The Doctor looked at her with astonishment. The _you_ was an

orthographical error which must be atoned for. He was again about to

give her a kiss, but she drew back.

"If you love me, Fritz, you must now leave me alone," she cried out,

wringing her hands.

"How can I do that?" asked Fritz; "we are traveling for good into the

great world."

"Get upon the box by the coachman," begged Laura, imploringly.

She looked so serious and depressed that Fritz obediently stopped the

carriage, descended from it, and climbed upon the coach-box. Laura drew

a deep breath, and became more tranquil. Her words had influenced him.

Intractable as he was, he would do much to please her. She sat alone,

and her thoughts became more cheering. The Doctor turned round

frequently, knocked at the window, and asked how she was. He was very

tender-hearted, and full of loving attentions.

"The whole responsibility for his health rests on me," she thought,

"what hitherto his dear mother has done for him now becomes my duty. A

delightful duty, dear Fritz. I will keep him from working at nights,

for his health is delicate, and every day I will go walking with him,

in the coldest weather, to accustom him to it."

She looked out of the carriage, the wind was stirring the leaves; she

knocked at the window:

"Fritz, it is windy, you have no shawl on."

"I shall no longer use one," called out the Doctor, "this effeminacy

must be shaken off."

"I beg of you, Fritz, not to be so childish. Put one round you, or you

will certainly catch cold."

"With a _you_, I will certainly not put it on."

"Take it, my darling Fritz, I beg of _thee_," entreated Laura.

"That sounds quite different," said Fritz.

The window was opened, and the shawl put out.

"He is firm as a rock," said Laura, seating herself again. "Complaisant

as he appears, he knows well what he chooses to do, and, contrary to

his own convictions, will not give in, even to me. That is all for the

best, for I am still a childish creature, and my father was in the

right; I need a husband who will look more calmly on the world than I

do."

It began to rain. The coachman put on his cloak, and Fritz spread his

plaid and enveloped himself in it. She became very anxious about Fritz,

and again knocked at the window.

"It is raining, Fritz."

This the Doctor could not deny.

"Come in, you will get wet and catch cold."

The carriage stopped, and Fritz obediently got down and entered it,

while Laura wiped away the raindrops on his hair and shawl with her

pocket-handkerchief.

"You said _you_ four times," began Fritz, reprovingly. "If it continues

thus, you will have a large reckoning to pay."

"Be serious," began Laura, "I am in a very solemn mood. I am thinking

of our future. I will think of it day and night, dearest one, that you

may not feel the loss of your mother. Your dear mother has always taken

your coffee up to you, but that is unsociable, you shall come over

to me and take your breakfast with me; your Hindus must grant this

half-hour to me. About ten o'clock I shall send you over an egg, and at

dinner-time you will come over again to me. I shall take care that the

cooking is good; we will live simply, as we are accustomed, and well.

Then you shall tell me something about your books that I may know what

my husband is occupied with, for this is a wife's right. In the

afternoon we will take a walk together in the streets."

"What do you mean?" asked Fritz, "'over there,' 'here,' 'in the

streets'? Surely we shall live together."

Laura looked at him with open eyes, and a blush slowly mantled over her

face up to her temples.

"We cannot, as man and wife, live in different houses?"

Laura held her hand before her eyes and remained silent. As she did not

answer, Fritz drew her hand quietly from her face, and large tears

rolled down her cheeks.

"My mother," she said, softly, as she wept.

So touching was the expression of her grief, that Fritz said,

sympathizingly:

"Do not grieve, Laura, about her, we will live where you like, and

exactly as you think fit."

But even these kind words could not comfort the poor soul, whose

maidenly anxieties cast a shadow over her future. The colored haze with

which her childish fancy had invested her free life in the neighborhood

of her loved one, had been dissolved.

She sat silent and sad.

The coachman stopped before a village inn to refresh himself and his

horses. The young landlady stood at the door with her child in her

arms; she approached the carriage and civilly invited them to alight.

Laura looked anxiously at the Doctor; he nodded, the carriage door was

opened. Laura seated herself on a bench in front of the door, and asked

the young woman questions about her family, in order to show the

self-possession of a traveller. The woman answered, confidently:

"This is our first child, we have been married scarcely two years.

Excuse me, but I suppose you are a young married couple."

Laura rose hastily, her cheeks glowed a deeper red than the rising sun,

as she answered with a low "No."

"Then you are engaged without doubt," said the woman, "that can be seen

at once."

"How could you discover that?" asked Laura, without raising her eyes.

"One sees evidence of it," replied the woman, "the way in which you

looked at the gentleman was significant enough."

"A good guess," exclaimed the Doctor, gaily; but he also colored

slightly.

Laura turned away and struggled for composure. The secret of her

journey was apparent to every one. It was known in the city and was

spoken of in the villages. Her betrothal had been settled by the talk

of strangers. Yet her parents had not laid her hand in that of her

lover, nor had any of her friends wished her happiness, but now the

stranger on the high road came and told her to her face what she was.

"If the woman had known all,--how that I was eloping secretly with

Fritz Hahn, without betrothal or marriage,--how would she have looked

upon me?" thought Laura.

She entered the carriage before the coachman had finished feeding the

horses, and again tears flowed from her eyes. The Doctor, who did not

anticipate this change of mood, was about to enter, when Laura, quite

beside herself, exclaimed:

"I beg of you to sit by the coachman, I feel very sad."

"Why?" asked Fritz, softly.

"I have done wrong," said Laura. "Fritz, I should like to return. What

will that woman think of me? She saw right well that we were not

engaged."

"But are we not?" asked the Doctor, astonished. "I consider myself as

decidedly engaged, and the friends to whom we go will clearly look upon

the affair in that point of view."

"I conjure you, Fritz, to leave me alone now; what I feel I cannot

confess to any human being; if I become calmer I will knock at the

window."

Fritz again climbed on the coach-box, and Laura passed a sorrowful hour

in the solitude of her carriage.

She felt something strange on her cloak, looked with alarm at the empty

seat, and started when she saw the demon sitting next her, the enemy of

her life, the red dog. He stretched out his forefeet, and raised his

moustache high in the air, as if he would say: "_I_ am carrying you

off. The Doctor is sitting on the box, and I, the mischief-maker, the

misanthropist, who have caused so much sorrow to this poetic soul, who

have been cursed in her journal in both prose and verse, I, the common

and unworthy being who used to lie at her feet, sit by her side the

gloomy figure of her fate, the spectre of her youth, and the bad omen

of her future life. I lie in the place where, in her childish poetry,

she has long dreamt of another, and I mock at her tears and anxiety."

He licked his beard and looked from under his long hair contemptuously

at her. Laura knocked at the window, resolved to leave the carriage

herself and sit upon the box.

* * *

Meanwhile the mothers sat anxiously in the hostile houses. Since her

daughter had left, Mrs. Hummel trembled for fear of the anger of her

husband. She knew from Laura that he had not objected to the journey to

Bielstein, and only wished to appear unconscious of it in order to

maintain his defiant character towards his neighbors. But of what was

to follow, he would give no information; when it came to a decision as

to what was to become of Laura and the Doctor, she felt there was

everything to fear from him. Mrs. Hummel had encouraged the journey in

order to compel the consent of the family tyrant; but now she felt

distrustful of her own cleverness. In her sad perplexity she put her

mantle on, over her morning dress, and hastened out of the house to

seek consolation from her neighbor.

The heart of Mrs. Hahn was burdened with similar cares; she also was

prepared, in her morning dress and mantle, to go over to Mrs. Hummel.

The women met outside the two houses, and began an exchange of motherly

anxieties. They made use of the neutral ground that lay between the

hostile domains for quiet intercourse, and forgot that they were

standing in the street. The bells sounded and the church-goers

returned, yet they were still standing together talking over the past

and future. The comedian approached them elegantly dressed; as he drew

near he made a dramatic salutation with his hand. Mrs. Hummel looked

with anxiety at her favorite guest, she feared his conjectures and

still more his sharp tongue. His face was radiant with pleasure and his

gestures were sympathetic.

"What a surprise," he exclaimed, in the tone of a warm-hearted uncle;

"what an agreeable surprise? The old quarrel made up; wreaths of

flowers from one house to the other; the discord of the fathers is

atoned for by the love of the children. I offer my hearty

congratulations."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hummel, perplexed.

"An elopement," exclaimed the comedian, raising his hands.

Both mothers looked terrified.

"I must beg of you, in your remarks, to have more regard for the real

state of things," replied Mrs. Hummel with offended dignity.

"An elopement," again exclaimed the gentleman triumphantly. "Quite in

conformity with the humor of this house; it is a master-stroke."

"I feel confident from our old friendship," said Mrs. Hummel, "that you

do not mean to insult us; but I must earnestly request you to have

regard, at least, for propriety."

The comedian was astonished at the reproaches of his patroness.

"I only repeat what I have just been informed of by post." He drew out

of his pocket a neat letter. "I hope that the ladies will convince

themselves." He read aloud: "'I beg to announce to you the betrothal of

Dr. Fritz Hahn with my daughter Laura, and their elopement this morning

from her parents' house. Yours humbly, Hummel.' This quite answers to

the character of our humorous friend."

The ladies stood aghast. Then the rustling of a silk dress was heard,

the godmother came up hastily, her hymn-book in her hand, and called

out while yet in the distance:

"What does one not live to see? You naughty people! Is it right that

the friends of the family should first learn from the preacher in the

church what is happening here?"

"What do you mean?" asked both ladies, quite confounded.

