At first she did not answer. Not until they approached the gate of the

park and she drew her hand lightly from his arm to put on her gloves,

did she say: "You're perfectly right; the only true nobility is to

remain faithful to one's self. The common run of mankind concern

themselves much about their neighbors' opinion, imploring their advice

as to the guidance of their lives, but he who has the germ of a noble

nature lives and dies by the light of his own inward grace and is

sovereign of himself. As for these rules of living, they are pitiful

torments which evil unhappy meddlesome people have invented to sour the

life of their fellow mortals. He who thrusts his neck under the yoke

deserves the bondage. One can grow old in such a servitude and yet

never know what it is really to live."

CHAPTER IV.

The clock struck two as they entered the square before the castle.

"What shall we do now?" she asked.

"We have now no more important task than to eat the best dinner we can

get. I hope the table in the Pagoda has made some progress in

civilization since my student days, when I used to revel in the famous

_katteschale_. However, it's Sunday, and Charlottenburg knows the duty

it owes the capital."

When they entered the handsome hotel, in whose lower rooms a somewhat

motley company were already drinking coffee, a waiter came toward them

and after a hasty glance at Toinette, showed the young couple the way

to the second story. If they wished to dine alone, they would find

empty rooms and tables there--

"There's no help for it," said Edwin laughing, "they evidently suspect

you of a desire to enjoy my society alone; you'll have to reconcile

yourself to it. But we'll drink our coffee in the open air, and then

you can make up for the conquests you can't celebrate at dinner."

He went up stairs beside her and opened the first door, which led into

a comfortable room. She sat down without ceremony on the little sofa,

removed her hat and cloak, and assured him that in spite of the second

breakfast of fruit which she had eaten, she was already very hungry.

Edwin seated himself opposite her and took up the bill of fare. Amid

all sorts of jests, they began to select their favorite dishes, and he

could not help remembering their little dinners in Jaegerstrasse. He

inquired about her birds. She now had a dozen sparrows for boarders,

she said, and would rather hear nothing about those delights of the

table. She had afterwards learned that even the restaurant had been in

the conspiracy against her, and had only charged her half price. She

would soon be reduced to Lotte's bread and butter. "But we won't talk

about that to-day," she said suddenly, "it'll come soon enough."

She rose, yawned, and began to look at the lithographs that hung on the

walls. "You see," said she, "if we had brought the dwarf with us, we

should have been better served."

"The waiter seems to think we shall be satisfied with our young love.

Wait a moment, I'll go down myself, enter into a tender relation with

the cook, and bribe some ministering spirit to devote himself

exclusively to us." He left the little room and hurried down stairs.

Just as he was turning the corner, he ran against a gentleman who was

rushing up. Their mutual apologies died on their lips.

"You here, Edwin?"

"Marquard!"

"No less a personage," laughed the physician. "And in the best of

company. But you--is Balder here?"

"It was impossible to persuade him, unfortunately. You know him."

"So you're alone? Well, you shall join our party at any rate. It's

entirely composed of your acquaintances, except my little suburban

nightingale. Just think, the dear innocent child wouldn't compromise

herself by taking an excursion with me _tete-a-tete_. She insisted that

her friend Christiane must go too, or she would stay at home. Now the

excellent musician is really very disagreeable to me, for the express

reason that she trains young and lively talent to virtue and Sebastian

Bach. But what was I to do? The little one laconically told me we would

be taken for husband and wife, wedded in true burgher fashion, and I

gave up the point. So I went to Fraeulein Christiane to invite her,

wondering in case she accepted, whom I should ask as the fourth man--a

pleasure party of three is absurd of course. I thought of you for a

moment. Would you have come? Well, when I went into her room, I found

Heinrich, the dissatisfied, sitting at her piano, talking his

contradictory little tattle. Do you know I think he has designs in that

quarter despite the ugliness of his sweetheart. What could I do but

offer him the fourth seat in the carriage? I hoped he would say no, for

as you're aware, he can't endure me. But _quod non_! he eagerly

accepted, and so far everything has passed off charmingly. We're in

high spirits, even before the champagne, and what fire-works of wit

will be let off afterwards no one can tell. You'll come in just at the

right moment, and on the way home it'll be so much the better, if we

can't all find seats in one carriage."

"You're very kind," answered Edwin, smilingly releasing himself from

the grasp of his friend who wanted to drag him away at once. "But I've

brought a companion too, and it's doubtful--"

"Whom? Surely not--? Oh! you deepest of all philosophers--'yesterday on

a proud steed, to-day shot through the heart'--the princess?"

Edwin nodded.

"And I let myself be deluded into giving him the address

yesterday--well done! So we won't disturb you, but leave the fir and

palm to themselves."

"You're very much mistaken," said Edwin with a half sigh, "True, as

regards the temperature, tropical vegetation doesn't ill suit me, if

palms only didn't mean victory; for in spite of our apparent intimacy,

her highness is still as much surrounded by ice as ever. I really

believe the best way to prevent the chill from finally producing the

sleep of death, will be to bring her to you--if she's inclined to come,

which I scarcely doubt."

"Bravo! I'll prepare the ladies. A relative of yours? A little cousin

from the country."

"For aught I care. I pass for her cousin in the Rosenstrasse."

"Capital! I'll answer for _our_ cousins. They'll be somewhat jealous,

which will make our attentions rise in value, in other respects we

shall be extremely agreeable. So in five minutes. The last room in the

rear on this corridor. And the dinner's _my_ affair."

He left Edwin at the door of his room and brushing his thin locks with

a small pocket brush and humming a tune, returned to his friends.

"Ladies," said he, as he entered the room where Mohr and the two girls

sat at a neatly laid table, "I must beg your pardon for a somewhat

arbitrary act. A friend of mine with a very charming and highly

respectable cousin are close beside us, under the same roof. I asked

him to join us, he's already acquainted with two of you, as he is no

less a personage than our friend Edwin, the philosopher."

"_Another_ admirer of our musician?" exclaimed Mohr. "I ought to

protest against it; I had subscribed for all the musical enthusiasm

that would be developed to-day, since Maquard adores in artists only

the charms of women. But be it so! This Edwin is an old friend of mine,

and moreover deeply in debt to Fraeulein Christiane for her daily free

concerts."

