The baron accepted. Indeed, it was difficult to resist Fink's offer:
even Anton acknowledged that. But the baron did not come to this resolve
in a straightforward way. His mind underwent many oscillations. It was
disagreeable to him to let a stranger make so considerable a profit out
of lands of his; and when he had confessed with a sigh that it was
impossible to prevent this, it was further disagreeable to him that Fink
should have ventured upon such a proposition as this the third day after
his arrival; and he felt that Lenore's continued opposition was
well-grounded. At these times he saw himself poor, dependent, under
Anton's management, and was imbittered almost to the point of giving up
the plan. But, after such divergences, he always came back to the main
point--his own interest. He knew well how great a help the rent paid
beforehand would be during the current year, and he foresaw that the
outlay of capital would, in the course of a few years, double the value
of the estate. Then he could not but admit to himself that, at the
present disturbed time, Fink would be a desirable associate. However, he
preserved a rigid silence toward his wife and daughter; good-naturedly
threw back Lenore's attempts to bring him to a decision; and was more
dignified than usual in bearing during this period of deliberation.
After a few days he called his old servant, and said, in strict
confidence, "Find out, John, when Mr. Wohlfart goes out, and Herr von
Fink remains alone in his room, and then go to the latter and announce
me to him."
The baron being accordingly privately introduced into Fink's apartment,
told him in a friendly way that he accepted his offer, and left it to
him to get the contract drawn up by the Rosmin attorney.
"All right," said Fink, shaking hands with him; "but have you reflected,
baron, that your kind consent obliges me to claim your hospitality for
weeks, if not months? for I consider my presence desirable, at all
events till the farming operations are fairly set going."
"I shall be delighted," replied the baron, "if you will put up with our
unsettled establishment. I shall take the liberty of setting apart some
rooms for you. If you have a servant to whom you are accustomed, pray
send for him."
"I want no servant," said Fink, "if you will desire your John to keep my
room in order; but I have something better from which I don't like to be
long parted--a fine half-blood, which is at present standing in my
father's stable."
"Would it not be possible to have the horse sent over here?"
"If you would allow it," said Fink, "I shall be very grateful to you."
Thus the two concluded their treaty in perfect amity, and the baron left
the room with the comfortable impression of having made a clever
bargain.
"The matter is settled," said Fink to Anton, on the return of the
latter. "Make no lamentations, for the mischief is done. I shall settle
myself in two rooms in a corner of this wing, and see to the furnishing
of them myself. To-morrow I am off to Rosmin, and farther still. I am on
the scent of an experienced man who can overlook the undertaking, and I
shall bring him and a few laborers back with me. Can you spare me our
Karl for a week or so?"
"He is not easily spared; but, since it must be so, I will do what I can
to replace him. You must leave me abundant instructions."
The next morning Fink rode away, accompanied by the hussar, and things
returned to their old course. The drill went on regularly; patrols were
sent around as before; frightful reports were greedily listened to and
repeated. Sometimes small detachments of military appeared, and the
officers were welcome guests at the castle, telling as they did of the
strife going on beyond the forest, and comforting the ladies by bold
assurances that the insurrection would soon be put down. Anton was the
only one who felt the heavy burden on the family funds that their
entertainment involved.
Nearly a fortnight had passed away, and Fink and Karl were still absent.
One sunny day, Lenore was busy enlarging her plantation, where about
fifty young firs and birches already made some show. In her straw hat, a
small spade in her hand, she seemed so lovely to Anton as he was
hurrying by that he could not resist standing still to look at her.
"I have you, then, at last, faithless sir," cried Lenore; "for a whole
week you have never given my trees a thought; I have been obliged to
water them all alone. There is your spade, so come at once and help me
to dig."
Anton obediently took the spade and valiantly began to turn up the sods.
"I have seen some young junipers in the wood; perhaps you can make use
of them," said he.
"Yes; on the edge of the plantation," answered Lenore, appeased.
"I have had more to do these last days than usual," continued he. "We
miss Karl every where."
Lenore struck her spade deep in the ground, and bent down to examine the
upturned earth. "Has not your friend written to you yet?" inquired she,
in a tone of indifference.
"I hardly know what to think of his silence," said Anton; "the mails are
not interrupted, and other letters come. I almost fear that some
misfortune may have happened to the travelers."