"That the bans of your children have been proclaimed in church to-day

for the first, second, and third time. There was general astonishment,

and though you have acted in so unfriendly a way as to keep it a

secret, all your acquaintances were delighted. Now the whole city is

full of it."

Without speaking a word the two mothers flew into each others' arms in

the open street, midway between the houses. The comedian stood on one

side with his hand in his breast pocket, the godmother on the other

with folded hands.

* * *

It was also a troublous Sunday on the estate of Ilse's father. During

the previous night a waterspout had burst on the hills, and a wild

flood poured down where formerly the brook ran between the meadows. The

oldest people did not remember such a rush of water. Before this the

brook had been much swollen by the rains of the previous week, now it

roared and thundered through the narrow valley between the manor-house

and the sloping hills, and overflowed the fields where it was not

defied by the steepness of the country and rocks. Furiously did the

water rush and foam over the rocks and about the heads of the willows,

carrying away the hay from the meadows in its course, uprooting reeds

and tearing off branches of trees, and also the ruins of habitations,

which, though far above, had been reached by the flood. The people of

the estate stood by the edge of the orchard, looking silently upon the

stream and the ruins it bore along with it. The children ran eagerly

along the side of the water, endeavoring to draw toward them with poles

whatever they could reach. They raised loud cries when they saw a

living animal floating along. It was a kid standing on one of the

boards of the roof of its stall. When the little creature saw the

people standing near, it cried piteously, as if begging to be rescued.

Hans put out a well-hook, caught hold of the plank, the kid sprang

ashore and was taken in grand procession by the children to the

farmyard and there fed.

Ilse was standing at the new bridge leading to the grotto. It had only

been built a few weeks, and was now threatened with destruction.

Already the supports were bending on one side. The force of the water

worked against the lower end, and loosened the pegs. The foam of the

water whirled round the projecting foot of the rock, which formed the

vault of the grotto, and the power of the rising water made deep

furrows in the flood.

"There comes some one running from the mountain," exclaimed the people.

A girl came hastily round the rock, with a large kerchief full of

fresh-mowed mountain grass on her back. She stopped terrified on the

platform of the rock, and hesitated about crossing the unsafe bridge.

"It is poor Benz's Anna!" exclaimed Ilse; "she must not remain there in

the wilderness. Throw your burden away--be brisk, Anna, and come over

quickly."

The girl passed rapidly across the bridge.

"She shall be the last one," commanded Ilse. "None of you shall attempt

to go upon it, for it will not bear the pressure long."

Her father came up.

"The flood will subside to-night if fresh rain does not fall; but the

injury it has done will long be remembered. Below, at Rossau, it

appears still worse; it has overflowed the fields. Mr. Hummel has

hastened down, as he is anxious about the bridges on the road on which

his daughter is coming. In the village the water has entered some of

the houses; the people are preparing to move to our farm-yard. Go down

and help them," he said, turning to some laborers, and continued, in a

low tone, to his daughter: "The Prince has gone to the village to

examine the damage there. He wishes to speak to you; would you like to

see him now?"

"I am ready," said Ilse.

She went towards the village with her father; there she ascended to the

churchyard.

"I shall remain in the neighborhood," said he. "When the Prince leaves

you, call me."

She stood by the side of the wall, looking at the grave of her dear

mother and at the spot where the old Pastor reposed with his wife. The

branches of the trees which she had planted here hung over her head.

She remembered how fond her old friend had been of dilating on the fact

that everything was just the same in the great world as in his village,

the nature and passions of men were everywhere alike, and that one

might make the same experience in their little valley as amidst the

tumult of the Court.

"Here my father is master," she thought, "and the people are accustomed

to obey us, his children, and to regard us as we do our rulers. And

their children, too, might experience what others have had to

experience, were their master an evil-minded man. Yet they may ask for

justice at any moment and find protection.

"How will he, the proud man, bear that his wife should not find justice

or protection from the injury which has been done to both her and him?

We ought to do good to those who injure us. If the wicked Sovereign

should now come to me sick and helpless, ought I to receive him in my

house? and ought I to place myself by his couch, when such a mark of

kindness might expose me to fresh insult? I have worn a white mantle;

the stain which he has cast upon it, I see every hour, and no tears

wash it away. He has taken from me my pure robe; shall I also at his

bidding give him my gown? O high and honorable precept, taught me by my

departed friend, I tremble to obey. It is a struggle between duties,

and the thought of my Felix says to me, 'No.'

"I have done with the young Prince too, however innocent he may be. I

know that he once sought encouragement from the simple woman with all

the warmth of his heart, and my vanity has often told me that I have

been a good friend to him in his high yet lonely life. Fearfully have I

atoned for this vain pride. He also from henceforth must be a stranger

to me. What can he still wish from me? I imagine that he thinks exactly

as I do, and only wishes to take leave of me for ever. Well, I am

prepared for it."

The Hereditary Prince came along the footpath from the village. Ilse

remained standing by the wall of the churchyard, and bowed calmly to

his greeting.

"I have made known at the capital my wish to travel," began the Prince;

"I hope my request will be granted. And I have therefore come to say

farewell to you."

"What you now say," answered Ilse, "shows that I have rightly judged

your Highness."

"I had little opportunity of speaking to you in the city," said the

Prince, shyly; "it would grieve me if you should deem me capable of

ingratitude or of coldheartedness."

"I know the reasons that kept your Highness away," replied Ilse,

looking down; "and I am thankful for your good intentions."

"To-day I wish to tell you, and at the same time your husband,"

continued the Prince, "that I shall endeavor to make what I have learnt

with you useful for my future life. I know that this is the only way in

which I can thank you. If you should ever hear that my people are

contented with me, you may feel, gracious lady, that I have to thank,

above all, you and yours for the strengthening of my sense of duty, for

an impartial judgment of the worth of men, and for a higher standard of

the duties of one who has to guard the welfare of many. I shall

endeavor to show myself not quite unworthy of the sympathy you have

accorded me. If you learn from others that it has benefited me, think

kindly of me."

Ilse looked at his excited countenance; there was the gentle, honest

expression which she had so often watched with anxious sympathy; she

saw how deeply he felt that something had interposed between him and

her, and how thoughtfully he endeavored to spare her. But she did not

fathom the deep and powerful grief of the young man, the poetry of

whose youthful life a father had destroyed. She did not guess that the

punishment which could not reach the father had fallen upon the

innocent soul of the son. The injury that the father had inflicted had

clouded the happiest feeling of his young life--his warm friendship

for the woman to whom he clung with enthusiastic admiration. But the

kind-hearted Ilse understood the full worth of him who now stood before

her, and her cautious reserve disappeared; with her old frankness, she

said to him: "One must not be unjust to the innocent, nor be untrue to

those whose confidence one has had, as I have yours. What I now wish

for your Highness is a friend. I have seen that this is what your life

needs, and I have observed, too, how difficult it is to avoid forming a

low estimate of men when one's sole companions are servants."

These kind words of Ilse broke down the composure which the Prince had

been struggling to maintain. "A friend for me?" he asked, bitterly.

"Fate early disciplined me; I am not permitted to seek for or enjoy

friendship; poison has been poured over the love that I felt. Forgive

me," he suddenly said; "I am so accustomed to complain to, and seek

comfort from you, that I cannot help speaking of myself, although I

know that I have lost the right to do so."

"Poor Prince," exclaimed Ilse, "how can you look after the welfare of

others, if your own life is void of light? The happiness which I desire

for your Highness's future life is domestic love, a wife that

understands you, and would become the friend of your soul."

The Prince turned aside to conceal the pain that this speech occasioned

him. Ilse looked at him sorrowfully; she was once more his good

counsellor as before.

A beggar-woman crept round the wall of the churchyard.

"May I beg of you to day?" began a hoarse voice, at Ilse's back. "When

it is not the father, it is the son."

Ilse turned round; again she saw the hollow eyes of the gipsy, and

cried out, dismayed, "Away from here."

"The lady can no longer drive me away," said the gipsy, cowering down,

"for I am very weary, and my strength is at an end."

One could see that she spoke the truth.

"The troopers have hunted me from one boundary to another. If others

have no compassion on me, the lady from the rock should not be so

hard-hearted, for there is old fellowship between the beggar and her. I

also once had intercourse with noble people, I have abandoned them, and

yet my dreams ever hover over their golden palaces. Whoever has drunk

of the magic cup will not lose the remembrance of it. It has again and

again driven me into this country, I have led my people here--and they

now lie in prison, the victims of the old memories that pursued me."

"Who is this woman?" asked the Prince.

The beggar raised her hands on high.

"In these arms I have held the Hereditary Prince when he was a child

and knew nothing; I have sat with him on velvet in his mother's room.

Now I lie in the churchyard on the high road, and the hands that I

stretch out to him remain empty."

"It is the gipsy woman," said the Prince in a low tone, and turned

away.

The beggar-woman looked at him scornfully, and said to Ilse:

"They trifle with us, and ruin us, but they hate the remembrance of old

times and of their guilt. Be warned young woman, I know the secrets of

this noble family, and I can tell you what they have tried to do to

you, and what they have done to another who flourished before you on

yonder height, and whom they placed, as they did you, in the gilded

prison, over whose portal the black angel hovers."

Ilse stood bending over the beggar woman, the Prince approached her.

"Do not listen to the woman," he exclaimed.

"Speak on," said Ilse, with a faint voice.