"Isn't he a tall man with light hair, not exactly handsome, but

interesting when he doesn't wear his old straw hat?" asked the little

singer in a gay, twittering voice, from whose speaking tones one would

never suppose that it could compass two octaves. At the first glance

she looked strikingly pretty, but on a closer inspection one perceived

that the features of the round face were not really harmonious, the

large eyes and turned up nose, the sentimental mouth and sensual chin

formed a strange contrast, and even her toilette was a bold composition

of all sorts of fantastic fragments. She wore a tolerably ancient black

velvet dress, which had once belonged to a much more stately prima

donna, a singular looking scarf of tulle and lace, a breast pin with a

photograph of a little terrier, ear-rings of coarse Roman mosaic, and

in her hair which was cut short and curled in little rings over her

head, a gold circlet. Her movements were sometimes very quick,

sometimes slow and languid. Only when she laughed, in doing which she

was apt to open her mouth a little too far, did the expression appear

to which her more intimate acquaintances alluded, when they called her

a "good follow," with whom "no one could get angry."

Beside this wild singular creature, Christiane's dark face, framed in

its thick black hair, looked more gloomy even than usual, but gained a

certain characteristic nobility, especially as the extreme simplicity

of her dress contrasted advantageously with the theatrical costume of

the singer. She had been sitting in silence when Marquard entered. At

Edwin's name she started, but even then said nothing, merely nodding

when Mohr asked if he should place a chair for the new guest on her

other side; mechanically she smoothed the folds of her dark red woolen

dress and passed her hand over her eyes. Adele had told her she

sometimes wore an evil, malignant expression, when her thick eye brows

were not perfectly smooth. This was generally a matter of indifference

to her, but to-day she did not want to look still more frightful than

she was by nature.

They listened to the sounds from the entry. At last the opposite door

opened, and Mohr started up to meet the new couple. When Toinette

entered, the singer also rose and approached her, more to show her

dainty figure than from any special cordiality. She saw at the first

glance that she was entirely thrown into the shade by the new face, and

could only console herself with the recollection of her toilette, which

she considered extremely _comme il faut_, while the cousin's looked

very provincial. Christiane greeted Edwin's relative with a silent bow

of the head. She had turned pale when she saw the charming girl. A

sudden weight rested upon her soul and stifled the words in her throat,

she would have liked to rise and turn her back upon these unsuspecting

people. But she must endure it. When Edwin addressed a few friendly

words to her, and without asking any questions, took the chair at her

side, the color returned to her cheeks, and she could say in an

indifferent tone that she was very glad to have the pleasure of meeting

him at last. He reminded her of the night when he had found her

absorbed in Schopenhauer's Parerga, and apologized for not having

continued the moonlight conversation by sunlight, on the plea of having

had a great deal of work to do. But it was one of the "sorrows of the

world," that we can often make the least use of the blessings that lie

so close at hand. Meantime the soup was brought, and Marquard did the

honors. The meeting with Edwin and his beautiful companion had put him

in the gayest spirits, and he treated Toinette with a humorous

formality, the cause of which the others did not suspect. Not a word

betrayed that he had made her acquaintance before. He inquired about

the condition and events of her native city, and asked how she liked

Berlin and its inhabitants. The little farce amused the young girl too,

and she merrily entered into it. Moreover she had the delicate tact to

make herself particularly agreeable to Adele and Christiane, so that

after the first glass of champagne the singer, like the "good fellow"

she was, touched glasses with her, declared that she had taken a great

fancy to her, would go to see her in the city and in return Toinette

must go to the theatre every evening that she appeared.

Christian also could not deny the charm of the new acquaintance, though

she certainly felt no pleasure in it. Never had she seemed to herself

so destitute of every grace, as beside this bewitching vision, who

appeared gradually to win even her old admirer, Mohr, though he had at

first been embarrassed in the presence of his old friend's "relative,"

who had so suddenly appeared. He became more and more eloquent, and in

his own original fashion poured forth a multitude of quaint sayings,

which he at last addressed almost exclusively to Toinette, perceiving

that his grave neighbor only absently shook her head at his most daring

paradoxes. Marquard, after fulfilling all the duties of a host toward

his guests, comfortably gave himself up, without making any special

exertion to be witty, to a low toned conversation with his little

flame, and only sometimes condescendingly laughed at Mohr's jests, as

if amused by the singular folly of a man who is making an entirely

useless display. For a time Mohr allowed him to laugh and only

occasionally dealt him a satirical thrust. But as he did not spare the

wine and moreover gradually became heated by his own words, his real

feelings toward the comfortable, self-satisfied man of the world, whom

as we know, he accredited with a tolerably shallow brain and cold

heart, at last burst forth.

"My honored friends," said he, as he rose and lifted his full glass, "I

will beg your permission to speak for five minutes on a subject that is

of interest to all. We sit here so cozily either liking each other or

wishing we did. At any rate this modest little orgie is calculated to

excite the envy of the so-called gods, since six people are on a

tolerably green bough of sustenance, washing from their souls all

anxieties about the present and future life, in, I trust, unadulterated

champagne, and thus losing fear as well as love for gods and devils. As

for the envy of the former, I'm far from making it a reproach to them.

On the contrary, as I have no special reason to feel any great esteem

for them, since they've shown little friendship toward my insignificant

self, it's this envy alone that partially reconciles me to them. These

poor devils of gods, who, like us, can't always do as they please, thus

show a truly human side; for, my friends, profound thought and mature

experience have taught me, that what is truly human, full of genius,

and so to say god-like in our race, as well as the human side of the

gods, is _envy_. You stare at me, Fraeulein Adele, and seem to be asking

your neighbor whether I'm always in the habit of expressing such crazy

opinions, or only when I've been drinking sweet wine. But you're

mistaken; I'm as sober as he is, innocent nightingale; for tell me

yourself, would you be the charming creature you are, the spoiled child

of the boards, the much photographed, much slandered, much adored

_Adele_, if you did not feel a deep envy of the happy mortal called

_Adelina_, the divine Patti? Without this envy, which has accelerated

your flight to higher and higher spheres, you would still be twittering

imperfect couplets, as on your first debut. But for envy of the great

champions of thought, our friend Edwin would now be a well paid

professor of logic, reading stupid volumes year in and year out. But

for this envy, our artist, Fraeulein Christiane, would never have poured

her whole soul into her finger tips, nor I, her unworthy neighbor at

table, extorted from my reluctant brains one of the most remarkable

compositions of the day, the famous _sinfonia ironica_. Fraeulein

Toinette too, whom I have not yet the honor of knowing very well,

has--I read it in her black eyes--received her share of this hereditary

virtue. For what is envy, except that which people usually call

religion: the confession of our imperfections and distress, and the

longing for improvement, to reach a higher round in the ladder, which

we already see attained by loftier natures. Must we not feel better

disposed toward the so-called gods, when we think that they too are not

satisfied with themselves, that they too cherish unattained and forever

unattainable longings for the joys of mortals, for a dinner in the

Pagoda in pleasant society, bubbling over with wit and _Cremant rose_?

