour of incense already scented the air, as it floated
down the aisles. The organ pealed through the church; and the priests,
in their sacerdotal robes, were seen advancing along the middle aisle
towards the entrance, to meet the expected dignitary. But Gottlob and
Magdalena gazed not upon this priestly show; their heads were turned in
another direction, and looked from the church across the square. Their
hearts beat with one feeling. Both murmured to themselves with one
accord, "She comes!"
Already the pikes of the guard preceding the noble Ober-Amtmann appeared
emerging from the street leading to the episcopal palace, and the
soldiers, entering the square, cleared the way rudely through the crowd,
when Magdalena again pressed tightly her companion's arm.
"Swear to me, young man," she whispered in a low and solemn tone, "as
you value your salvation--swear to me ever to respect the purity and
peace of mind of that innocent and happy girl, upon whose fair face I
shall now gaze for the last time!"
Gottlob looked at the excited woman with much surprise.
"Swear to me that you will not trouble her unconscious heart with words
of love, until, perhaps, a better time may come!" she continued, with
hesitation.
"Magdalena, I understand thee not," replied the young man. "But before
me she is as a holy saint of heaven, at whose shrine we may bow down and
pray, but whom we cannot pollute with earthly touch."
"God grant you happiness, young man!" said Magdalena, dropping her
flowing tears upon the hand she held in her own.
Gottlob's attention was too much absorbed in the sight of the one object
of his eager gaze, to heed more seriously, at that moment, the strange
and solemn adjuration of the old woman. His heart beat with intense
violence, his cheek flushed, his mild blue eyes dilated with animation,
as he followed along the square the form of Bertha, who was advancing in
the procession by her father's side. And now she was about to mount the
church steps, she would be obliged to pass close by him, perhaps near
enough for her dress to touch his own; for the crowd was dense behind,
and pressed forward upon those who stood, like him, in the foremost row.
The agitation of his companion equaled, perhaps exceeded, his own.
The clergy now stood under the church gate--the preceding guards had
stationed themselves on either side of the arch--the Ober-Amtmann,
leading his daughter by the hand, had reached the broad surface of the
highest step, where stood the aged female and the young artist, when the
agitated Magdalena, unable to control her feelings as the governor and
his fair child passed so near, bent lowly down, and seized the hem of
Bertha's garment to kiss it unperceived. At that moment, a rude gripe
seized her arm and dragged her up, and a harsh voice shrieked in her
ear--"Touch her not, hag of hell, to cast thy infernal spells upon her!"
A scream of terror burst from Magdalena as she recognised Black Claus,
the witchfinder.
"Noble Ober-Amtmann, hear me!" cried the cripple, pushing forward with
force, and arresting with a wild gesture the progress of the dignitary.
"I here denounce, before your noble honour, this wretched woman as a
most foul and most notorious witch."
In the rude attack thus made upon the unhappy woman--on her terror and
surprise--the cross-topped pilgrim's staff slipped from her grasp, and
slightly wounding the fair neck of Bertha, it fell upon the pavement,
and was splintered into several pieces.
"See, see!" screamed the witchfinder, "how she strives to harm the
innocent and good, and destroys and tramples under foot--curses on
her!--the holy symbols of the church."
With a feeling of horror and alarm, for which the credence in witchcraft
and its agents that pervaded all ranks and classes at that age gave full
warrant, Bertha clung with a scream to her father's breast, and sought
protection in his arms. At this sight the unhappy Magdalena uttered a
bitter cry of despair, and raising her clasped hands aloft,
exclaimed--"O God! Thou punishest me too bitterly."
"Hear ye," cried the witchfinder, "how she owneth her crime even in her
blasphemy!"
With one arm the Ober-Amtmann pressed the terrified Bertha to his bosom,
and, with the other, signed to some of the guards to surround the old
woman. At this moment the sight of the blood which had trickled in a few
insignificant drops upon her veil, caught the eye of the alarmed girl,
and turning very pale, she held forth a crucifix, which hung about her
neck, towards the spot where stood Magdalena, as if to exorcise the
powers of witchcraft directed against her, and sobbed--"Oh! take her
from my sight--save me--she would destroy me!"
"It is she condemns me!" cried Magdalena; and, with another
heart-rending exclamation of despair, she fell forward to the earth as
if in violent convulsions.
"See, see!" shouted Claus in triumph, "how the sight of the holy cross
causes the devil within her to tear and rend her."
The bystanders shrank in horror from the prostrate form of the unhappy
woman. The guards, who had approached, kept at a sufficient distance to
avoid all contact with the reputed witch, although near enough to
prevent her escape.
Petrified with astonishment and dismay at the strange scene that had
passed thus rapidly before him, and shocked at the sight of Bertha's
wound and terror, Gottlob had stood at first incapable of movement. But
when he saw Magdalena thus stricken to the earth, he forgot all the
terrors of witchcraft--he forgot the horrible denunciation--he forgot
even Bertha's fainting form; the instinctive impulse of his kindly
nature was to rush forward and to raise the poor old woman. Before he
could reach her, however, twenty hands had pulled him back with
force--twenty voices screamed in his ear, "Touch her not--beware!" In
vain he struggled, and strove to extricate himself--in vain he protested
the poor woman's innocence--he was held back by force.
In the meanwhile, although those nearest to the accused woman drew back
with terror, the remoter crowd rushed forward towards the church steps
in violent excitement, preferring loud cries of "A witch!--a witch! To
the stake with her--to the stake!" The deeper voices of the men mingling
with the shriller cries of the women and children.
In the midst of this scene of tumult, the Ober-Amtmann conveyed his
daughter in his arms--for she had now completely fainted--to the church,
and confided her to the care of her women. Upon returning, he sternly
gave orders that the accused female should be placed in the prison of
the town, with a guard before the door, until the denouncer should be
heard against her.
"Come hither man, black cripple!" he continued, with some disgust, to
Claus: "We know that the dreadful crime of witchcraft has, like heresy,
made much and notable progress in the land of late; and although our
reverend brother views the former abomination with more lenient eye than
ourselves, we think that fagot and stake are but too slight a punishment
for such black and damning sin. But still, of late, thy denunciations
against this crime have much multiplied; and sometimes, it has seemed to
our justice, upon but small and vague proof--although popular voice
demanded the condemnation of the wretched women. Have a care, then, how
thou wrongfully preferrest such a charge--have a care how thou jugglest
with our sense of right and wrong; for though there seemeth, in truth,
to be some appearance of the demon and his works in the horror which
that woman has expressed for the symbols of our holy religion, and in
the manner in which she has drawn blood from our young and innocent
daughter, yet were we to find thy accusation to be inspired by motive or
the spirit of falsehood, as we live that pile which threatens the
sorceress and hag shall be thy own seat--the fire thy death-garment."
"Noble Amtmann," cried the witchfinder, undaunted by this address, "I
fear not the proof. Again I denounce that woman as dealing in
witchcraft, and consorting with the powers of darkness."
As the guard drew nearer, to force the unhappy woman with their
pike-heads to rise from the ground, where she still lay crouched
together, the wretched Magdalena raised her head, and her eyes fell upon
the dark face of the witchfinder, as it glared upon her in triumph. The
hideous yells of the crowd prevented her hearing the only faint voice of
pity raised in her behalf--that of gentle Gottlob. Her brain whirled
with terror--she thought that her last hour was come; and, with a heavy
shudder throughout her whole frame, she fell senseless to the ground.