"She was young and finely formed like you, and like you she was brought

to that prison, and when the mother of this man removed me from her

service because I pleased the Sovereign, I was appointed to serve the

stranger. One morning I was made to ask for leave of absence from the

imprisoned lady, because she was to be alone."

"I entreat of you not to listen to her," implored, the Prince.

"I listen," said Ilse, again bending down over the old woman, "speak

low."

"When I came back the next morning I found a maniac in the house

instead of the fair-haired lady, and I escaped from the place in

terror. Do you wish to know through which door madness made its way to

that woman?" she continued in a low murmur. Ilse put her ear to her

mouth, but sprang suddenly back and uttered a piercing shriek, hiding

her face with her hands. The Prince leaned against the wall and wrung

his hands.

A loud call sounded from the carriage-road, and a man hastily

approached; he held out a letter while still at a distance.

"Gabriel!" exclaimed Ilse, hastening towards him. She tore the letter

from him, read it, and supported herself convulsively against one of

the stones of the churchyard. The Prince sprang forward, but she held

out the letter as if to stop him and exclaimed:

"The Sovereign is coming."

The Prince looked terrified at Gabriel.

"He is hardly a mile from here," announced the exhausted servant. "I

overtook the princely carriage, and succeeded in getting ahead of it.

The horses are struggling along the unfinished road, but the bridge

between this and Rossau is now scarcely fit for horsemen or carriages;

I was obliged to leave my horse behind; I do not believe they will be

able to cross it, except on foot."

Without saying a word the Prince hastened down the road to Rossau. Ilse

flew with her letter in her hand up the rock to her father, who came

with Mr. von Weidegg to meet her.

"Go and pay your respects to your master," she called out wildly, to

the Chamberlain. "My Felix comes!" she called to her father, and sank

upon his breast.

People were collected near the temporary bridge between Rossau and

Bielstein. Gabriel also hastened back to the water; he had met Mr.

Hummel there, who was passing up and down along the bank looking across

the stream.

"The world is wretchedly small," exclaimed Mr. Hummel, to his

confidant, "people always meet again. One who has been galloping, like

you, should take care of himself; you are exhausted, and look greatly

changed. Sit down on this log and rest yourself like a sensible man."

He pushed Gabriel down, buttoned his coat, and patted him on the cheek

with his large hand.

"You must be in great need of refreshment, but the best we have here is

a water-perch, and I do not like to treat you like a despicable New

Zealander, who in the booths at a fair consumes five cents-worth of raw

whitings. Take the last restorative of a Parisian traveler."

He forced him to take a piece of chocolate.

A few steps from them, at the bridge, stood the Prince with folded

arms, looking at the water, which on the side of Rossau had spread

itself over the meadows and low fields about the town. Rapidly did the

expanse of water increase; on the nearest part of the new road, which

had not yet been paved, puddles of water gleamed between the heaps of

sand and the wheelbarrows of the workmen; the road projected like a

dark strip out of the muddy flood. A few individuals were coming from

Rossau; they waded through the thick mud of the road and supported

themselves timidly by the smooth poles which supplied the place of the

bridge-rails. For the water rushed violently against the beams instead

of flowing deep under the arches, and the spectators on the Bielstein

side called aloud to them to make haste. The Chamberlain hastened down

to his silent master and looked anxiously in his face. He was followed

by the Proprietor.

"If I could do as I wished, I would break these tottering planks with

my own hands," he said, indignantly, to Mr. Hummel.

"The carriages are coming," called the people. The Sovereign's carriage

with four horses drove at a rapid trot through the gate of Rossau.

Beside the Sovereign sat the Lord High Steward. The former had during

the wearisome journey been in a state of gloomy stupor; an occasional

wild word, and a look of intense hatred, was all his intercourse with

his companion.

The courtier had in vain endeavored to draw the Sovereign into quiet

conversation. Even the consideration of the two servants sitting at the

back of the open carriage could not restrain the Sovereign's mood.

Exhausted by the secret strain of this journey the old gentleman sat,

the attendant by his invalid, and his sharp eye watched every movement

of his companion. When they drove out of the town into the open

country, the Sovereign began, musingly:

"Did you recognize the horseman that overtook us in such haste?"

"He was a stranger to me," said the High Steward.

"He conveyed information of our arrival; they are prepared to receive

us."

"Then he has done your Highness a service, for they would hardly have

had any anticipation at the hunting-lodge of your Highness's important

resolution."

"We are not yet at the end of our drama. Lord High Steward," said the

Sovereign, tauntingly; "the art of foreseeing the future is lost. Even

your Excellency does not understand that."

"I have always been satisfied with observing cautiously what surrounds

me in the present, and I have thereby sometimes guarded myself from

being disagreeably surprised by the future. If by any accident I should

myself be prevented from carrying out my _role_ in the drama of which

your Highness speaks, I have taken care that others shall act my part."

The Sovereign threw himself back in his seat. The carriage went on

through the mire, the horses floundered, and the coachman looked back

doubtfully.

"Forward!" called out the Sovereign, in a sharp voice.

"The Hereditary Prince awaits your Highness at the bridge on foot," said

the High Steward.

They went on at a good pace, the coachman with difficulty restraining

his horses, who were frightened at the glittering expanse of water and

the roar of the flood.

"Forward!" again commanded the Sovereign.

"Permit the coachman to stop, your Highness; the carriage cannot go

further without danger."

"Do you fear danger, old man?" exclaimed the Sovereign, his face

distorted with hatred. "Here we are both in the water--the same fate

for us both, Lord High Steward. He is a bad servant who abandons his

master."

"But I wish to restrain your Highness also," replied the High Steward.

"Forward!" cried the Sovereign again.

The coachman stopped.

"It is impossible, most gracious master," he said; "we can no longer go

over the bridge."

The Sovereign jumped up in the carriage, and raised his stick against

the coachman. The man, frightened, whipped his horses; they reared and

sprang off to one side.

"Stop!" cried the High Steward.

The frightened lackeys readily jumped down, and held the horses. The

High Steward opened the carriage door, and scrambled out.

"I beseech your Highness to alight."

The Sovereign sprang out, and, casting a look of vindictive hatred at

him, hastened forward on foot. He stepped on the bridge, and the flood

roared around him.

"Stay back, father," entreated the Hereditary Prince.

The father laughed, and advanced over the tottering planks; he had

passed over the middle of the bridge and the deepest part of the

stream; only a few steps more and his foot would touch the shore of

Bielstein. At that moment there rose up near the bridge a bent figure,

that cried out wildly to him:

"Welcome to our country, Gracious Lord; mercy for the poor

beggar-woman. I bring you greeting from the fair-haired lady of the

rock."

"Away with the crazy creature," exclaimed the Chamberlain.

The Sovereign gazed-fixedly at the wild figure; he tottered, and

supported himself by the rails. The Hereditary Prince flew towards him;

the father drew back with a shudder, lost his footing, and rolled down

the side of the slippery planks into the flood.

There was a loud scream from the bystanders; the son sprang after him.

The next moment half-a-dozen men were in the water--among the first,

Gabriel, cautiously followed by Mr. Hummel. The gigantic form of the

Proprietor towered above the stream; he had grasped the Sovereign,

while Gabriel and Hummel seized the Prince. "The Sovereign lives,"

called out the Proprietor to the son, laying the unconscious man on the

shore. The Hereditary Prince threw himself down by his father on the

ground. The latter lay on the gravel road, the beggar-woman holding his

head; he looked with glazed eyes before him, and did not recognize his

kneeling son, nor the furrowed countenance of the stranger who bent

over him. "He lives," repeated the Proprietor, in a low tone; "but his

limbs cannot perform their office." On the other side of the water

stood the High Steward. He called out to the Chamberlain in French,

then hastened back with the carriage to Rossau, in order to reach a

safer crossing. It was with difficulty that the carriage was brought

back. Meanwhile, on the Bielstein side, a plank was torn off the

half-destroyed bridge and the Sovereign laid upon it and carried to the

Manor. The children of the Proprietor ran ahead and opened the door of

the old house. In the hall stood Ilse, white as marble. She had been

told by her brother that the Sovereign was saved from the water; he was

approaching the house, to two generations of which he had been a curse

and a terror. She stood in the entrance-hall no longer the Ilse of

former days, but a wild Saxon woman who would hurl the curses of her

gods on the head of the enemy of her race; her eyes glowed, and her

hands closed convulsively. They carried the exhausted man up the steps.

Then Ilse came to the threshold, and cried:

"Not in here."

So shrill was the command, that the bearers halted.

"Not into our house," she cried the second time, raising her hand

threateningly.

The Sovereign heard the voice; he smiled, and nodded his head

graciously.

"It is a Christian duty. Ilse," exclaimed the Proprietor.

"I am the Professor's wife," cried Ilse, passionately. "Our roof will

fall upon that man's head."

"Remove your daughter," said the Hereditary Prince, in a low tone. "I

demand admittance for the Sovereign of this country."

The Proprietor approached the steps and seized Ilse's arm. She tore

herself away from him.

"You drive your daughter from your house, father," she exclaimed,

beside herself. "If you are the servant of this man, I am not. There is

no room for him and my husband at the same time. He comes to ruin us,

and his presence brings a curse!"

She tore open the gate into the garden and fled under the trees, burst

through the hedge, and hastened down into the valley; there she sprang

upon the wooden bridge, from which she had shortly before driven the

village people; the flood roared wildly beneath her, and the woodwork

bent and groaned. A rent, a crack, and with a powerful spring she

alighted on the rock on the other side; behind her the ruins of the

bridge whirled down to the valley. She stood on the rocky prominence in

front of the grotto, and raised her hands with a wild look to heaven.