That they will go so far as to maliciously desire to destroy such joys,

is a degeneration of the virtue of envy, of which I do not approve, but

from which no virtue is safe. On the contrary, nothing can more deeply

offend gods and men, than to meet certain souls who have never felt the

bliss of a noble envy, who in their sublime self-satisfaction, deride

or condemn every one who is not so well pleased with himself, who does

not draw his face into such well satisfied lines, and when he is

cleanly shaved pat himself delightedly on the back, and say to himself:

'You're a famous fellow!' My friends, I know what's due to the company.

I refrain from all personalities. But when I see certain brows, one in

particular, which begins to be prematurely bald, a brow that has the

effrontery--"

He had spoken louder and more rapidly, fixing his eyes more and more

steadily and defiantly on Marquard, who submitted to this singular

apostrophe with the utmost good humor; but at the last words, the smile

suddenly died on his lips. He again filled his glass, and rattled his

knife on an empty one that stood beside it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said he, "as we have no president, who could

call any one abusing the freedom of speech to order, everyone must look

out for himself. I take the liberty of interrupting the honored orator,

because he's in the act of doing something for which I certainly should

not envy him: disturbing the beautiful harmony that pervades this

circle, by making to one of its members, who though perhaps unworthy is

certainly not obstreperous, exactly the reverse of a declaration of

love. I have the honor of being intimately acquainted with this member,

and know that our friend, Heinrich Mohr, has always used his right

not to think him agreeable. I have never disputed that right, though

I myself formerly held a different opinion and thought this man

whose soul was destitute of envy, a very lovable fellow. Since

that time"--here he cast a glance of comical pathos at his fair

neighbor--"I have found myself mistaken in this view, but for very

different reasons. I will not enter upon the intellectual controversy

about the virtue of envy. Friend Mohr will at least admit, that there

are exceptions to the rule. I, my friends, have studied so much natural

history, that I know the ostrich would not become any more perfect if

it envied the falcon its wings, and the sparrow would be a singular

fanatic if it practised solfeggi to outdo the nightingale. If therefore

I early renounced the cultivation of talents I did not possess, and

like a true realist, endeavored to take the world and myself as we are,

it should rather be imputed to me as a virtue, especially as I have

risen to a tolerable height in the admiration and enjoyment of gifts

denied me, and moreover possess a few valuable qualities, such as for

instance the ability to order a good dinner, to brew a punch, and to

write prescriptions for intermittent fever. And now, after this

effective little correction, I propose that we drink the ladies' health

and beg Fraeulein Adele to use her exquisite voice in singing away the

last remnant of discord."

A loud clapping of hands, for which Adele herself gave the signal,

rewarded this speech, during which Mohr had slowly reseated himself and

emptied his glass in little sips. Refilling it, he turned toward

Marquard with a peculiar twinkle in his keen grey eyes.

"I heartily assent to the proposal," said he, "but must first place on

record a short personal observation, namely that I was a great donkey.

The ladies will pardon the rude expression, since I doubt not, they are

convinced of its truth. Fritz Marquard, I hereby declare that you're

right in patting yourself on the back and thinking yourself a famous

fellow. From this day I beg you to grant me your friendship, and hope

to give you proofs of mine--"

"And if a man has fallen

Love guides him back to duty--"

sang Adele, as she sprang from her seat and glided to an old piano that

stood in one corner of the room, and which was sometimes used for

little dancing parties. She hastily opened it, struck a few notes, and

called Christiane to try it more thoroughly. Meantime Marquard had

crossed over to Mohr and cordially shaken hands with him; Edwin and

Toinette also rose, lights and a fresh bottle of wine were brought in,

and amidst the bustle of coming and going Christiane hastily ran her

hands over the keys, and commenced Weber's "Invitation to the waltz."

The room became quiet. Edwin had carried two chairs into a window

recess, which was illumined by the last crimson rays of the autumnal

sunlight. Without a word from him, Toinette took one chair and he sat

down beside her. He had scarcely spoken to her at the table, but he had

listened to her every word, and little as he appeared to look at her,

had often turned his eyes with delight upon the delicate profile and

black lashes. But now as she gazed out at the bare treetops, bathed in

the crimson glow, with her head and shoulders likewise steeped in the

radiance of the sunset, her lips parted as if her very soul were

absorbed in the lingering beauties of the day, he forgot his self

control, and gazed steadily into her face. The room was quite dark; two

candles only illumined the table still crowded with the empty bottles

and half filled glasses, and lighted up Marquard's pleasant features,

as he sat alone smoking his cigar and looking intently through the

round glasses of his gold spectacles at the piano. Mohr had thrown

himself down on a stool beside the musician, Adele was tripping lightly

up and down the room, singing to herself in a low tone and sometimes

with a coquettish gesture throwing at her friend, who continued to

smoke phlegmatically, a grape, from the cluster which, in bacchanalian

fashion she had fastened to the gold circlet on her head.

"You have been very charming to-day," Edwin whispered to Toinette. "I

thank you for the conquests you have made of my friends. I'm vain

enough to think you did it partly for my sake. If Balder had only seen

you!"

"Why?"

"Because I always think of him, whenever anything pleases me; because I

wish him to share my pleasures with me. Have you never had the same

feeling toward your sisters?"

"I would gladly have felt it, but I never could succeed. Each thought

only of herself, her few miserable trinkets, her lovers, and the next

casino-ball. I really think sisters are scarcely capable of what you

call brotherly, love. But hush; she's beginning to sing. Who would have

supposed there was so much music in the queer little doll!"

In fact a flood of melody now filled the room, as Adele sang

Pergolese's morning serenade:

"Tre giorni son che Nina

Al letto se ne sta."

Christiane accompanied her. The worn out instrument under her hands was

fairly transformed, and gave forth tones of which it had probably

scarcely been capable in its best days. When the charming little song

was finished, Marquard rose and solemnly kissed the singer's hand.

"Brava, bravissima! You're the singing-bounding-lion-teaser in the

fairy tale."

"An _in_cantatrice!" cried Mohr from his dark corner after having made

a terrible noise applauding alone.

"Spare your enthusiasm, gentlemen," laughed the saucy girl, turning on

her heel. "There are better things in store! And the lion's share of

the lion teaser belongs to my strict teacher. Now: 'Ye who know the

instinct of the heart--'" and without waiting for the accompaniment, she

began the aria she had shortly before studied with Christiane.

The musician accompanied the song only with single chords. She was now

sitting completely in the dark, having shaken her head in reply to

Mohr's question whether she would have a light. Her thoughts were far

from Pergolese, Mozart, and all her other musical saints. Above the

piano hung an old fashioned oval mirror, directly opposite to the

window in whose recess Edwin and Toinette were sitting. As the sunset

glow slowly died away, she could distinctly see the expression with

which Edwin's eyes rested upon the calm face of the beautiful girl.

