The last of the stone slabs that covered the vault had crunched back in
its place with a resounding crash. Hans Eberhard von Schranden lay
with his ancestors. In the little chapel, the men who had acted as
grave-diggers bared their heads and said a short prayer. The torches
that had burnt down to their sockets smouldered on the smooth surface
of the flagstones, and cast a lurid glow as they flickered out over the
stern faces of the worshippers.
Then without looking round at Boleslav they left the chapel. He stood
in a remote corner with his hands before his face, brooding fiercely on
the future that lay before him. The echoing footsteps roused him, and
silently he followed his friends, letting the iron gate of the chapel
that had been broken open when they came in, swing back in the lock.
The moon had again pierced the clouds, and illumined with a weird
radiance the mounds and crosses that stood in regular rows, like
columns drawn up for battle.
"Do you wish to bait me too?" Boleslav murmured as he contemplated the
graves for a moment with a bitter smile. At the gate he overtook his
friends. They joined the men on guard, who now had nothing to watch,
for, with the exception of a group of women and old men who stood
gossiping by the hedge, the street was empty. Hoots were heard
proceeding from the distant fields, where the mob apparently were still
in full pursuit.
"God have mercy on her, if they catch her!" said Karl Engelbert with
folded hands. Then two of his comrades, one of whom was Peter
Negenthin, came up to him and whispered earnestly in his ear.
Boleslav was too lost in thought to notice their strange and unnatural
behaviour towards himself, and was not even aware, as they walked
through the village, that he was always left to walk alone, though now
and then he stepped confidentially to the side of one or other of them.
He had accomplished the first chapter of his work. His father was laid
to rest as befitted his rank, and yet it seemed as if the real work was
only just beginning. He beheld all he had to do towering like a great
inaccessible mountain in front of him. The mouldering ruins must be
built up again; what was now a waste overgrown by weeds must be
restored to a waving sea of golden corn; he must strive to endow his
neglected property with new wealth, and his tarnished name with new
honour: and then he saw, as the goal of all this striving, the face of
the beloved beckoning him onwards. If he was too bowed down now with a
consciousness of shame and disgrace to look into her pure, maidenly
eyes, _then_ he would be able to go to her and say, "Now, all is
expiated. I am worthy to lay myself at your feet." Yes, he would
struggle tooth and nail--work day and night--to attain this end.
At first it seemed almost madness to think of such a gigantic
undertaking.... But he had his friends to help him.... After all, it
would not be a single-handed struggle. Had not they to-day helped him
to achieve the impossible? Would not they, true to their sacred oath,
continue to stand by him in need with their advice and sympathy? And
perhaps their noble example would in time break down the barrier that
divided him from his fellow-creatures, and lead to his father's sin
being at last consigned to the limbo of forgotten history.
Higher and higher rose his hopes as he meditated thus. They had left
the village street behind them, and now reached the drawbridge, where
the vehicles had been put up. The horses, each with its nose in a
bundle of hay, waited patiently by the fence to which they were
tethered. Immediately, without a moment's delay, the comrades set to
work to harness them.
This frightened Boleslav out of his dream.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Off already, before I have thanked you?"
No one spoke.
"Won't you take a glass of wine now the job is finished? And I wanted
to ask your advice about other matters."
Peter Negenthin strode up, and looking him straight in the face, drew
his clenched fist from the sling.
"We would rather die of thirst," he hissed through his set teeth, "than
take a drink of water from your hand."
Boleslav staggered backwards as if he had been hit between the eyes. He
felt the earth reeling beneath his feet.
Then Karl Engelbert stepped forth from his sullen little band.
"It is much to be deplored, Baumgart--I call you so because you have
been Baumgart to us till this minute--it is much to be deplored that
you should thus be bluntly told of what our present feelings are
towards you. Why did not you hold your tongue, Negenthin?... But the
words have been spoken and cannot be recalled, so now you may as well
know all. You summoned us, and we came. Some of us, it is true, were of
opinion that we weren't obliged to obey your summons, considering you
had deceived us about your name; but others said, whether it was
Baumgart or no, we were bound by the oath taken in the church at
Dannigkow, after our first battle--and none of us were desirous of
breaking an oath. That is why we are here. You can imagine that we
didn't come willingly. We are honest fellows, and to tell the truth,
the work you gave us to do went against the grain. The long and short
of it is, that when we go home, and people spit in our faces, we must
put up with it, for they will have right on their side."
"Why didn't you say all this before?" Boleslav stammered forth. "Why,
oh why have you let it come to my standing here before you--like
a--like a--Ha! ha! ha! _If you spit in my face, I must put up with
it!_"
"You need not reproach yourself on our account," Engelbert replied.
"You have quite enough to bear without that. But now that we have
discharged our duty--without grumbling, you must admit--I can only ask
you, on behalf of myself and my comrades, to release us from our oath,
as we release you from yours. Of course we cannot compel you against
your wish, but all I can say is, that if you don't choose to do it, we
must leave home and kindred, and wander forth into the world, lest
people----"
"Stop!" cried Boleslav, feeling as if more would kill him. "Your desire
is fulfilled. I now wish it as earnestly as you do. Of a truth I should
deserve my disgrace, were I ever to ask another favour of you.... I
will not even insult you by saying 'Many thanks' for the service you
have just rendered me. May God reward you, and may He forgive you for
having put me in my present position; rather would I have thrown the
corpse into the river and myself after it; let us say no more. Perhaps
you will allow me to assist in putting the horses in, as there is
nothing else I can do for you?"