Her eldest brother came running behind her from the garden, and

screamed when he saw the ruins of the bridge.

"I am separated from you," exclaimed Ilse. "Tell father, he need not

care for me; the air is pure here; I am under the protection of the

Lord, whom I serve; and my heart is light."

_CHAPTER XLI_.

IN THE CAVE.

The dark water gurgled and streamed through the valley; the reflection

of the setting sun shone on the bay-windows of the old house; the wife

of the Scholar stood alone beneath the rock overhanging the entrance to

the cave. Where once the wives of the ancient Saxons listened to the

rustling of the forest-trees, and where the wife of the hunted robber

hurled stones on his pursuers, now stood the fugitive daughter of the

Manor on the Rock, looking down on the wild surging of the water, and

up to the house where her husband's foe was resting in the arm-chair of

her father. Her breast still heaved convulsively, but she looked kindly

on the brown rock which spread its protecting vault above her. Below

her roared the wild, destructive flood, while around her the diminutive

life of nature carelessly played. The dragon-flies chased one another

over the water, the bees hummed about the herbs of the sloping hill,

and the wood-birds chanted their evening-carols. She seated herself on

the stone bench, and struggled for peaceful thoughts; she folded her

hands and bent her head; and the storm within her bosom spent itself in

the tears that flowed from her eyes.

"I will not think of myself, but only of those I love. The little ones

will inquire after me when they go to bed; to-night they will not hear

the stories of the city that I used to tell them, to put them to sleep.

They were all wet after their fishing, and in the confusion no one will

think of putting dry stockings on them. In thinking of other things I

have forgotten to care for them. The youngest persists in wishing to

become a professor. My child, you do not know what it is you wish. How

much must you learn, and what a change will come over you! For the work

which life accomplishes in us is immeasurable. When I formerly sat here

near my father, I believed, in my simplicity, that the higher the

office, the more noble were the men, and the most exalted of all the

best, and that all that was important on earth was done by great and

refined minds. And when the two scholars came, and I talked about books

with Felix for the first time, I still imagined that everything in

print must be indubitable truth, and every one who wrote, a thoroughly

learned man. Many think thus childishly. But I have been an obstinate

thing, and have vehemently opposed myself to others, even to my

husband, who stood highest in my opinion."

She looked with a sad smile before her, but immediately afterwards bent

her head, and again the tears poured from her eyes.

She heard the call of her brother from the garden.

"Holloa, Ilse! are you there? The strangers are still in the house;

they are making a sedan chair for the invalid; he is to be taken to the

ranger's lodge. Father is busy sending out messengers. The bridge at

Rossau has also been carried away by the water; we cannot get to the

town, and no one can come from the town to us. We feel very anxious

about your getting back to us."

"Do not mind about me, Hans," said Ilse; "tell the girls they must not

be so engrossed with the strangers as to forget our dear guest. Greet

the children for me; they must not come to the edge of the water to bid

me good night, for the bank is slippery."

Ilse placed herself at the entrance of the cave and looked all about.

Early that morning she had seated herself here, and when the water

began to rise high, she had hastened over the wooden bridge to warn her

brothers and sisters. Her work still lay on the bench, together with a

book that had been given her by the Pastor when she was a girl. It was

the life of the holy Elizabeth, written by one of the most zealous

ecclesiastics of her church.

"When I first read about you," she thought, "Saint Ilse of the

Wartburg, my distinguished namesake, your life touched me, and all that

you did and that was told of you appeared to me as an example for

myself. You were a pious, sensible, and amiable woman, and united to a

worthy husband. Then the longing for higher honor in his knightly

order, and martial fame, made him blind to the nearest duty of his

life, and he left you and the people of his home, and went to the wars

in the far-off land of Italy. Two long years he wandered and fought,

and finally returned, weary and worn. But he found not his beloved wife

as he had left her. In the solitude that surrounded you, you had

yearned for your husband, and your overpowering sorrow had brought you

to ponder upon the great mysteries of life; your own life had been full

of longing, and for this you had become a pious penitent. You wore a

garment of hair, and scourged your back; you bowed your head and

thoughts before an intolerant priest. You did what was not right nor

seemly; to please your God, you laid the leper in the bed of your dear

husband. In your over-strained piety you lost your warm heart and the

modesty of womanhood; you were canonized by the clergy; but you, poor

woman, in your striving for what they called the grace of God, had

sacrificed human feelings and duties. It is not good, Ilse, that man

and wife separate without great necessity."

"When people act harshly towards those they love, they do so because

some wrong has been done them or because they fancy themselves

offended. But why should you care for invalid strangers on the couch

that your husband had forsaken? I fear me, blessed Elizabeth, that it

was the spite of offended love, that it was secret revenge for having

so hopelessly longed for your husband. Your history is no good teaching

for us, but rather a warning. My sweet old friend Penelope, the poor

heathen woman, was far more human than you and a far better wife than

you. She wept night after night for her loved husband, and when he

finally returned, she threw her arms about him for his having

recognized the secret signs of the nuptial couch."

Again a voice sounded from the other side of the water.

"Do you hear me, Ilse?" cried her father, from the other bank.

"I hear you," answered Ilse, raising herself.

"The strangers are going away," said the father; "the invalid is so

weak that he cannot injure others; you are, in truth, separated from

us. It is becoming dark, and there is no prospect of being able to

repair the bridge over the water before night. Go along the valley on

your side over the hill to Rossau, and there remain with some one of

our acquaintances until morning. It is a long way round, but you may

reach it before night."

"I will remain here, father," Ilse called back; "the evening is mild,

and it is only a few hours till morning."

"I cannot bear, Ilse, that my wilful child should sleep beneath the

rocks in the very sight of her home."

"Do not mind about me. I have the moon and the stars over me; you know

that I do not fear the dwarfs of the cave, nor on my mountain the power

of man."

The twilight of evening fell on the deep valley, and the mist rose from

the water; it floated slowly from tree to tree, it undulated and rolled

its long, dusky veil between Ilse and her father's house. The trunks of

the trees and the roof of the house disappeared, and the grotto seemed

to hover in clouds of air separated from the earth amidst indistinct

shadows, which hung round the entrance of the rock and fluttered at

Ilse's feet, then collected together and dissolved.

Ilse sat on the bench at the entrance, her hands folded over her knees,

appearing in her light dress, like a fairy woman of olden times, a

ruler of the floating shadows. She gazed along her side of the shore on

the mountain-path that led from Rossau.

The distant steps of a wanderer sounded through the damp fog. Ilse took

hold of the moist stone. Something moved on the ground near her, and

glided indistinctly forward--perhaps it was a night-swallow or owl.

"It is he," said Ilse, softly. She rose slowly, she trembled, and

supported herself against the rock.

The figure of a man stepped out of the white mist; he stopped

astonished when he saw a woman standing there.

"Ilse!" called out a clear voice.

"I await you here," she answered, in a low tone. "Stop there, Felix.

You find not your wife as you left her. Another has coveted that which

is yours; a poisonous breath has passed over me; words have been said

to me which no honest woman ought to hear, and I have been looked upon

as a bought slave."

"You have escaped from the enemy."

"I have, and therefore am here; but I am no longer in the eyes of

others what I once was. You had a wife free from all taint; she who now

stands before you is evilly talked of, both on account of father and

son."

"The noise of tongues dies away like the surging of the water beneath

your feet. It signifies little what others think when we have done what

is satisfactory to our own consciences."

"I am glad that you do not care for the talk of others. But I am not

quite so proud and independent as I was. I conceal my sorrow, but I

feel it always. I am lowered in my own eyes, and, I fear, Felix, in

yours also; for I have brought on my own misfortune--I have been too

frank with strangers, and given them a right over me."

"You have been brought up to trust in those who hold high positions.

Who can give up loyal trust without pain?"

"I have been awakened, Felix. Now answer me," she continued, with

agitation, "how do you return to me?"

"As a weary, erring man, who seeks the heart of his wife and her

forgiveness."

"What has your wife to forgive, Felix?" she again asked.

"That my eyes were blinded, and that I forgot my first duties to follow

a vain chase."

"Is that all, Felix? Have you brought me back your heart, unchanged to

me as it was before?"

"Dear Ilse," exclaimed her husband, embracing her.

"I hear your tones of love," she exclaimed, passionately, throwing her

arms round his neck. She led him into the grotto, stroked the drops of

water out of his damp hair, and kissed him. "I have you, my beloved

one; I cling firmly to you, and no power shall ever again separate me

from you. Sit here, you long-suffering man; I hold you fast. Let me

hear all the trouble you have gone through."

The Scholar held his wife in his arms, and related all. He felt her

tremble when he told her his adventures.

"Indignant anger and terror impelled me along the road to Rossau after

the Sovereign," he said, concluding his account, "and the delay for

change of horses seemed insupportable to me. In the town I found a

crush of vehicles worse than on a market-day; before the inn a confused

noise of wheels, and the cries of men, drovers, and court-lackeys, who

could not cross the water. In the city I learned from strangers that

the foe of our happiness had been overtaken by a fate which pursued him

to the water. We have done with him, and are free. They called out to

me that the bridge on the way to you was broken. I sprang out of the

carriage in order to seek the footpath over the hills and the road

behind the garden. Then the dog of our landlord ran past me, and a

coachman from our city came up to me and stated that he had brought

Fritz and Laura to the town, but that they had gone further down the

stream in order to find a crossing. You may believe that I would not

wait."