Lenore shook her head. "Can you imagine any misfortune happening to Herr
von Fink?" inquired she, digging away.
"It is, indeed, difficult to imagine," said Anton, laughing; "he does
not look as if he would easily allow any ill luck to settle down upon
him."
"I should think not," replied Lenore, curtly.
Anton was silent for a while. "It is singular that we should not yet
have talked over the change that Fink's remaining here will occasion,"
said he, at length, not without some constraint, for he had a vague
consciousness that a certain degree of embarrassment had risen up on
Lenore's side as well as his own--a light shadow on the bright grass,
cast no one knows from whence. "Are you, too, satisfied with his sojourn
here?"
Lenore turned away and twisted a twig in her fingers. "Are you
satisfied?" asked she, in return.
"For my part," said Anton, "I may well be pleased with the presence of
my friend."
"Then I am so too," replied Lenore, looking up; "but it really is
strange that Mr. Sturm should not have written either. Perhaps,"
exclaimed she, "they will never return."
"I can answer for Karl," said Anton.
"But the other? He looks as changeable as a cloud."
"He is not that," replied Anton; "if he has difficulties to contend
with, all the energy of his nature awakes; he is only bored by what
gives him no trouble."
Lenore was silent, and dug on more zealously than ever. Just then a hum
of cheerful voices sounded from the farm-yard, and the laborers ran from
their dinner to the road. "Mr. Sturm is coming," cried one of them to
the diggers. A stately procession was seen moving through the village
toward the castle. First of all came half a dozen men all dressed alike,
in gray jackets, wearing broad-brimmed felt hats set on one side, and
decorated with a green sprig, a light gun on their shoulder, and a
sailor's cutlass at their sides. Behind them came a series of loaded
wagons: the first full of shovels, spades, rakes, and wheelbarrows
symmetrically arranged; the latter laden with sacks of meal, chests,
bundles of clothes, and household furniture. The procession was closed
by a number of men dressed like those above described. As they neared
the castle, Karl and a stranger sprang down from the last wagon; the
former placed himself at the head of the procession, had the wagons
driven to the front of the castle, arranged the men in two rows, and
made them present arms. Last of all came Fink galloping up.
"Welcome!" cried Anton to his friend.
"You are bringing an army and ammunition," laughed Lenore, greeting him.
"Do you always march with such heavy baggage?"
"I bring a corps that will henceforth be in your service," replied Fink,
jumping down. "They seem decent folk," said he, turning to Anton; "but I
had some trouble to collect them. Hands are scarce just now, and yet
nothing gets done. We have been drumming and bribing in your country
like recruiting sergeants. These fellows would hardly have been got here
merely to work; the gray jackets and the chasseurs' caps settled the
matter. Some of them have served already, and your hussar knows how to
keep them together as well as any born general."
The baron and his lady now entered the court. The laborers, at Karl's
bidding, raised a loud hurrah, and then strolled off to the side of the
castle and lay down in the sunshine.
"Here are your pioneers, my chief," said Fink to the baron; "since your
kindness allows me to be your inmate for some time to come, I have now a
right to do something toward the security of your castle. The condition
of this province is serious. Even in Rosmin they do not feel safe for a
single day; and your imbodying a militia has not escaped the enemy, and
called attention to your house."
"It is an honor to me," interposed the baron, "to be obnoxious to the
rebels."
"No doubt," politely chimed in Fink. "But this is only an additional
motive to your friends to watch over your and your family's personal
safety. As yet you are hardly strong enough to defend the castle from an
assault of the rascals immediately around. The dozen laborers that I
bring will form a guard for your house; they have arms, and partly know
how to use them. I have bound them to the performance of certain
military functions which will help to keep them in order. They can work
a few hours less daily, and exercise during the interval, patrol, and,
in so far as you, baron, may think it desirable, keep up a regular
correspondence with the neighboring districts. Of course their support
and payment is my affair, and I have accordingly provided for it. I wish
to run up a slight building for them on the land they are to cultivate,
but just now it will be well to keep them as near the castle as
possible, and therefore I have to ask you for temporary quarters for all
these as well as for myself."
"Just as you like, dear Fink," cried the baron, carried away by the
young man's enterprising spirit; "all the room we have is at your
disposal."