During dinner, her first jealous pain at meeting him with such a

charming companion had almost disappeared, for he had not paid any

particular attention to his lovely cousin. Now it suddenly flashed upon

her, that this indifference had been, only a mask, and a feeling of

inexpressible bitterness overpowered her, when she recalled the

pleasure she had felt at the courteous kindness with which he had

treated her. Now, sitting opposite the stranger in the crimson sunset,

what a different language his eyes spoke! With the prophetic insight of

a hopeless passion, she perceived that he loved this girl. And she

could not even hate him for it. For had not the stranger every charm

she lacked? To be sure, the keen eyes of jealousy told her that he met

with no response to his feeling, the response that he deserved, and

that she would have given. This cold blooded enchantress, even while

Edwin's eyes were fixed upon her profile as a supplicant gazes upon the

miracle-working image of a saint, could look unmoved at the dry

branches without; her hand did not touch his, which he had laid on his

knee as if seeking it, her soul--if she had one--where was it? And he,

why did not his pride rebel against serving here without wages, when

elsewhere he might have ruled? But rule over what? she asked herself. A

heart which no one had ever tried to conquer, which no one seemed to

consider a boon to possess, he least of all. Had he not lived under the

same roof with her for years, and not felt the slightest desire to

approach the woman who daily spoke to him in harmonies, poured forth

her inmost feelings in accents so intelligible to him?

It was this feeling that now overpowered her, and in addition to all

the exciting emotions of these hours, the gayety, and the unusual

indulgence in wine, fairly intoxicated her senses. A wild, fiendish

rage took possession of her soul. When the aria from Mozart was over,

she said curtly: "You are not in good voice, child; the champagne is

beginning to revenge itself. You mustn't sing another note, or you'll

be terribly hoarse to-morrow." And without heeding Marquard's

remonstrance, she commenced a stormy improvisation. A string broke with

a rattling sound--she did not notice it; a second and third--she played

steadily on. Mohr, who had pushed his chair behind hers, while Marquard

sat in the darkness on a little sofa beside Adele, was in a perfect

delirium of ecstacy. He had never heard her play so before, and was

musician enough to say to himself that the greatest masters would be

delighted if they could hear her improvise in such a mood. More than

once he turned toward the two couples and enthusiastically tossing his

long arms, endeavored to attract their attention to what this wonderful

genius was producing. But he seemed to be alone in his admiration, at

least to Marquard as he incessantly whispered in the ear of the singer,

this remarkable playing seemed nothing more than the roaring of a

storm, and Edwin, at this moment, believing himself unnoticed as the

light without had at last wholly died away, had caught a curl of

Toinette's hair and was holding it in his hand. Now he cautiously bent

forward and pretending to fasten the string of the curtain, hastily

pressed the soft tress to his lips. At the same moment the fourth

string snapped, a sharp discord rang through the powerful passages, and

the player started up pushing back her chair. "No more!" she cried in a

hollow tone. "It's killing me! Air! Air!"

"For God's sake, Fraeulein, what is the matter!" exclaimed Mohr, who had

also sprung to his feet. "You're tottering, you'll faint--here, lean on

me--shall I get you some water, take you into the open air?"

"No, no, it's over! Leave me! Why do you seize me so rudely? I'm well,

perfectly well--at least I shall be perfectly well when I'm alone. The

wine, the music, the darkness--give me my hat and cloak, I'll go out

into the air a moment, then it will all pass off."

In the greatest perplexity he did as she requested, but she had spoken

in so low a tone that the others scarcely noticed what was passing at

the piano. Marquard alone hastily cast a glance at her. "Is the

champagne revenging itself on you too?" he called in a jesting tone.

"You ought to drink a cup of coffee, it will soothe your nerves. Or is

genius made giddy by its own lofty flights?" There was no reply Mohr

accompanied her to the door. "Stay here," she whispered imperiously.

"But you'll come back again?"

"When this feeling has passed away." With these words she left him, and

in a greatly agitated mood he returned to the piano. It gave him

pleasure to sit down in her chair and touch the same keys over which

her hands had just dashed. But he did not play; only now and then he

softly struck a chord, as if to caress the strings she had handled so

roughly. Besides he listened constantly, but nothing stirred, and after

a time he knew that she was not coming back again.

Suddenly he started up. "My friends," said he, "Fraeulein Christiane has

taken French leave of us. But as it's growing very dark and she did not

feel particularly well, I think it would be better for me to follow and

if necessary offer my services as escort, in case she cannot find a

carriage. Marquard, will you attend to matters here and tell me

tomorrow my share of the reckoning, Fraeulein Christiane's expenses of

course included. Good night and a pleasant evening!"

Before any one could reply, he put on his grey felt hat and disappeared

also. Half an hour later two droschkys drove away from the Pagoda. The

first was occupied by Marquard and Adele, the second by Edwin and

Toinette. The first, whose windows were closed to shut out the cool

evening air, and which seemed in no hurry to reach its destination,

soon turned off from the highway into the darker avenues of the

Thiergarten as if with the intention of leaving its companion behind.

In the second carriage the window on Toinette's side was open, although

the breeze was somewhat damp and chilly. But the beautiful girl said

she liked it, that the music had gone to her head, and in fact her

cheeks were burning. As they drove on, talking about the people with

whom they had spent the last few hours, the conversation gradually

became less fluent and finally ceased, the moon rose above the tree

tops, and aided by the extreme clearness of the autumn air soon cast a

bright silvery light over the trees by the way side and the stones on

the road. It was charming to gaze into the more densely shaded portions

of the park, where mysterious lights and shadows played, where now a

statue appeared in dazzling whiteness, and anon a black clump of

shrubbery defied the power of the light. Edwin had looked out of his

window for a long time, absorbed in thoughts which were both sad and

cheerful. Once he fancied he saw a female figure walking swiftly along,

which as he bent forward seemed to perceive him and hastily retreated

farther into the shadow of the trees. He turned to Toinette, to tell

her his supposition that Christiane had preferred to traverse the long

distance to the city on foot, and made the discovery that his companion

had fallen asleep. The moonlight was flickering over her little hands,

that lay ungloved in her lap. In the dim light that surrounded her

head, he could see her white teeth glitter as she smiled. For a time he

restrained himself, though the pulses in his temples throbbed

violently, but at last this smile on her lips was stronger than all his

resolution. He cautiously bent toward her, and after a pause of five

minutes, during which he felt her breath on his eyes, lightly pressed a

kiss on the half parted lips.

She instantly awoke, so suddenly that he drew back in alarm, glowing

with blushes. "Where are we," she whispered. "Dear me, what bright

moonlight! I believe I've been asleep. It's very impolite, isn't it?