"I knew that you would seek this path," said Ilse. "To-day you are come

to me--to me alone; you belong only to me; you are given to me anew,

betrothed to me for the second time. The habitations of men around us

have disappeared; we stand alone in the wild cave of the dwarfs. You,

my Felix, to whom the whole world belongs, who understand all the

secrets of life, who know the past and divine the future--you have

nothing now for a shelter but this cleft of the rock, and no covering

but the kerchief of poor Anna for your weary limbs. The rock is still

warm, and I will strew the grass of our hills as a couch for you. You

have nothing, my hero in the wilderness, but the rocks and herbs, and

your Ilse by your side."

The stillness of night reigns about; the stream rushes gently around

the roots of the brambles; and the white mists hang like a thick

curtain over the cave. Dusky phantoms glide along the valley; they

hover, in long white dresses, past the rocky entrance, down into the

open country, where a fresh breath of air dissolves them. High above,

the moon spreads its white, glimmering tent, woven of rays of light and

watery vapors; and the old juggler laughs merrily over the valley and

down upon the rocky grotto. As the delusive moonlight harasses mortals

by its unreal halo, so do they harass themselves by the pictures of

their own fancy, in love and hate, in good and bad humor; their life

passes away whilst they are thinking of their duty and err in doing it,

whilst they seek truth and dream in seeking it. The spirit flies high,

and the heart beats warm, but the hobgoblin of fancy works incessantly

amidst the reality of life; the cleverest deceive themself, and the

best are disappointed by their own zeal. Sleep in peace, Ilse. Thou

sittest upon thy low stone bench and boldest in thy lap the head of thy

husband. Even in this hour of bliss, thou feelest the sorrow that came

to him and thee, and a gentle sigh sounds through the cavern like the

movement of a moth's wings against the walls of rock. Sleep in peace.

For thou hast lived, in the weeks gone by, through that which for all

future time will be a gain to thee. Thou hast learned to seek in the

depths of thy own life judgment and firm resolve. It would not be

fitting. Ilse, that the lightly-woven tale of that which thou hast

suffered, should separately bring up the lofty questions of eternal

moment that thou hast raised--thy doubts and thy fierce battles of

conscience. That were a too heavy burden for our frail bark. Yet as the

mariner at sea, his eye fixed upon things below, recognizes in the

waters beneath the reflection of the clouds of heaven, so will thy

attainment of freedom, Ilse, be seen in the reflection of thy thoughts,

in thy countenance, thy manner, and thy conduct.

Slumber in peace, you children of light! Many of your hopes have been

deceived, and much innocent trust has been destroyed by rough reality.

The forms of a past time--forms that you have borne reverentially in

your hearts--have laid a real hold on your life; for what a man thinks,

and what a man dreams, becomes a power over him. What once has entered

in the soul continues to work actively in it, exalting and impelling it

onward, debasing and destroying it. About you, too, a game of fantastic

dreams has played. If at times it has given you pain, it has still not

impaired the power of your life, for the roots of your happiness lie as

deep as it is granted man, that transitory flower, to rest in the soil

of earth. Slumber in peace under the roof of the wild rock; the warm

air of the grotto breathes round your couch, and the ancient vaulting

of the roof spreads protectingly over your weary eyes! Around you the

forest sleeps and dreams; the old inhabitants of the rock sit at the

entrance of the cave. I know not whether they are the elves in whom

Ilse does not believe, or the old friends of the scholar, the little

goat-footed Pans, who blow their sylvan songs on their reed pipes. They

hold their fingers to their mouth, and blow so gently in their pipe

that it sounds sometimes like the rushing of the water or the soft sigh

of a sleeping bird.

_CHAPTER XLII_.

TOBIAS BACHHUBER.

Ilse gently touched the head of her husband. Felix opened his eyes,

threw his arms round his wife, and for a moment looked in confusion at

the wild scene about him. The mist hovered like a white curtain before

the opening of the cave; the first dawn of morning cast a glow on the

jagged projections of the dark vault; the redbreast sang, and the

blackbird piped; the pure light of day was approaching.

"Do you not hear something?" whispered Ilse.

"The birds singing, and the water rushing."

"But under us, within the rock, some strange power is at work. It stirs

and groans."

"It is some animal from the wood," said the Professor; "a fox or a

rabbit."

The noise about their seat became louder; something was pushing against

the stone bench; it was working and sighing like a man who carries a

heavy burden.

"Look," whispered Ilse, "it is coming out; it is slipping round our

feet. There sits the strange thing; it has shining eyes and a

glittering cloak."

The Professor supported himself on his hand and looked at the dark

spot, where a small figure sat with hairy face, its body covered with a

stiff, glittering garment.

They both looked motionless at the figure.

"Now do you believe in the spirits of this place?" asked her husband,

in a low tone.

"I am afraid, Felix; I distinctly see the gold of the dress, and I see

a small beard and a horrible face."

She raised herself.

"Are you the Dwarf-King, Alberich," asked the Professor, "and is the

Nibelungen treasure concealed here?"

"It is the red dog," cried Ilse, "he has a coat on."

The Professor jumped up; the dog crouched whining before his feet. The

Scholar bent down, felt a strange material round the body of the dog,

and took off the covering; he stepped to the entrance and held it up in

the dawning light. It was old rotten stuff, woven with golden thread.

The dog, freed from his burden, rushed out of the cave with a growl.

The Professor gazed long on the torn tissue, let the rag fall, and said

gravely:

"Ilse, I am at the goal of my long search. These are the remains of a

priestly vestment. The dog has drawn this out of some hole into which

he has crept; the treasure of the monk lies in this grotto. But I have

done with my hopes. A few days ago this discovery would have

intoxicated me, now so dark a remembrance is attached to it that the

pleasure that I might have had in what is concealed in these depths has

almost all vanished."

There were loud voices on the opposite bank. Hans hallooed again

through the mist; he greeted his sister and Felix who now came out from

the cave on the broad rock, with the joyful news--"The water has

fallen." The other brothers and sisters rushed after him and came close

to the water shouting and screaming. Franz brought a sandwich in a

paper, and declared his intention of throwing this breakfast over to

them, that they might not starve. The children contended against this

decision, and eagerly devised a plan of throwing over a piece of twine

on a ball and attaching the sandwich to it. Life on the estate had

again resumed its ordinary routine.

"Has Fritz come?" asked the Professor, across the stream.

"They are still at Rossau," called out Hans. "The bridge has been

repaired; Mr. Hummel is up, and has gone down there."

The father also came, followed by a troop of laborers, who brought

beams and planks. The men went into the water and drove a support into

the soft ground, upon which they laid several slender tree-trunks

across the water; the Professor caught the rope which was thrown to

him. After a few hours' work a small bridge was erected. The Proprietor

was the first who passed over to his children, and the men exchanged a

grave greeting.

"If the men have an hour's time to spare during the day," said the

Professor, "they may do one last work for me here. The hiding-place of

the monks was in this cave."

In the meantime Mr. Hummel was descending with rapid steps towards

Rossau. The carpenters were still working at the bridge. He cast a

searching look on the spot where he had caught hold of the young Prince

in the water and murmured:

"He went down like a cannon-ball. This nation has no capacity for the

sea either in its upper or lower classes,--in this whole neighborhood

they have not so much as a boat. Twenty years ago there was one here,

it is said, but it has been cut up to boil coffee. The best thanks that

one can give to this Bielstein man for the disturbance that we have

occasioned him, will be to send him a boat to keep among his bundles of

straw."

With these thoughts he entered the door of the Dragon; there he went up

to the sleepy landlord and asked:

"Where is the young couple that arrived yesterday evening?"

"They are up stairs, I suppose," returned the latter, indifferently;

"their bill is to be paid yet, if you will know."

As he was about to ascend to the upper floor, he heard a cry of joy.

"Father, my father!" exclaimed Laura, rushing down the stairs; she

threw her arms round his neck, and gave vent to such warm expressions

of tenderness and sorrow that Mr. Hummel at once became gracious.

"Vagrants!" he exclaimed; "have I caught you? Wait! you shall pay

dearly for this escapade."

The Doctor also rushed headlong down stairs, and greeted Mr. Hummel

with outbursts of joy.

"Your carriage will bring the things after us; we will go on ahead,"

ordered Mr. Hummel. "How did your Don Juan behave?" he asked, in a low

tone, of his daughter.

"Father, he took care of me like an angel, and sat on a chair the whole

night before my door. It was terrible, father."

"And how does the affair please you? So romantic! It calls forth superb

feelings, and one thereby escapes the almond-cake and the unseasoned

jokes of the comic actor."

But Laura pressed up to her father, and looked imploringly at him, till

Mr. Hummel said:

"So it has been a cure? Then I will joyfully pay the bill of the

Dragon."

They walked out of the door together.

"How did she behave on the way?" he asked the Doctor, confidentially.

"She was charming," he exclaimed, pressing the arm of the father, "but

in an anxious state of mind; I was sent up on the coach-box four times

that repentance overcame her."

"What, and did you climb up?" asked Mr. Hummel, indignantly.

"It gave me pleasure to see that she was so deeply affected by the

unusual nature of the journey."

"'It gives me pleasure that my poodle should go into the water,' said

the flea, and was drowned," returned Mr. Hummel, mockingly. "Why did

you not look calmly on the anxiety of my child? It would have saved you

many a bond if you had been firm with her the first day."

"But she was not yet my wife," said the Doctor.