"Then allow me to suggest," said Anton, "that a room in the lower story
should be fitted up as a guard-room. There arms and implements can be
safely kept, and some of the men might nightly take up their quarters
there. The rest must be billeted in the farm-yard. In this way they will
get accustomed to consider the castle their place of rendezvous."
"Capital," said Fink, "so that the disturbance thus caused does not
prove an annoyance to the ladies."
"The wife and daughter of an old soldier will gratefully submit to any
measures taken for their safety," replied the baron, with dignity.
Accordingly, the new colony began to settle by universal consent. The
wagons were unloaded, the manager and his men accommodated for the
moment in the farm buildings.
The first thing they did was to free the furniture from its wrappings of
straw and canvas, and to carry it into the apartments of their new
master.
The castle servants stood round and looked with curiosity at its simple
style. One article, however, excited such loud admiration, that Lenore
joined the group of gazers. It was a small sofa of singular aspect. The
legs and arms were made of the feet of some great beast of prey, and
the cushions were covered with the bright yellow skin, all dotted over
with regular black spots. At the back and on the bolsters were three
large jaguars' heads, and the framework, instead of wood, was of
beautifully carved ivory.
"How exquisite!" exclaimed Lenore.
"If the thing does not displease you," said Fink, coolly, "I propose an
exchange. There is a small sofa in my room, on which I rest so
comfortably that I should like to keep it there. Will you allow your
people to carry off this monster to some other room in the castle, and
to leave me that sofa instead?"
Lenore could find no reply, and bowed a silent consent; and yet she was
dissatisfied with herself for not having at once declined such an
exchange. When she returned to her room, she found the jaguar-sofa
already there. That vexed her still further. She called Suska and the
man-servant, and desired them to move it elsewhere; but they so loudly
protested that the beautiful creature was nowhere more in keeping than
in their young lady's chamber, that Lenore, to avoid observation, sent
them away and put up with the exchange. Thus it came to pass that her
fair form rested on the jaguar-skins that Fink had shot in the far
forests of the West.
The next day the new undertaking began. The manager went with his
apparatus to the land in question, and the men had their work portioned
out to them. Karl hunted out day-laborers from the German and Polish
districts around, and even found a few in the village ready to help, so
that in a few days there were fifty hands employed. It must be owned
that things did not go on altogether undisturbed; the laborers came less
regularly than might have been wished, but still the work progressed,
for Fink as well as Karl well understood keeping men in order--the one
by his haughty energy, the other by the invariable good-humor with which
he praised or blamed. The forester came assiduously from his forest to
conduct the military exercises, the castle was nightly watched, and
patrols regularly sent to the villages around. A warlike spirit spread
from the castle over the whole district. A strong <i>esprit de corps</i> soon
sprang up among the broadbrims, which made discipline easy, and after a
few days Fink was besieged with petitioners for a like uniform, and a
gun, and the privilege of being taken into his service.
"The guard-room is ready," said Fink to Anton; "but you must have holes
for muskets cut in the shutters of the lower story windows." Thus the
troublous time was endured with fresh spirit. The stranger-guest gave a
new impulse to each individual life; the very farm-servants felt his
influence, and the forester was proud to do the honors of his wood to
such a gentleman. Fink was a good deal in the woods with Anton, who, as
well as Karl, soon fell into the habit of asking his advice. He bought
two strong cart-horses--for his own use, he said--but he cleverly
contrived that they should work on the baron's farm, and laughed at
Anton's scruples. The latter was happy to have his friend near him.
Somewhat of their former pleasant life had returned--of those evenings
when the two youths had chatted, as only youths can, sometimes in mere
childish folly, sometimes gravely on the highest subjects. Fink had
changed in many respects. He had become more quiet, or, as Anton
expressed it in counting-house phrase, more solid; but he was more
inclined than ever to make use of men for his own varying interests, and
to look down upon them as mere instruments. His physical strength was
unabated. After having stood all morning superintending his
workmen--after having wandered all through the wood with the forester,
ridden, spite of Anton's remonstrances, far into the disturbed districts
to seek information or establish relations there, and inspected on his
return all the sentry-posts on the estate, there he was at the tea-table
of the baroness, a lively companion, with such inexhaustible funds of
conversation that Anton had often to remind him by signs that the
strength of the lady of the house was not equal to his own. As for the
baron, Fink had completely subjugated him. He never showed the least
deference to the sarcastic humor which had become habitual to the
unfortunate nobleman, never allowed him a bitter observation against
Wohlfart or Lenore, or any one else, without making him at once sensible
of its injustice. Consequently, the baron learned to exercise great
self-control in his presence. On the other hand, Fink took pains to give
him many a pleasure. He helped him to play a rubber of whist, initiated
Lenore in the game, and gradually drew in Wohlfart as the fourth.