But people are wearied even by pleasure. I haven't enjoyed myself so

much for a long time."

She talked gaily on; He could not discover whether she had felt the

kiss or thought she had only dreamed of it. To be sure, he had not

noticed that she returned it.

One more short hour, and he helped her out of the carriage in

Rosenstrasse. She thanked him cordially and repeatedly for the

delightful day. "We'll continue the cure to-morrow," she called, just

as she was closing the door of the house. With these words she

dismissed him, and absorbed in blissful dreams, he pursued his way home

through the quiet streets.

CHAPTER V.

Beloved Sun,

To all benign,

Hold in thy heart

This child of thine!

Sleeping I lay

In fevered dreams,

Softly thou com'st,

With healing beams;

Hov'ring gently

With smile so bright,

Flooding my lone cell

With golden light,

Till the prisoned soul

From bondage free,

Like opening buds

Unfolds to thee.

Forcing thy way

Over the towers,

Mid roofs, through tree tops,

Among green bowers,

Caressing me gently

Powerful one!

Folding me closely

Beneficent Sun!

Few earthly joys

Have fallen to me,

All I possess

Are given by thee;

Refreshing fruit

Thou dost bestow,

And strengthening bread

As white as snow;

Another gift

The maiden fair,

With rosy cheeks

And golden hair--

Thou mak'st her bloom,

Child of the sun,

A joy and blessing

To me alone,

To this frail form

A halo lend,

Till she draws near

On me to tend.

Of her bereft,

Hopeless I sigh,

Nothing remains

Only to die,

So that thine eye

Alone may keep,

Watch over my grave,

And dreamless sleep.--

The sheet on which these verses were written, lay on Balder's knees.

Soon after Edwin left him, he had seated himself at the window in the

sunlight, and began his holiday by taking a sheet of paper and pouring

forth the feelings that filled his soul. We know that he was never

happier than when his heart of its own accord began to sing, and his

hand could scarcely write fast enough to seize the melodies he heard.

But to-day he was particularly happy. His unusual capacity for finding

pleasure in everything, even the smallest trifle, seemed heightened by

the joy of convalescence. He gazed through the closed window a long

time at the white cat, that lay on the sill blinking sleepily, sunning

itself, and pretending not to see the sparrows that ventured close up

to it. A small white cloud was drifting slowly across the blue sky. He

became absorbed in the spectacle, as if he beheld the most wonderful

pictures, until his eyes ached from staring at the radiant heavens;

then he rose and walked slowly through the room, drawing the lame foot

after him almost as if he were dancing, and from time to time pressing

to his lips the last of the oranges Marquard had recently brought him,

to drink in the fragrance and juice at the same time. Sometimes he

thought of his brother, and how pleasantly the hours must be passing

with him, sometimes of Reginchen, whose voice was distinctly audible in

the front of the house, as she sat at the open windows of the kitchen

working and singing to herself; then he paused before Edwin's book

shelf, drew out at random one of the volumes, with all of which he was

familiar, and read half a page only to restore it to its place again to

meditate on what he had read. He even took up his tools as if to use

them, but remembered that he had promised Edwin to rest at least a

week. True, he considered this rest very unnecessary, for he had never

felt stronger and better, or breathed more freely.

When Reginchen brought up his dinner at noon, she noticed his unusual

gayety and cheerfulness. "Your sickness has done you good, Herr

Walter," said she.

"No," he answered smiling, "it was your nursing, Reginchen."

"Well, it's all the same," she answered. "But why didn't you go into

the country with the Herr Doctor? (she always gave Edwin this title.)

No one who's well would stay at home to-day."

"Are you going into the country too, Reginchen?"

"I indeed! I'm the house dog to-day. My parents went to a christening

at eleven o'clock, the journeymen of course all went off too, and

there's nobody in the house except the old couple; _she's_ sick, and

_he_ to keep her company is sick and cross, too. You may think I am

joking; but just ask their girl. If he even has a cold, she worries so

that she can neither eat nor drink, and is obliged to go to bed. It's

comical, isn't it, but very pleasant to see two old people still so

fond of each other."

"'Still?' I should think people would love each other more and more the

longer they knew each other."

"Certainly! The longer the dearer. But it isn't always so. Would you

like to grow old, Herr Walter?"

"If the people I love grow old with me, certainly."

"I shouldn't," she answered. "I used to think nothing could be worse

than to die. But now--you'll laugh at me--I am often fairly disgusted

with life, though I can complain of nothing. I feel so oppressed and

anxious, and nothing pleases me; I wish for I know not what, and fear I

know not why. You're so clever, Herr Walter. What is the cause of

this?"

"Dear Reginchen"--and he seized her hand and gazed into the frank face

which was turned toward him with innocent curiosity. He was seeking for

words to intimate to her, that it was the exuberance of youth and the

yearning desire for love which disgusted her with her everyday life;

perhaps he meant to summon courage to confess that he too had the same

feelings. But she suddenly withdrew her hand.

"Didn't you hear? The old lady has rung for me; heaven knows what she

wants. Her girl has gone, because it's her Sunday out, and there's

nobody to wait on her but me. Eat your dinner, Herr Walter, perhaps if

I have time, I'll come up again for five minutes. You're altogether too

lonely, and on Sunday too!"

She glided out of the room. He was almost glad that they had been

interrupted. What could he have said to her, without entirely betraying

himself? And if she had learned his feelings and confessed her love for

him what would have followed? Would it not have been a betrothal, and

must not Edwin have been told? And yet it seemed impossible that any

one should know of this wonderful fairy dream. And could it be

possible? He thought of his delicate health, his seclusion from the

world, his youthfulness--he had seen but twenty years--was he one to

step forward, like other men, and say: "here's a girl whose husband I

wish to become, with whom I desire to found a home, and--rear

children!" As this thought passed through his mind though entirely

alone he blushed crimson and shook his head. Then he sat down to the

table, and as he ate the simple food with a good appetite, his

confidence in his destiny increased and he became very well satisfied

and silently resolved if she came up in the afternoon, to tell her that

he thought he knew what she desired and feared:--To give her heart to

another heart, and lose her own life to celebrate a joyful resurrection

in another.

But he had long finished his dinner, and the cat had licked the plates

so clean that they shone in the sun, and still his little housekeeper

kept him waiting. For the first time in his life he felt a weary

impatience that he could not dispel. He heard the clock strike four and

then five; the sunlight faded, and he suddenly felt an eager desire to

get out of the desolation of his "tun" into the open air. How long it

was since he had had the blue sky over him, or even put his head out of

the window! A feeling of exultation thrilled his heart, as he took his

old black cloak and cap from the chest of drawers, and thus equipped

glided lightly down stairs. His heart throbbed as violently as if he

were setting out on a long and dangerous journey, and yet he was not

going out of the house at all, but only down into the courtyard, where

he would wait till the young girl came, glide up behind her, and see

her astonishment at finding him below.