"O, it was tolerant mischievousness, was it?" replied the father, "may

you bide your time."

When they approached the courtyard, the daughter hanging on the arm of

her father--which she would not let go--he began:

"Not a word to-day, now, about this abominable elopement. I have hushed

up your thoughtless folly before the people here, and thrown a mantle

over it, that you may be able to open your eyes; you are announced and

expected as quiet travelers. We shall remain here together to-day;

to-morrow I shall speak to you, in my office of father, a last word

concerning your romance."

At the door the wanderers were joyfully welcomed by their friends. The

Professor and the Doctor embraced each other.

"You come just in time, Fritz; the adventure which we began here years

ago will conclude to-day. The treasure of Brother Tobias is

discovered."

After some hours the whole party started for the cave; the laborers

followed with iron crows and levers.

The Proprietor examined the block of stone at the back of the cave. At

the bottom on one side he saw a hole, the same through which the dog

had crawled.

"This opening is new," he exclaimed; "it was closed by a stone which

has fallen in."

The large stone bench was with some exertion rolled away, and an

opening wide enough for a man to creep in without difficulty became

perceptible. The lights were lowered into it, and showed a continuation

of the cave sloping downwards, which went many yards further into the

mountain. It was a desolate space. In the time of the monks it had

undoubtedly been dry, but was no longer so. Roots of trees had driven

the crevices of the rock asunder, or the strata had sunk, owing to the

penetration of the damp. Thus an entrance had been given to water and

animals, and there was a confused mass of litter from the wood and

bones. The workmen cleared it with their tools, and the spectators sat

and stood by, full of curiosity. The Professor, in spite of his

composure, kept as close to the spot as he could. But the Doctor could

not long bear to look on. He took off his coat and descended into the

opening. Mouldy pieces of thick cloth were brought up; probably the

treasure had been conveyed in a large bag to its place of concealment.

Then came altar covers and ecclesiastical robes.

There was a cry of joy, and the Doctor handed out a book. The face of

the Professor was suffused with color as he took it. It was a missal on

parchment. He gave it to the Proprietor, who now looked on with great

interest. The Doctor handed out a second book; all pressed near. The

Professor sat on the ground and read. It was a manuscript of St.

Augustine in a deplorable condition.

"Two!" he said, and his voice sounded hoarse from inward emotion.

"The Doctor handed a third book, again spiritual Latin hymns with

notes. The fourth, a Latin Psalter. The Professor held out his hand,

and it trembled.

"Is there more?" he exclaimed.

The Doctor's voice sounded hollow from the cave.

"There is nothing more."

"Look carefully," said the Professor, with faltering voice.

"Here is the last," cried the Doctor, handing out small square board,

"and here another."

They were two book-covers of solid wood, the outside ornamented with

carved ivory. The Professor perceived at once from the style of the

figures that it was Byzantine work of the latest Roman period--the

figure of an Emperor on a throne, and over him an angel with a halo.

"A large quarto of the fifth or sixth century. It is the cover of the

manuscript, Fritz; where is the text?"

"There is no text to be found," again replied the sepulchral voice of

the Doctor.

"Take the lantern and throw the light everywhere."

The Doctor took the second lantern in. He felt with his hand and

pickaxe all round in every corner of the rock. He threw the last blade

of straw out, and the last remnant of the bag. There was nothing of the

manuscript to be seen--not a page, not a letter.

The Professor looked at the cover.

"They have torn it out," he said, in a faint voice; "probably the monks

took the Roman Emperor in ivory for a saint."

He held the cover to the light. On the inner side of one of the pieces,

amidst dust and decay, might be read, in old monkish writing, the words:

"THE TRAVELS OF THE SILENT MAN."

The silent man was now drawn from his hiding-place. But he spoke not:

his mouth remained mute for ever.

"Our dream is at an end," said the Professor, composedly. "The monks

have torn out the text from the cover, and left it behind; there was no

more room for the manuscript in the crowded bag. The treasure is lost

to science. Our hand touches what was once the cover of the manuscript,

and we cannot help having the bitter feeling of sorrow for what is

irreparable, the same as if it had passed away in our sight. But we

return to the light in possession of our faculties, and must do our

duty in making available to our generation, and those who come after

us, what remains."

"Was this genius called Bachhuber?" exclaimed Mr. Hummel; "judging from

appearances, he was an ass."

The Proprietor laid his hand on the shoulder of his son-in-law.

"After all, you learned men have been in the right," he said, "Close

the opening by the stone bench again," he said, addressing the

laborers; "the cave shall remain as it was."

The party returned silently to the old house. The boys carried the

books, the girls the bundles of torn monks' dresses, and made plans for

drawing out the gold threads for themselves. The Professor kept the

cover of the lost manuscript.

As they entered the house there was a sound of horse's feet on the

other side. The Proprietor went to the door. The old Chief Forester

drew in his black horse.

"I have ridden in haste through the farm to bring you news. Everything

with us is topsy-turvy. We have Court Officials and Ministers, and

doctors are fetched from every quarter. My people have all been sent

out, and I myself have come to Rossau to order a courier. I fear his

Serene Highness is very low; he knows no one. The Hereditary Prince is

now awaiting the arrival of the Court physician; as soon as he gives

permission the party will start for the capital. All these terrible

things are owing to the unfortunate additions to my quiet dwelling. One

thing more, while it occurs to me--your son-in-law is searching for old

papers and books. There are some chests at our place containing such

lumber of ancient times, when the ranger's lodge was still a royal

shooting-box. Over the door, from under the plaster, one can discover a

foreign word, _solitudini_, which means, they say, 'in solitude.' The

chests are rotten: in the course of the building they have been moved

from their place. When things become quieter with us the Professor

will, perhaps, look over them."

"Then here is the Castle Solitude, with the genuine chests of the

official," exclaimed the Professor. "I shall never go to that house."

The Doctor seized his hat, and spoke in a low tone to Laura and the

Proprietor.

"I beg leave of absence for to-day," he said, going out.

He did not return till evening.

"In the chest there are accounts for repairs to the monastic buildings

and for the estate at the end of the seventeenth century; there are,

besides, some volumes of Corneille. The vicar who went to America is

related to the Chief Forester."

"We have been led astray," said the Professor, calmly. "It is well that

every doubt has disappeared."

"But," replied the Doctor, "there is still no proof that the old

manuscript is destroyed. It is yet possible that it may come to light

somewhere in fragments. Who knows but there may be strips on the back

of some books?"

"On the books which the Swede has written in characters of fire at

Rossau," replied the Professor, with a sad smile. "It is well, Fritz,

that the tormenting spirits are forever banished."

Early on the morning of the following day a line of carriages left the

ranger's lodge; the first was closely curtained--it was the prostrate

Sovereign, guarded by his physicians. Before starting, the Hereditary

Prince beckoned the Chief Forester to his carriage:

"Is there any other way to Rossau than that by the manor-house through

the Bielstein estate?"

"Over the ridge through the wood," replied the Chief Forester; "but it

is a roundabout way."

"We will take the road through the wood," commanded the Hereditary

Prince. On the way he said to his attendant: "I expect from you,

Weidegg, that, should occasion present itself, you will show

considerate attention to the people who dwell in that house. I am the

son of the sick Sovereign to whom a voice refused reception there. I

shall, therefore, never again cross the threshold of that house; and I

wish that you never again mention the name of that woman in my

presence."

The sad procession passed close by the spot where once the lightning

had struck the pine-tree. The carriages moved at a slow pace along the

ridge of hills upon the forest-road.

"Drive on ahead," said the Prince; "I will walk a short distance

alone."

He stepped to the edge of the hill; the early dawn tinged the dark

bushes of heather with a golden green. From that same height, where

once a merry party had rested, the Prince looked down on Bielstein,

which stood out in the white morning mist, on the roof and balconies of

the old house. Long he stood motionless; the bell sounded from the

village church through the mountain air; he bent his head till the last

echoes of the melancholy tones passed away; then he stretched his hand

greetingly towards the manor, turned quickly back, and went along the

forest-road.

* * *

The cocks crowed in the farmyard at Bielstein, the sparrows twittered

in the vine arbor, and the people were preparing for the day's work.

Then Mr. Hummel knocked three times with his ponderous fist at the door

of the room in which his daughter slept.

"Get up, eloper," he shouted, "if you still wish to take leave of your

forsaken father."

There was a noise in the room and a prattering of slippers, and Laura's

head peeped through the opening in the door.

"Father, you are not going to leave us!" she said pleadingly.

"You have left me," replied Mr. Hummel; "we must have a few final words

together. Dress yourself properly, and you shall accompany me down the

hill. I will wait for you in the hall."

He had to wait some time for his daughter, and paced impatiently up and

down, looking at his watch.

"Gabriel," he said to the servant, who came up to him in his best

attire, "much misfortune arises from women's long hair. It is on that

account that they never can be ready at the right time; this is their

privilege by which they vex us, and it is on that account that they

maintain they are the weaker sex. Order and punctuality will never be

obtained unless all womankind have their pig-tails cut off on one day."

Laura glided down the stairs, clung to her father's arm, and stroked

his cheeks with her little hand.

"Come into the garden, my little actress," he said; "I must speak to

you alone for a few minutes. You have succeeded in eloping, you have

gone through the scandal,--in what state of mind are you now?"

"Uneasy, dear father," said Laura, dejectedly. "I know that it was a

folly, and Ilse says so too."

"Then it must be so," replied Mr. Hummel, dryly. "What is now to become

of you?"