This had the effect of pleasantly whiling away many a weary hour for the
baron; of making Wohlfart one of the family circle, and keeping him up,
so that Fink might, if so minded, drink a glass of Cognac punch and
enjoy his last cigar in his company. The ladies of the house alone did
not seem to feel the cheering influence of Fink's presence. The
baroness fell sick; it was no violent ailment, yet it came suddenly.
That very afternoon she had spoken cheerfully to Anton, and taken from
him some letters which the postman had brought for her husband, but in
the evening she did not make her appearance at the tea-table, though the
baron himself treated her indisposition as trifling. She complained of
nothing but weakness, and the doctor, who ventured from Rosmin to the
castle, could not give her malady a name. She smilingly rejected all
medicine, and said it was her firm conviction that the exhaustion would
pass away. That she might not detain her husband and daughter in her
sick-room, she often expressed a wish to join the family circle, but she
was not able to sit up on the sofa, and lay resting her head on the
pillows. Thus she was still the silent companion of the others. Her eyes
would dwell uneasily upon the baron, or searchingly upon Lenore, as they
sat at the whist-table, and then she would close them and seem to rest,
as if from some great exertion.
Anton looked with sincere sympathy at the invalid. Whenever there was a
pause in the game, he took the opportunity of quietly stepping to the
sofa and asking her commands. It was a pleasure to him to hand her even
a glass of water, or take a message for her. He gazed with admiration at
the delicate face, which, pale and thin as it was, retained all its
beauty of outline. There was a silent understanding between the two. She
spoke, indeed, less to him than to the rest; for while she often
addressed her husband in a cheerful tone, or followed Fink's lively
narratives with looks and gestures of interest, she did not take the
trouble of hiding her weakness from Anton. Alone with him, she would
collapse or gaze absently straight before her; but when she did look at
him, it was with the calm confidence with which we are inspired by an
old friend from whom we have no longer any secrets. Perhaps this arose
from the baroness being able fully to appreciate his worth--perhaps,
too, it arose from her never having looked at him in any other light
than that of an obliging domestic since he first promised his services;
but had this view of hers been discernible to our hero, it would in no
way have shaken his allegiance to the noble lady. She seemed to him
perfect, just as she was--a picture that rejoiced the heart of all who
came within its influence. He could not get rid of the impression that
some external cause, perhaps one of those letters he had himself given
her, was answerable for the change in her health; for one of them was
directed in a trembling hand, and had an unpleasant look about it, which
had made Anton instinctively feel that it contained bad news. One
evening, while the others were at the card-table, the invalid's head
sunk down from the silken cushions; Anton having arranged them more
comfortably, she looked at him gratefully, and told him in a whisper how
weak she was. "I wish to speak with you once more alone," continued she,
after a pause; "not now, but the time will come;" and then she looked
upward with an expression of anguish that filled Anton's heart with
painful fears.
Neither the baron nor Lenore, however, shared his anxiety.
"Mamma has often suffered from similar attacks of weakness before," said
the latter. "The summer is her best cure, and I hope every thing from
warmer weather."
But indeed Lenore was too preoccupied to be a good judge of what was
going on around her. She too was changed. Many an evening she would sit
mute at the tea-table, and start if addressed; at other times she would
be immoderately lively. She avoided Fink; she avoided Anton too, and was
reserved in manner to both. Her blooming health appeared disturbed; her
mother would often send her out of doors from her own sick-room; and
then she would have her pony saddled, and ride round and round the wood,
till the indignant pony would take her home without her finding it out.
Anton saw this change with silent sorrow. He was deeply conscious how
different Lenore's relation to him had become, but he did not speak of
this to her, and kept his feelings to himself.