In spite of the gathering twilight, the air in the courtyard was very

mild, as if a remnant of the warmth of the sun which during the day had

shone into the space between the four walls, still lingered there. Not

a breath of air was stirring, and there was no sound either in the

house or street. Balder felt almost like a boy who is playing hide and

seek, as he entered the arbor covered with the yellow and almost

leafless bean vines, sat down on the little bench, and noticed that no

one coming from the front of the house could see him, as the poles were

so close together and the black pump intervened. Besides he wrapped

himself carefully in his cloak and turned up the collar, so that not

even his fair hair could betray him.

Absorbed in fantastic dreams he sat waiting for Reginchen. What would

Edwin say, when he came home and heard that Balder had had his

excursion too. But the best part of it he must not be allowed to guess.

Or should he confess to-day? If he had really been as happy as he

hoped, and talked with her heart to heart--would he be able to conceal

his joy? Would it not sparkle in his eyes, flush his cheeks, and burst

from his lips of its own accord?

He determined to let matters take their course and to follow the

dictates of his heart. If she would only come! She could not have

forgotten her promise, but what detained her so long? He was weary with

anxious longing, and yet he did not venture to look for her in the

house. Who could tell whether he should find her alone?

And yet she was alone, even after he had been sitting in the arbor for

half an hour. She had had a great many things to do for the old couple

upstairs; finally after taking up the tea tray she had been dismissed,

and now for the first time remembered her promise, but at the same

moment it occurred to her that she had not yet looked at the volume of

Schiller, which must be returned in a few days. If he questioned her,

it would be very shocking to know nothing about the poems; what could

he think except that she did not care for the improvement of her mind?

So she sat down in the dark shop, whose half open door, admitted

nevertheless light enough to read, laid the little book in her lap and

took her knitting in her hand, for she thought it a waste of time to

read without working. But she did not open the volume; her thoughts

wandered far away to him of whom for weeks she had heard nothing, even

through her brother. She would have liked to send him the stockings,

which had long been finished, and then if he were in earnest--"he does

not really love me," she sighed to herself. "But if he knew how often I

think of him--he is such a good man!"

She remembered his sturdy figure and dark, honest face, with its black,

bushy beard, so distinctly, that she could not help laughing, even at

the moment when she secretly acknowledged her love. But she had a great

respect for him on account of his trade of printer, which she supposed

to be the most learned of all. Besides she knew through her brother

that he composed all sorts of essays, which were very fine and always

eagerly seized by the workmen. That such a clever and remarkable man

should in her presence be as confused as a boy, not even daring

to tell her he loved her, flattered her innocent and very modest

self-consciousness not a little; nay it really touched her when she

thought how dearly he must love her, that he did not seek some more

distinguished and highly educated person. In return she meant to love

him truly and faithfully and to learn a great deal, and thought it her

duty, above all, to at least read Schiller, though she did not exactly

understand the beautiful words. If _he_ would sit beside her and read

them aloud, it would be so much easier. She liked to listen to his

voice, and her brother had often boasted what an orator he was. But as

he did not appear, she could do nothing but try to read to herself. She

had just opened the book and read the first lines of the "Melancholie

an Laura," when a black shadow suddenly appeared between her and the

light, and she started up with a low cry, letting the book fall on the

floor.

The subject of her secret thoughts was standing before her, or rather

kneeling at her feet to pick up the book, stammering out an apology for

the sudden entrance which had startled her.

Her nerves were so strong that she instantly recovered her composure,

as soon as she was assured that the vision was no ghost, but her own

sun-burnt lover, for whom she had so ardently longed. She laughed at

her own terror, grew as red as she had before been pale, and could not

understand why he was gazing so intently at the written sheet that had

fallen out of the little book and which he had unfolded and read. She

did not think it exactly polite for him to forget her for such a

scrawl, but thought it must be on account of his learning. He also

apologized as he laid the book down on the counter, and only asked

timidly where she had obtained it. Herr Walter had lent it to her, and

she had just commenced reading it for the first time. He had probably

forgotten the written sheet. What was in it, that Herr Franzelius had

studied it so eagerly?

"Fraeulein Reginchen," replied the printer, wiping the perspiration from

his brow, "will you allow me to put this in my pocket? I'll return it

to him myself--it might fall into the wrong hands--but you've pardoned

my bouncing in so abruptly, haven't you? If you knew, Fraeulein

Reginchen--"

So saying, he looked around in all directions with a very disturbed

expression. She had never seen him so strangely excited before.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Do you want a glass of water? If I can

help you in any way--"

"You cart, Reginchen, you're the only person who can help me. But

here--so close to the street, where we may be interrupted at any

moment--oh! you do not know the subject of which I want to speak."

She certainly thought she knew. What could it be, if she alone was able

to help him? And what could he have to confide to her, in which he did

not wish to be interrupted, except the one, the one great subject on

which he had never yet found courage to speak, and which she had

nevertheless seen long ago in his eyes?

"You're perfectly right," she said in the most innocent tone, and yet

with a shade of curiosity. "This is just like being in the street. Do

you know, the work-shop is empty and there's no one in the courtyard;

you can tell me everything there. But I must first lock up the shop.

This is _such_ a surprise. The very last thing to be thought of, your

coming here to-day."

She hastily closed the heavy outer doors of the shop, so that both were

suddenly left in total darkness. But the next instant she opened the

second door leading into the entry and let him pass out. "There's

nobody at home," she whispered, "my parents won't return from the

christening until seven, the Herr Doctor has gone into the country, and

only Herr Walter--"

She suddenly remembered what she had promised the lonely youth. But it

was now too late, she would apologize in the evening.

"If its something that's to be an entire secret and you do not wish to

be seen in the house, run across the courtyard as fast as you can. The

old lady up stairs might happen to look out of the window. Dear me,

what's the matter? You're so pale and don't speak a word!"

He made no reply but followed her advice. Without looking to the right

or left, both glided across the little courtyard, which was now very

dark, and entered the work-shop whose windows were directly opposite to

the bean arbor. They were all closed.

"We'll open one," whispered the brisk little maiden. "You're not

accustomed to the smell of leather and cobbler's wax, and besides

there's no danger; as I said before, there's not even a cat in the

courtyard to overhear us. Well? Have you recovered your breath a

little? I really shudder at the thought of what this secret may be."