"I am sorry," Engelbert said, his voice quivering with emotion; "it
pains us deeply. We are as fond of you yourself as we have ever
been--but, you see----"
"I see all, dear Engelbert; no excuses are necessary."
"Well then, we wish you farewell."
"Farewell!"
The horses were put in. All were in readiness to start. Staring
vacantly before him, Boleslav leant against the wall. Engelbert turned
and took a last look at him from the box-seat.
"And don't forget Regina!" he said. "That is to say, if she escapes
with her life. It is to her, not to us, you are indebted."
"Very well," answered Boleslav, not taking in the meaning of what had
been said to him.
"Adieu!"
"Adieu, and _bon voyage_!"
The drivers cracked their whips; in another moment the heavy wheels had
thundered over the loose flooring of the drawbridge. Like silver-girt
phantoms the coaches disappeared in the misty moonlight.
He was alone--more alone than any outcast in God's wide world. What
should he do?
He began wearily to drag his footsteps up the incline. The brambles
that tangled the ground wound round his ankles. A firefly made a zigzag
thread of flame in front of him. From the top of the hill the great,
weird, dark masses of the Castle ruins looked down on him, as if
threatening to fall on him and bury him beneath their debris. Through
the yawning window-casements the moon shone, giving them the appearance
of huge ghostly eyes. He roamed absently past the towers, a sudden
exhaustion weighing like lead upon his limbs. If only he could fall
asleep and never wake again.
He tried to remember what it was his friend had called out to him from
the coach at parting. He racked and racked his brains, but his memory
failed him.
The grass plot, where he had first found the half-wild girl, lay before
him brightly illumined by the moon. The spot where she had begun to dig
the grave stood out in uncanny blackness from the rest of the shining
turf.
If only he had shovelled the corpse into it and gone on his way,
perhaps somewhere at the other end of the world some sort of happiness
might still have been in store for him.
But now it was too late. Now all he could do was to endure--to complete
the work of defiance begun to-day under such gloomy circumstances.
Desolate and alone till the end. Never to feel again the clasp of a
friendly hand, never to look with trust and affection into any human
face, since the doughty comrades he had so firmly believed in had
recoiled from him shuddering.
And had not the beloved shrunk from him too in horror? It seemed clear
now for the first time why she had avoided him and hidden herself.
He was cut adrift from all the joys and sorrows that form a common bond
between the hearts of men--cut adrift from love, hope, compassion, from
everything but ignominy and hate.
With his face buried in his hands, he staggered over the lawn in the
direction of the gardener's cottage, when his foot struck against
something round and soft that lay across the path. It was the figure of
a woman, lying with her head buried in the dry leaves and her limbs
outstretched. Regina--positively it was Regina!
"What are you doing here? Get up."
There was not a sound or a movement. Where had he seen her last? Ah! to
be sure; under the churchyard gateway, screening him from the gun that
was pointed at his brain. That ghastly moment came back to him with all
its terrors. For his sake she had flung herself on the murderer; for
his sake risked her life. And how had he rewarded her? He had pushed
carelessly past her; consigned her to the mercy of the murderous,
bloodthirsty crew who were greedy to take her life, without a shadow of
a thought of how he might save her troubling him for an instant. Even
if she were the most abandoned creature on the face of the earth, she
had not deserved such dastardly treatment at his hands. Certainly she
had not.
"Regina, wake up."
He bent over her and raised her, but her head fell back lifeless among
the bushes. There was blood on his fingers from touching her. Her hair
was damp and matted.
Was she dead? No; it must not, could not be. Sacrificed for him; that
would mean adding original guilt to the sin he had inherited, and the
idea of owing so much to such a degraded creature, was in the last
degree humiliating. She must at least live till he had paid her. He
tore open her chemise with a rough, eager hand, and laid his ear on the
cool, rounded breast.
God be praised! Her heart was still beating. And as he raised her once
more, she slowly opened her great eyes and looked round her vacantly.
As if shocked at being caught holding her thus, he let her head slip
out of his arms.
She moaned slightly as she sank back, for the swaying briars hurt her.
Then regaining consciousness, she lifted herself on her elbow and gazed
at him in dumb inquiry.
"Get up, Regina," he said.
The sound of his voice made her tremble. She tried to struggle on to
her feet, but fell back helplessly.
"Let me lie where I am," she begged, with a timid, imploring glance.
"Stand up. I will help you."
"Must I go?" she asked, evading the proffered support. Grief and
anxiety were depicted on her blood-stained, beautiful face.
"You would rather stay with me?"
"Ah, _Herr_, how can you ask?"
"But you'll have a bad time of it if you do."
"Oh, no, _Herr_. The _gnaediger Herr_ used to whip me every day. I am
quite accustomed to it."
"But somewhere else they would treat you better."
"Somewhere else?" New consternation showed itself on her features.
"Good God! A woman like you, who is willing and hard-working, and has
such strong limbs, is sure----"
She shook her head violently. "I shouldn't go far, _Herr_. If you hunt
me away, I shall only lie down in a ditch and starve to death."
A softer look came into his eyes. No matter how bad, stupid, and
corrupt she might be, she was the only human being in the wide world
who clung to him. Why should he drive her from his threshold, when he
himself was despised, ostracised, and a social outcast? Were they not
both under the ban of the same misfortune?