It was a sultry afternoon in May. Dark thunder-clouds hung over the
forest, and the sun threw its burning rays on the parched land, when the
patrol which had been sent to Kunau came hurrying back to the guard-room
to say that there were strange men lurking in the Kunau woods, and that
the villagers wished to know what was to be done. Fink gave the alarm to
his laborers, and sent a message to the forester and to the new farm.
While the men carried the implements into the castle, and the
farm-servants rode home with teams and prepared for a sally, a horseman
came from Kunau to say that a band of Poles had broken into a court-yard
in the village, and that the peasants requested help. All were now in
the cheerful excitement which an alarm occasions when it promises
adventures.
"Keep some of the workmen back," said Fink to Anton, "and guard the
castle and village. I will send the forester with his little militia to
Kunau, and ride over thither myself first of all, with Karl and the
servants."
He sprang to the stable and saddled his own horse, while Karl was
getting ready that of the baron for himself.
"Look at the clouds, Herr von Fink," said Karl. "Take your cloak with
you; we shall have a tremendous shower."
Fink called accordingly for his plaid, and the little band galloped off
toward Kunau. When they entered the forest they remarked how stifling
the atmosphere was. Even the rapid pace of their horses brought with it
no relief.
"Look how restless the beasts are," said Karl. "My horse pricks his
ears. There is something in the wood."
They stopped for a moment. "I hear a horse's tread, and a rustling among
the branches."
The horse that Karl rode stretched out his neck and neighed loudly.
"It is an acquaintance--one of our own number," said Fink, looking at
the animal. The branches of the young trees parted, and Lenore, mounted
on her pony, sprang out and barred the way. "Halt! who goes there?"
cried she, laughing.
"Hurrah! the young lady!" exclaimed Karl.
"The password?" cried Lenore, in true martial style.
Fink rode up, saluted her, and whispered, "<i>Potz Blitz, das ist ja die
Gustel von Blasewitz</i>."
Lenore blushed and laughed. "All right," said she; "I shall ride with
you."
"Of course," cried Fink; "only let's go on."
The pony exerted himself to keep up with the tall horse of the stranger,
and thus they reached Kunau and stopped at the rendezvous, where the
village militia was assembled; and its commander, the smith, met the
riders with an anxious face.
"Those hidden in our wood," cried he, "are an accursed set--armed Poles.
This very day, in broad noonlight, a band of the men, carrying guns,
came to Leonard's farm, which lies out there by the wood, invested the
doors and gate, while their leader and some of the men marched into the
room where the farmer and his family were sitting, and demanded money
and the calf out of the stable. He was a blackguard fellow, with a long
gun, a peacock feather in his cap, and a red scarf around his loins,
like a thorough Klopice. The farmer refused to give up his money, at
which they took aim at him; and his wife, in terror, ran to the closet,
and threw all the money they had at the rascals. Next, they carried away
the geese from the yard, and went off with their booty into the wood,
leaving four rogues armed with guns to mount guard, and prevent any one
getting off the premises till they were far enough. Next, two of the
thieves discharged their guns into the roof, and then all ran away. The
thatch took fire, but fortunately we got it put out."
"Hours have passed since then," cried Fink; "the rogues are over the
mountains by this time."
"I do not think so," replied the smith. "I at once sent off Leonard to
the border with our mounted men, that they might watch whether the
thieves crept out of the wood or not, and a woman who crossed it two
hours ago saw Poles there. They had some beast with them too, but the
woman was too much terrified to know whether it was a calf or a dog; if
it were a calf, the hungry wolves would rather eat it than carry it
farther. I have just come from Neudorf; the men there are assembled like
ourselves. We might make a search through the forest if your people
would help us, and if you would show us the way." "Good," said Fink;
"let us set about it." He then sent a message to the forester to the
effect that those in the castle should set out on the search from their
side, and discussed with the smith the best way of disposing the Kunau
men. He next dispatched Karl and the servants to join the Kunau horsemen
on the opposite side of the wood. "Don't stand upon ceremony with the
rascals," he called out after Karl, with a significant tap on his
pistols. "Now, then," said he to the smith, "I will go to Neudorf. When
you have searched your half of the wood, wait for us; you shall then be
joined by the Neudorf detachment."
The Kunau men set off accordingly to avenge the robbery committed. Fink,
accompanied by Lenore, rode off to the neighboring village. On the way
thither, he said, "At Neudorf we must part, lady." Lenore was silent.