She had seated herself on a three-legged stool, with her back to the

open window, that he might not see her face distinctly, and was

smoothing with both hands the rebellious little curls that clustered

around her forehead. "It's very hot here," she said as he still

preserved his silence, and with both hands behind his back paced

heavily up and down the dark room, absorbed in deep thought. At last he

stopped before a table, on which lay various tools and half finished

pieces of work piled upon each other.

"Reginchen," said he, "perhaps this will be the last time we shall see

each other. If all signs do not fail, I shall either be a prisoner or

on my way to America to-morrow."

"Merciful God!" she exclaimed with unconcealed anguish, "you're not in

earnest."

"Only too much so," he answered in a hollow tone. "I am not surprised;

I've seen this coming a long time. Reginchen--look at me and tell me:

do you believe I'm capable of a crime?"

"You! You're the best man under the sun! You could not hurt a child--"

"Thank you, Reginchen. To hear you say so is a great consolation,

perhaps the only one I shall take with me, if I'm compelled to fly; no,

not even the consciousness that I'm suffering for a holy cause--"

"But pray tell me--"

"You're right, the moments are precious. I'm here to ask you for a

great service, which you can render me and the sacred cause. Your

brother, the best young fellow I have ever known--he's worthy to have

you for a sister, Reginchen--if you wish to know farther particulars,

ask him. He has all the numbers of my newspaper, on account of which

I'm persecuted. True, I have irritated them, but we have all practised

the patience of the lamb long enough, the ass's skin is at last

becoming too tight for the lion, but perhaps he was unwise to betray

himself by his roar before he was ready to spring. However, it is done;

only slaves and cowards are always wise. I don't know what they intend

to do now. But that it will--"

"Merciful Heavens!" she exclaimed, "will they try you, throw you into

prison?"

"To render me harmless, yes! What is there new or strange in that? Oh!

dear Reginchen, the falsity of this so-called justice is so old that

quiet citizens may well accept it as a matter of course. But I'm not

here to tell you things of which your noble innocent heart can frame no

idea. See, this is my dearest possession"--and he drew out a tolerably

thick leather pocket book, fastened with a string and sealed. "It

contains papers, which if found on my person, would ruin not only

me--what would that matter--but many noble men who have trusted me. I

knew of no place where I could safely conceal these papers and letters,

no one whom I could trust under all circumstances to protect them from

every eye; for all my friends run the same risk; any night the police

may break into their asylum and search their most secret repositories.

Then I thought of you, Reginchen. No one will ever dream of looking

here for papers dangerous to the government; your father, though a

liberal, has always shaken his head at all the plans of socialism. Will

you do me so great a favor as to keep my legacy and never allow it to

leave your hands until I write myself and tell you to what address to

send the pacquet?"

She hastily seized the pocketbook with both hands and thrust it under

the thick woolen handkerchief she wore crossed over her shoulders and

tied in a knot behind. "No living soul shall know anything about it,"

she said, "it shall be as safe with me as if it were in the bank. But

oh! Herr Franzelius, have matters really gone so far? Must you go away

forever?" She hastily passed her hand over her eyes, he must not see

that they were wet; he was causing her quite too much pain, and she

seemed to herself a very unhappy creature that all her dreams should be

so quickly destroyed.

"Reginchen," he stammered, "I thank you for your sorrow--though--you

cannot suspect what I feel. You would never have known, if I could have

remained here--but now--since it can no longer do any harm--"

She gazed at him in astonishment with eyes that had suddenly become

dry. "No longer do any harm?" she repeated.

"Yes Reginchen. When I am gone, you will soon forget me, even if you

know that I--that I--but perhaps you do know it already."

"I, Herr Franzelius?" Her Eve's nature was again aroused; she would not

make it easy for him, he must speak out. How could he possibly be so

good an orator, when in her presence he stammered like a school boy?

"Reginchen," said he, drawing a long breath and taking a sudden start,

"if you really have not noticed--and I believe you, for you're

incapable of dissumulation--I--I have long--for two years--give me your

hand, Reginchen. You see I've sometimes imagined that some day I should

be granted the happiness of asking you--and your dear parents--to give

me this hand for life. I--I have loved you dearly, unspeakably, ever

since I knew you--and--though I know that I usually have very little

success--either in life or with women--it often seemed to me--as if you

too--"

He paused and let her hand fall, to take out his handkerchief and wipe

his forehead. The little fair haired deceiver thought it more decorous

to keep him in suspense a short time, though her whole heart drew her

toward him and she would gladly have thrown herself into his arms at

once.

"What are you talking about, Herr Franzelius?" she replied, half

pouting. "You have loved me, and now--now it's over. Because you're

going away, you will leave me behind like a troublesome piece of

property that won't go into your trunk?"

"Oh! Reginchen," he exclaimed, suddenly gazing at her so tenderly that

she blushed and cast down her eyes, "you're only joking. You know very

well what I mean, and that I shall never cease to love you far more

than any one else. If I tear myself away, believe me it's not only

because I should think it unprincipled--with my uncertain future and

the destiny which may be in store for me--to ask one so young and so

unused to want and privation--"

"Oh!" she interrupted, "is that all? I've always heard that the

principal thing is for people to love each other. Doesn't Annchen von

Tharau's song, which you once wrote out for me, say:

"No matter what tempests may burst overhead,

We'll cling to each other our pathway to tread--?"

"My darling," He exclaimed, fairly beside himself with delight, while a

ray of surprise and joy flashed over his gloomy face, "is this true?

You have--you have remembered this--applied it to me, to us both? Oh! I

never ventured to hope for so much. My precious Reginchen! And now--how

happy I should be--if I only dared. Tell me once more, dear precious

child, is it true? You would have gone with me, if I had proposed

it--and your parents--But no, tell me nothing! It can do no good, and

will only make my hard task still harder." He sank down on a stool by

the table, and buried his face in his broad hands. Reginchen watched

him in silence. She could not understand his behavior. What was it that

stood in the way? Why could it "do no good," this acknowledgement of

her love, and her willing offer to go out into the wide world with him?

Suddenly he started up and approaching her said: "Promise me, dear

Reginchen, that you'll try to forget what I have said. I ought to have

kept silence; but my feelings overpowered me. And now farewell and make

_him_ happy. He deserves it more than I, he also loves you truly and

fondly--though certainly no one in the whole world can hold you dearer

than I."

He pressed his lips to her hands, then strove to release them and rush

out of the workshop. But Reginchen stopped him. "Dear Herr Franzelius,"

she said, "if you're in earnest and really love me, why do you grieve

me so, by telling me things I don't understand, and asking me to make

somebody else happy when I do not even know of whom you're speaking? I

love you too, and if it were only my parents--but speak; I don't

understand a single word of all you have said."