"Whatever you wish, father," said Laura. "Fritz and I are of opinion

that we must follow your wishes unconditionally. I have by my folly

lost all right of expressing a wish; if I could still venture to make a

request," she said, timidly, "I should like to remain here for a short

time."

"Then you wish to get rid of your seducer?"

"He is going back to his parents, and we will wait, my father, until he

has an appointment at the University: he has prospects."

"Indeed," said Mr. Hummel, shaking his head. "All that would have been

very sensible before the elopement; now it is too late. Your banns have

been published in church, now, three times."

"The people would not have it otherwise," continued Mr. Hummel. "When

it was known that you had eloped, the clergy could not avoid publishing

the banns; you had not been long out of the gate when this calamity

took place."

Laura stood terrified, and a burning red suffused her cheeks. The bells

of the little church by the wood below sounded. Mr. Hummel took a paper

out of his pocket.

"Here are those cursed old godmother's gloves; I wish at last to get

rid of the trash. Here you have your dowry, I can give you nothing

more; put them on quickly, that people may at least observe by your

hands that this is a festive day for you. When it comes to the business

of the wedding-ring you can easily take them off."

"Father," cried Laura, wringing her hands.

"You could not bear the idea of a wedding-cake," said Mr. Hummel, "so

you must do without a wedding-dress, and many other things. These

dramatic attitudes would have been very suitable before the elopement,

now you must be married without question either immediately, or not at

all. Do you think that one goes out into the world for a joke?"

"My mother!" exclaimed Laura, and the tears rolled from her eyes.

"You chose to run away from your mother, and if your father, out of

consideration for these strangers, had not come, you would have had to

do the business alone. You wished to escape from our homely, simple

feelings."

Laura laid hold of a tree with trembling hands, and looked imploringly

at her father.

"You are not so bold as I thought. Now the timid hare in you comes to

light."

Laura threw herself on her father's breast and sobbed; he stroked her

curls.

"Little Hummel," he said, kindly, "there must be punishment, and it is

not severe; I am satisfied that you should marry him. He is a worthy

man; I have observed that; and if it is for your happiness, I shall

easily get on with him, but you must not immediately begin to hum and

buzz if I sometimes bristle up in my way. I wish, too, that you should

marry him to-day, that is now the best course for all parties. You may

exercise your bridal feelings later and go through your emotions as you

like. Be brave, now, my child, the others are waiting, and we must not

delay them. Are you ready?"

Laura wept, but a soft "Yes" was heard.

"Then we will awake the bridegroom," said Mr. Hummel. "I believe the

sacrificial lamb sleeps without any foreboding of his fate."

He left his daughter, hastened to the Doctor's door, and looked into

the room. Fritz lay fast asleep. Mr. Hummel seized the boots which were

standing before the door and bumped them down beside the bed.

"Good morning, Don Juan," he shouted; "have the kindness to get

immediately into this leather. These are your bridal boots. My daughter

Laura begs you to make haste, and the clergyman is impatient."

The Doctor sprang out of his bed.

"Are you in earnest?" he asked.

"Terribly in earnest," said Hummel.

He did not have to wait long for the Doctor. He entered the garden

where Laura was still sitting alone in the bower, uneasy, like an

imprisoned bird that does not venture to leave its cage. Mr. Hummel led

the Doctor up to her.

"There, you have her," he said solemnly. "It is a fine morning, just

like that when I set out as a boy. To-day I send my child into the

world, and that is another kind of feeling. I do not object to it if

you live happily together, till first your children run away from you

into the world, and then the grandchildren: for man is like a bird, he

takes pains and collects the bits of straw together for his home, but

the young brood do not care for the nest of the parents. Thus the old

raven must now sit alone and find few who will be vexed with his

croaking. Take my stubborn girl, dear Fritz, and do not let her have

too much of her own will. I have watched you for some time, and I

will tell you something in confidence: ever since the affair of the

cat's-paws it occurred to me, that in the end you would be no bad

husband for this Hummel. That you are called Hahn is, after all, only a

misfortune." He kissed them both right heartily. "Now come, runaways,

for the others are expecting you."

Mr. Hummel walked before his children to the house; he opened the door

of the sitting-room where the whole family were assembled. Laura flew

to Ilse, and concealed her hot face on the breast of her friend. The

latter took the bridal wreath, which her sisters had brought, and

placed it on Laura's head. Gabriel opened the door. Years before the

Doctor had drawn his friend from the bramble bush against the wall into

the church; now he walked into the little village church hand in hand

with his love, and again the children strewed flowers. When the

clergymen joined the hands of the bridal pair. Ilse also clasped the

hand of her husband.

"Your mother is wanting," said Hummel, to the bride, when she embraced

him after the wedding; "and the Doctor's family also. But you are

citizen's children, and however exalted your feelings may be you must

accommodate yourself to our customs. You will go from here back to your

native town. There your mothers will keep the after-nuptials, and you,

runaway, shall not escape the bad poetry. You must excuse me if I am

not at home on that day; I have to make a business journey, and it is

not suitable to marry one's child twice in a week." He then said, in a

low tone to his daughter: "between ourselves, I do not wish to peck of

the same wedding-cake with the Hahn family. You are not to live with

me, nor in the house over the way:--that has been advised by our

friends, and I think it quite right. After the marriage feast you may

travel for some weeks, and then return to your own home."

"The bridal journey you will make alone," said the Professor; "not with

us. Ilse and I have determined, after a short rest, to return to the

city. I have some months of the vacation still before me which I shall

endeavour to make of use to a select circle of students. Among books we

shall again find what we lost among strangers,--peace with ourselves,

and peace with those about us."

It was about Easter the following year. Mr. Hummel and Gabriel stood

dressed in festive black before the door of No. 1. Park Street.

"I was to see her, Gabriel," began Mr. Hummel, confidentially. "I took

the money to her this time myself, because you wished it. I inquired

concerning her of the people at the Inn and of the neighbors. She

behaves with modesty, and her character is greatly changed. Much water,

Gabriel," and he pointed to his eyes.

"You were kind to her?" asked Gabriel, faintly.

"As a lamb," replied Mr. Hummel, "and she the same. The room was poor,

one picture only hung there without a frame, Gabriel, as a remembrance

of her happy position in that house. It was a cock with golden

feathers."

Gabriel turned away.

"At last the place became too moist for my dry constitution, but care

has been taken of her. She is to be placed in a respectable business as

a saleswoman, and as for the illegitimate Knips, the ladies will take

care of him. I have spoken with Madame Hummel, and she with the Hahn

woman over the way; they will arrange for the charitable collections.

But as far as you are concerned, Gabriel, with all respect,--what is

too much is too much."

Mr. Hummel respectfully seized Gabriel's waistcoat button, and twisted

the averted face as by a screw round to himself. Then he looked into

the sad eyes for some time without saying a word, but they both

understood each other.

"It was a hard time, it was a mad time, Gabriel, in every point of

view," began Mr. Hummel, at last, shaking his head; "what we went

through with princes was no trifle."

"He was very light," said Gabriel, "and I carried him like a feather."

"That is nothing to the purpose," said Mr. Hummel; "the affair was

creditable. Just think what it is to have saved a young Sovereign.

That few of us can do. For a moment, ambitious thoughts came into my

head--that is to say, the Chamberlain, no ill-disposed man and an old

acquaintance of ours, sounded me on a delicate point when he last

called."

"He also sent for me," interposed Gabriel, with dignity. "Prince Victor

had commissioned him to send his respects, and to say that the Prince

was to marry the Princess."

"Even this kind of householder becomes domestic," said Mr. Hummel,

"that is at least a beginning. Well, the Chamberlain assured me of his

Serene Highness's gratitude, made eloquent speeches, and probed me at

last with a 'predicate.' Do you know what that is?"

"Hum," said Gabriel, "if it is something that is given away at that

Court it would be like a colored tobacco pouch without any tobacco in

it; it must be a title."

"You have hit it," said Mr. Hummel. "What do you think of Sir Court Hat

Maker and Householder, Henry Hummel?"

"A swindle," replied Gabriel.

"Right, it was a weakness; but I overcame it at the right time. Then I

asked this Chamberlain, 'what would you expect of me'? 'Nothing at

all,' he said, 'except that you should carry on a distinguished

business!' 'That is the case now,' I said. 'But what hats will they

expect me to keep?' For he, who has had experience like mine, becomes

suspicious, and look you, Gabriel, then the fraud came out, for what

was his idea and expectation? I was in his eyes a man who dealt in

straw hats. Then I thanked him for the honor, and turned my back to

him."

"But," said Gabriel, "there should be some concession with regard to

this matter; we are on good terms now with the people over there; and

if you have given your daughter to the family, why not also an article

of business?"

"Do not interfere in my affairs," said Mr. Hummel, irritably. "It is

bad enough that I, as father, and in a certain degree as neighbor, have

been obliged to give up my old grudge. How can one irritate oneself

now, when one is obliged to have one's hand pressed here, and to drink

family punch under the cursed Muse there? No, I was a weak father, and

as a neighbor, an inexcusably fickle man. But, Gabriel, even the worm

which is trod upon keeps its sting. And my sting is my business. There

the enmity still remains. Every spring, vindictiveness; and every

winter, triumph. I have lost my child and made over my money to a

coxcomb, but I am still man enough to hold my own against the fellow

across the way."

He looked at the empty place on the door-steps, where his dog Spitehahn

formerly used to sit.

"I miss him," continued Mr. Hummel, pointing significantly to the

ground.

"He is gone," said Gabriel.