Fink glanced sidelong at her. "I don't think," said he, "that the rogues
will do us the pleasure of awaiting our approach; and if they are minded
to run off, the evening is closing in, and we shall hardly hinder them;
but the chase will be good practice for our people, and therefore we
must make the most of it."
"Then I will go with you to the wood," said Lenore, resolutely.
"That is hardly necessary," replied Fink. "True, I fear no risk for you,
but fatigue, and probably rain."
"Let me go with you!" prayed Lenore, looking up at him. "I have given
you sensible advice; what more can be demanded from any one?"
"Between ourselves, I am rejoiced to find you so spirited. Gallop then,
comrade!"
Arrived at Neudorf, Fink left the horses in the bailiff's stable, and
led the band of villagers to the borders of the wood. There they
deployed into a <i>cordon</i>, and the march now began; Fink walked with
Lenore at the head of the right wing, which, according to the plan laid
down, would be the first to join the Kunau detachment. All went silently
onward, and looked with keen glance from tree to tree. As they got
farther into the wood, there was a rustling in the tops of the trees,
and looking through them, a leaden-colored sky was seen; but below, the
sultriness was undisturbed, the birds sat supinely on the branches, and
the beetles had crept into the heather.
"The very sky is on the side of these rogues," said Fink, pointing out
the clouds to his companion; "it is getting so dark up there that in
half an hour's time we shall not be able to see ten yards before us."
The forest now thickened and the light decreased. Lenore had some
difficulty in discerning the men before her. The ground grew swampy, and
she sank up to her ankles. "If only no cold be caught," laughed Fink.
"None will," replied she, cheerfully; but the forest expedition no
longer appeared to her the easy matter it had done an hour before.
The man nearest to Fink stood still, his whispered word of command ran
along the whole chain, and all stopped to wait for the Kunau men. The
sky grew still blacker, the wood still darker. The thunder began to roll
in the distance, hollow and muffled, beneath the fir-wood arches. At
first the rain sounded only on the tree-tops, but soon large, heavy
drops came down, till at length all view was shut out by the sheets of
water that fell. Each individual was isolated by darkness and rain, and
when the men called to each other, they were hardly audible.
At that moment Lenore, as she looked at Fink, caught her foot in the
root of a tree, and suppressing a cry of anguish, sank on one knee. Fink
hastened to her.
"I can go no farther," said she, conquering her pain; "leave me here, I
beseech you, and call for me on your return."
"To leave you in this condition," cried Fink, "would be barbarity,
compared to which cannibalism is a harmless recreation. You will be good
enough to put up with my proximity. But first of all allow me to lead
you out of this shower-bath to some spot where the rain is less
audacious; and, besides, I have, already lost sight of our men; not one
of the worthy fellows' broad shoulders can I now discern." He raised
Lenore, who tried to use the injured foot, but the pain extorted another
cry of agony. She tottered, and leaned against Fink's shoulder. Winding
his plaid about her, he lifted her from the ground, and carried her, as
one carries a child, underneath some fir-trees, whose thick branches
spread over a small dry space. Any one stooping might find tolerable
shelter there.
"I must set you down here, dear lady," said Fink, carefully placing
Lenore on the ground. "I will keep watch before your green tent, and
turn my back to you, that you may bind your wet handkerchief round the
naughty ankle."
Lenore squeezed herself in under the fir canopy. Fink stood leaning
against the trunk of a tree.
"Is nothing broken?" said he; "can you move the foot?"
"It hurts me," said Lenore, "but I can move it."
"That is well," said Fink, looking straight before him; "now bind the
handkerchief round it; I hope that in ten minutes you will be able to
stand. Wrap yourself up well in the large plaid; it will keep you warm;
else my comrade will catch a fever, and that would be paying too dear
for the chase after the stolen calf. Have you arranged the bandage?"
"Yes," said Lenore.
"Then allow me to wrap you up." It was in vain that she protested; Fink
wound the large shawl round and round her, and tied it behind in a firm
knot. "Now you may sit in the wood like the gray manikin."
"Leave me a little breathing space," implored Lenore.
"There, then," said Fink; "now you will be comfortable."
Indeed, Lenore soon began to feel a genial warmth, and sat silent in her
shady nook, distressed at the singular position in which she found
herself. Meanwhile Fink had again taken up his post against the
tree-trunk, and chivalrously kept aloof. After a time Lenore called out
of her hiding-place, "Are you there still, comrade mine?"
"Do you take me for a traitor who forsakes his tent-companion?" returned
Fink.
"It is quite dry here," continued Lenore, "only that a drop falls now
and then upon my nose; but you, poor you, will be wet through out there.
What fearful rain!"
"Does this rain terrify you?" inquired Fink, shrugging his shoulders.
"It is but a weak infant, this. If it can break off a twig from a tree,
it thinks it has done wonders. Commend me to the rain of warmer
climates. Drops like apples--nay, not drops at all, streams as thick as
my arm! The water rushes down from the clouds like a cataract. No
standing, for the ground swims away beneath one's feet: no taking
shelter under a tree, for the wind breaks the thickest trunks like
straw. One runs to his house, which is not farther off, perhaps, than
from here to that good for nothing stump that hurt your foot, and the
house has vanished, leaving in its place a hole, a stream, and a heap of
well-washed stones. Perhaps, too, the earth may begin to shake a little,
and to raise waves like those of the sea in a storm. That is a rain
which is worth seeing. Clothes that have been wet through by it never
recover; what was once a great-coat is, after a whole week's drying,
nothing more than a black and shapeless mass--in aspect and texture like
to a morel. If one chances to be wearing such a coat, it sticks on fast
enough indeed, but it never can be got off except by the help of a
penknife, and in narrow strips, peeled away as one peels an apple!"
Lenore could not help laughing in spite of pain. "I should much like to
have experience of such a rain as that," said she.
"I am unselfish in not wishing to see you in such a plight," replied
Fink. "Ladies fare worst of all. All that constitutes their toilette
vanishes entirely in torrents such as these. Do you know the costume of
the Venus of Milo?"
"No," said Lenore, distressed.
"All women caught in a tropical rain look exactly like that lady, and
the men like scarecrows. Nay, sometimes it happens that human beings are
beaten down flat as penny-pieces, with a knob in the middle, which, on
closer examination, proves to be a human head, and mournfully calls out
to passers-by, 'Oh, my fellow-beings, this is what comes of going out
without an umbrella!'"
Again Lenore could not help laughing. "My foot no longer hurts me so
much; I believe that I could walk."
"That you shall not do," replied Fink. "The rain has not abated, and it
is so dark that one can hardly see one's outstretched hand."
"Then do me the kindness of going to look for the others. I am better
now, and I crouch here like a roe, hidden alike from rain and robbers."
"It won't do," rejoined Fink from his tree.
"I implore you to do so," cried Lenore, anxiously, stretching out her
hands from the plaid. "Leave me now alone." Fink turned round, seized
her hand, pressed it to his lips, and silently hurried off in the
direction the men had taken.
Lenore now sat alone beneath the fir-tree. The rain still rushed down,
and the thunder rolled above her, and at times a sudden flash showed her
the two long rows of trunks, looking like the yellow pillars of an
unfinished building, a black roof over them. At such moments the forest
seemed like an enchanted castle, rising out of the earth and sinking
into nothingness again. Mysterious tones, such as fill the woods by
night, sounded through the rain. Over her head there was a knocking at
regular intervals, as if some wicked wood-sprite were seeking admittance
to her shelter, which made her start, and ask herself whether it
proceeded from a spectre or the branch of a tree. Farther off was heard
the vehement croaking of some crow whose nest had been flooded, and
whose first sleep was disturbed. Close to her there was ghastly
laughter. "Hee, hee! hoo, hoo!" and again Lenore started. Was it a
malicious forest kobold, or only a night-owl? Nature spoke around her in
a hundred melancholy tones. Lenore sometimes enjoyed, and sometimes
trembled at the wild charm of this solitude. Other thoughts, too, passed
through her mind: she blamed herself for having foolishly stolen out to
join an undertaking that made such a result as this possible; she
pictured to herself how they were seeking for her at home; and, above
all, wondered what he who had just left her, at her earnest request, was
thinking of her in his inmost heart. Pushing back the plaid, she
listened, but there was not a human voice to be heard; nothing but the
fall of the rain and the sighing of the wood. But near her something
moved. At first she heard it indistinctly, then plainly as in leaps it
came closer, and presently she felt something press against her plaid.