"He was a dog after my own heart," continued Mr. Hummel, slowly; "and I

have an idea. What do you think, Gabriel, if we were to erect a

monument to him in the garden. Here near the street; there would only

be a low stone and upon it a single word--'Spitehahn.' When the doors

stand open one could read it across the street. It would be a memorial

of the poor beast, and especially of the good time when one could pluck

the feathers of a Hahn without being indicted for infanticide."

"That will not do," replied Gabriel. "What would the son-in-law's

people over the way say to it?"

"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Hummel, and turned away.

Yes, Spitehahn had disappeared from the world. Since that hour, when in

the dim grey of the morning he had wound round him the golden dress of

the deceased Bachhuber like a ruff, he had disappeared. No inquiries

and no offers of reward had enabled Mr. Hummel to obtain a trace of

him. In vain were the shepherds and laborers of the neighborhood, and

even the magistrates of Rossau, set in movement--he had vanished like a

spirit. The place on the steps remained empty; the blank which he had

left behind in society was filled by a younger race of dogs in Park

Street; the neighborhood in every walk along the street felt a

satisfaction which they had long been deprived of; the cigar dealer

again placed his stand near Mr. Hummel's garden; and the young ladies

in white dresses, who went to the Park, gradually gave up the custom of

turning away from Mr. Hummel's house, and going over to the straw side.

The memory of Spitehahn passed away without regret from any; only with

the old inmates of the street the remembrance of him remained as a dark

tradition. Gabriel alone thought of the lost one evenings when he saved

the bones for miscellaneous dogs of the neighborhood. But he did not

wonder at the disappearance of the animal: he had long known that

something mysterious must sometime or other happen to him.

There came a confirmation of this view, which furnished food for

thought for the rest of Gabriel's life; for when, in the following

autumn, he again went in company with his master and mistress to visit

the Manorhouse of Bielstein, directly upon his arrival he begged

permission to have an afternoon's holiday, and, as he often did now,

walked alone with his thoughts. He went in the wood, far past the

ranger's lodge, amongst large mossy beech-trees, ferns, and bilberries.

It was evening, and a grey twilight overtook the wanderer; he was

uncertain of his direction, and, somewhat uneasy, sought the road to

the house. Thunder rolled in the distance, and sometimes a bright

flash of lightning passed over the heavens, and for a moment lighted up

the trunks of the trees and the mossy ground. Amid a bright flash he

saw himself suddenly on a cross-road; he started back, for a few

steps from him a great dark figure was moving across the path, with a

broad-brimmed felt hat on his head and a weapon on his shoulder; it

glided by noiselessly and without greeting. Gabriel stood astonished;

again a flash, and along the same road ran two dogs, a black and a red

cur, with huge heads and bristly hair: suddenly the red one stopped and

turned towards Gabriel, who saw at the back of the dog a tuft which it

wagged. The next moment there was profound darkness, and Gabriel heard

at his feet a slight whimpering, and it appeared to him as if something

licked his boot. Another slight noise, and then all was still.

The people on the estate maintain that it was a poacher, or the great

deer-stealer from the other side of the frontier; but Gabriel knew who

the night-hunter was, and what the dog was. He who had before sent the

dog to Hummel's house, without money and without name, had also called

him away. The hound now barked again in the night, when the storm blew

like a hunting-horn, when the clouds flew under the moon, and the trees

bent their heads, groaning, to the earth. Then he ran over the hills

from Rossau, through the grounds of Bielstein; he howled, and the moon

laughed mockingly down on the place in which Tobias Bachhuber had

deposited his treasures, and among them the cover of the lost

manuscript.

But if no observer could be in doubt as to the fate of the dog, far

more uncertain is the judgment of the present day concerning another

figure which hovers about the grotto.

What can thy fate be, unfortunate Brother Tobias Bachhuber? Thy conduct

towards the manuscript we have been seeking transcends everything one

could have expected of a Tobias. It is much to be feared that thy

disregard of the highest interests of mankind may have injured thy

social position in the other world. Grievous doubts arise, Bachhuber,

as to thy heavenly happiness: for the wrong that thou hast done to us

would have drawn tears from an angel. To us mortals it is impossible to

think of thee with the confidence which thy true-hearted words would

impress upon us: _haec omnia deposui_,--I have deposited all this. That

was an untruth, Bachhuber, and the wounds of deceived confidence will

always bleed afresh.

Answer my question, Tobias--what views didst thou hold of the unity of

the human race? of the bonds of union binding the souls of men of

past ages with the souls of men of the present? or of that stupendous

net-work, humanity, in which thou wert a mesh? Thy views were pitiable,

indeed. Thou didst stuff the great manuscript, the hope of our century,

into a bag and thou didst rip out the text when thou foundest the bag

too full, and didst carefully preserve the covers for later

generations! For shame, thrice for shame!

And yet, withal, thou didst ever hover restlessly about the cave of the

forest, and since Swedish times didst bustle about unceasingly in the

rooms of the old house!

Why didst thou do that, Tobias, silly monk? Is't possible that thou

hadst something in store, that thou wast guarding something, for the

happiness of those who came after thee, that thou wert, after all,

laboring for the unity of mankind that we said thou hadst no conception

of?

Yes, a treasure was found. It did not have the appearance that our

scholars thought it would, when their glance first rested on the faded

letters of thy record. The treasure that both the scholars found, had

clenched fists, and dimpled cheeks, and sweet, bright eyes. Their

treasure came to them alive, nor was it of the silent kind. Bachhuber,

can it be that thou hast frivolously transcended the rules of thy

order? Was it thou that set down this treasure in the 'dry hollow

place' commonly called a cradle? in the cradles of two homes?

To-day there is a great christening at the Professor's house--a double

one. The Professor's son is called Felix, and the Doctor's young

daughter Cornelia. Almost at the same time the children resolved to

narrow the space of the over-crowded world by their appearance. The

sponsors of the boy are Professor Raschke and Mrs. Struvelius; the

sponsors of the girl are Professor Struvelius and Mrs. Raschke; but Mr.

Hummel is godfather for both, stands in the middle and swings first

one, and then the other godchild.

"I am delighted that yours is a boy," he said, to the Professor; "he

will be fair and jolly. For womankind is rapidly getting the upper

hand, and will soon become too powerful for us; we must strengthen

ourselves by an increase, otherwise a complete revolution will take

place. I am delighted that yours is a girl," he said, to his daughter;

"the creature is dark and bristly; it will be no Hahn, but a Hummel."

The christening is over, and Professor Raschke raises his glass.

"There are two new human souls in the kingdom of books, two more

scholars' children in our blustering, curious, pedantic, and whimsical

community. You children will take your first riding-lessons on your

fathers' folios; you will make your first helmet and your first dress

from your fathers' proof-sheets: you will regard, earlier than others,

with secret terror the books that surround your rosy youth. But we hope

that you too will help preserve for a future generation the proud and

lofty spirit with which your fathers have dedicated their lives to

science, to thought, and to creative activity. You too, be you man or

woman, must become the faithful guardians of the ideals of our people.

You will find a national spirit that takes a stronger flight and makes

higher demands on its intellectual leaders. As we in the present, so

you in the future, will often be accorded a smile. But see to it that

it be kindly. And see to it that the office that has come to you from

your fathers, remain worthy of the people. And see to it that you too

shall acquit yourselves as steadfast and honest workers in the fields

of Science--true to your faith in the good genius of this our life."

Raschke spoke: and waved his glass.

"Pray, Professor Raschke!" exclaimed Mrs. Struvelius; "you have my

glass. My gloves are in it. Do not drink them, I beseech you!"

"True enough," said Raschke, apologetically; and he poured with

measured deliberation the wine from the flask on the gloves, to join

with great appreciation in the toast he had offered.

But in the dimly, lighted corner, by the book-case, whereon the tiny

record of our loved Brother lay, appeared the humble figure of

Bachhuber,--Tobias Bachhuber, observed by no one--in the resemblance of

a nurse. He greeted, and graciously bowed his thanks.

When the friends had departed. Ilse sat on the sofa, the child before

her in her lap. Felix knelt at her side, and both looked down upon the

young life between them.

"It is so small, Felix," said Ilse; "and yet all that was and all that

is, does not make the mother so happy as the soft beating of the little

heart in its breast."

"Restlessly the thinking mind struggles after the eternal," exclaimed

the Scholar; "but he who holds wife and child to his heart, feels

forevermore united in holy peace with the high power of life."

The cradle rocked, as if moved by spirit hands. Thus does the treasure

look, blessed Bachhuber, that thy active hand has helped bestow upon

a future race. Thou hast not acted well by us. Thou hast done us

wrong. But when we think how studiously active thou wast, in the old

manor-house and elsewhere, to perform, to the glory of coming

generations, the kindly offices of a match-maker, we cannot be angry

with thee on this solemn, festive occasion. All in all, we must say

thou wert an unfortunate, ill-starred fellow, and hast been the cause

of much trouble. But thy heart was kind. And after all, Tobias, thou

hast been taken up into heaven--with a question-mark it is true: for

thou shalt ever wear on the back of thy celestial cowl a tag of Satan's

making--a mark for all future time of thy dealings with the lost

manuscript of Tacitus.

[THE END.]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Compare the library scene in the chapter "A Day of

Visits," Vol. 1, p. 265, of this novel.]

[Footnote 2: _Andres_ means "the other."]

[Footnote 3: A festive and bibacious celebration, in honor of some

prominent person, or commemoration of a great event.]

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