Terrified, she cautiously reached out her hand, and touched the wet skin
of a hare, who, scared from its form by the incessant rain, now sought
shelter like herself. She held her breath not to disturb her little
companion, and for a while the two cowered side by side.
Then shots sounded afar off through the rain and thunder. Lenore
started, and the hare bounded away. Yonder there were men fighting;
yonder, blood was being poured out on the dark ground. A scream was
heard--a fierce, ominous scream, then all was still. "Was he in danger?"
she asked herself; yet she felt no fear, and shook her head under her
plaid, sure that, even if he were, no danger would reach him: the gun
aimed at him would strike some broken branch, the knife drawn against
him would break like a splinter before it struck him, the man who rushed
on him would stumble and fall before he could touch that haughty head.
He was above all danger, above all fear; he knew neither care nor grief;
alas! he did not feel like other men. His head was lifted freely, his
eyes were clear and bright when all others were cast in terror down to
earth. No difficulty affrighted, no hinderance stopped him. With a mere
wave of his hand he could remove what crushed other men. Such was he.
And this man had seen her weak, precipitate, and helpless; it was her
own fault that he had now a right to assume a transient intimacy. She
trembled lest he should presume upon this right by a glance, a
presumptuous smile, a passing word. In this way her heart kept beating
and her thoughts fluttering for long hours.
The storm passed off. Instead of torrents there was small rain, and a
dull gray succeeded to the black darkness and the fiery flashes. Lenore
could now trace the trunk of the nearest trees. The feeling of
solitariness oppressed her more and more. Just then she heard again the
distant sound of human voices, call and counter-call grew louder, and
the bailiff's voice cried, "They went beyond the quarry; look yonder,
you Neudorf men." The steps of the speakers drew near, and Karl, making
a speaking trumpet of his hands, shouted with all his might, "Halloa,
hillo hoa, Fräulein Lenore!"
"Here I am," cried a female voice at his very feet.
Karl started back in amazement, and joyfully called out, "Found!" The
peasants surrounded Lenore's shelter.
"Our young lady is here!" cried a youth of Neudorf, and hurraed in his
delight as though he were at a wedding.
Lenore rose; her foot still pained her; but, leaning on Karl's arm, she
exerted herself bravely to walk. Meanwhile the young men broke down a
few poles, and laid fir branches across them. In spite of her
resistance, Lenore was constrained to seat herself upon the rude litter,
while some ran on to the bailiff's stable to get her horse ready for
her.
"Have you found the thieves?" inquired Lenore from Karl, who walked at
her side.
"Two of them," replied he. "The calf had been killed; we have got its
skin and part of its flesh. The geese were hanging up on a bough, with
their necks wrung, but the rascals had divided the money. We found very
little of it on our prisoners."
"Those we have caught are Tarow men," said the bailiff, anxiously; "the
worst in the village. And yet I wish they were any where but here, for
there are some desperately revengeful fellows yonder."
"I heard shots," inquired Lenore, further; "was any harm done?"
"Not to us," answered Karl. "In their foolhardiness they made a fire,
not much beyond the border where our riders formed a <i>cordon</i>. The
embers were glimmering in spite of the rain, and thus they betrayed
themselves. We dismounted, crept near, and surprised them. They fired
their guns and ran into the bush. There the darkness swallowed them up.
It was a long time before the party on foot could join us, and but for
the shots and the noise they would never have found us out. Herr von
Fink described to us the place where we should meet with you. He is
taking the prisoners with him to the estate, and to-morrow we will send
them farther."
"But to think that Herr von Fink should have left you thus alone in the
wood!" said the worthy bailiff: "that was a bold stroke indeed."
"I begged him not to remain behind," cried Lenore, casting down her eyes
in spite of the darkness.
Half way to the village Lenore's pony was brought to meet them. At
Neudorf, Karl got back the baron's horse and accompanied his young lady
to the castle. It was very late before they arrived. Lenore's long
absence had excited her mother's alarm, and put the baron fearfully out
of temper. She escaped from his cross-questioning as fast as she could,
and hurried to her room. An hour later, Fink, with the forester, came
back from Kunau, bringing both the prisoners, who walked haughtily, with
their hands bound, and carried their peacock's feathers as high as
though they were leading the dance in a tavern.
"You shall pay for this," said one of them in Polish to his escort, and
clenched his fettered fists.