He paused at the door and looked at her in astonishment. "Is it

possible?" said he. "That you have no idea of whom I mean? That you see

him daily, and yet have never perceived what an impression you have

made on his heart? I noticed it long ago, and suffered deeply in

consequence. Oh! Reginchen, you don't know what it is to grudge such a

friend the love of such a girl, because one loves her himself! And yet

I know what I owe him, how deeply, perhaps fatally, it would wound him,

if you and I--"

"Merciful Heaven!" she suddenly exclaimed, "no, no, it's

impossible--you can't mean Herr Walter!"

"And why not?"

"Pray consider, he's so sickly, do you really believe he ever will be

well again, ever think--dear me, how you startled me! I should never

have dreamed of such a thing in all my life! Herr Walter!"

"I know what I know, dear Reginchen," replied the printer sadly. "What

will be done _when_ he is again well and strong, and whether that will

ever come to pass--who can tell? But I should be a scoundrel, if I

caused him who has already suffered so much, even the shadow of a grief

that I could spare him. Oh! Reginchen, if you knew him thoroughly, the

noblest, loftiest soul that ever dwelt in a fragile body--you could not

help loving him as I love him, more than myself, and you would rather

bear and suffer everything, than cloud even an hour of his life." Both

fixed their eyes on the floor. An anxious, oppressive pause followed.

"So you really think--" Reginchen began; but she did not finish the

sentence.

"I'm as sure of his love as of my own," Franzelius faltered. "If I

could have cherished any doubt, everything would have been proved and

made plain half an hour ago. I have no right to persuade you to

anything against which your heart rebels. But I'm sure that now

you know his secret, it will be impossible for you not to become

attached to him; he is far more lovable than I, whom only your heavenly

goodness--perhaps through mistake or accident--"

"No," she eagerly exclaimed, almost ready to cry, "now I must speak

frankly; there was no special goodness about it except your own, and as

to Herr Walter's being more lovable--dear me it's possible, but I can't

help it--I'd rather have _you_; didn't you notice it when you tried on

the boots, spoke of the stockings--wait, I'll get them right away,

they've been finished a long time, I hurried so because I thought you'd

have to go away, though not forever! Dear me, to think I must help you

now, besides making the stockings."

"Girl!" he exclaimed, "you would really--It's too much--oh! now I see

for the first time how happy we might have been."

"Who knows what may happen yet," she said, consoling herself as she

wiped her eyes with her apron; "but wait here five minutes; I've got

them in my work table. I'll be back again directly. They will certainly

fit you and keep you warm."

As she passed close by him and went out of the door, he was strongly

tempted to hurry after her, clasp the beloved form in his arms, and

imprint his thanks for her gift on her fresh lips. But he was so

sincere in his purpose of resigning her to his friend, that he did not

trust himself even to touch her, precisely because he felt that she

would not have resisted. When she had gone, he sank down on a bench

like a heavily burdened man and pressed his hands to his eyes. Amid all

his sorrow, he revelled in the bliss of knowing that she loved him, and

each word which had assured him of the fact still echoed in his soul.

He was suddenly roused from this happy reverie by a loud cry in the

courtyard, close to the door that opened into the back building. He

recognized Reginchen's voice, and in mortal terror started up, tore

open the door, and was about to rush across the entry into the

courtyard. But a terrible sight checked him.

On the threshold of the back building, which was reached by two steps,

lay Balder, wrapped in his dark cloak and completely insensible. The

unfortunate youth must have overheard the whole conversation, since he

had not dared to move lest he should betray his presence. Who would

undertake to describe the storm that raged in his soul, as silently

leaning against the wall, he saw all his dearest illusions shattered!

His still delicate chest heaved and labored till he thought he was

suffocating, and the idea that the two happy lovers might come out and

find him there pierced his heart like glowing iron. He had already

risen to rush out into the street, when her proposal to bring the

present from the front of the house again bound him to his dark corner.

But he thought he would take advantage of the few minutes before her

return. As soon as she had disappeared in the passage, he hastily

dragged himself to the door--clinging to the wall as his limbs refused

to support him, in order to reach the staircase that led to his room.

But just as he had gained the second step, his strength failed, a

stream of blood gushed from his lips, and he fell fainting on the

threshold.

When Reginchen returned with the little package, she started at the

sight of the dark mass that barred her way, but when she recognized the

fair hair and saw the dark stains on the stones close by, she lost all

composure and screamed for help as piteously as if she herself had been

stabbed to the heart. She did not exchange a word or glance with the

friend who came hurrying out. In the twinkling of an eye everything

became clear to her, and she shrank like a criminal from the eyes of

her fellow culprit. They carried the unconscious sufferer, who only

uttered low moans, up the stairs and laid him carefully on his bed. In

the midst of their efforts to restore him to consciousness, while still

fearing that he might open his eyes and see them both at his side,

Edwin returned and entered the room in the highest spirits.

With what anguish the sight that met his gaze overwhelmed him, they

only can understand, who have lived long enough to experience the cruel

mockery with which fate delights in suddenly hurling mortals from the

greatest happiness into the deepest misery.

CHAPTER VI.

After Christiane had seen the couple in the carriage and fled from the

wide avenue into the more densely wooded portions of the park, she had

wandered about for hours without aim or object, at times pausing

breathless to rest upon some bench.

The fog had become so impenetrable that the crescent of the moon hung a

pale line of light in the grey sky and total darkness brooded over the

intricate paths of the Thiergarten. It was no night for a solitary

pedestrian, but she met no one, and she felt no fear. What indeed could

happen to her? To be sure she might be attacked, robbed, or even killed

by some drunken vagabond. But she was quite willing to run the risk of

this, and the thought of other dangers to which a woman might be

exposed in such a nocturnal ramble did not alarm her. When Adele had

once asked how she dared to go out so boldly at all hours of the

evening, she replied: "I always go about with my face unveiled, I need

no better protection." To-night in particular, with all the tortures of

a hopeless love in her heart, she had become more firmly convinced than

ever that she was a discarded step-child of Mother Nature condemned to

perpetuate self-sacrifice; she felt a sort of bitter pleasure in the

thought that she had nothing in common with the rest of mankind, either

in love or hatred, but was as it were a peculiar being, allied to

unknown creatures of darkness, who were as ugly as she, and therefore

wise enough to avoid the daylight. In this wild mood which gradually

obtained more and more the mastery over her, she would scarcely have

been alarmed, if at some crossing in the paths she had chanced upon a

crowd of spectres and been bidden to make one of their company.

Anything would be better than to return to mankind, the best and

noblest of whom had always made her the most miserable without even

suspecting the fact. She shed no tears; all personal feelings--love for

Edwin, jealousy of the beautiful girl--receded farther and farther into

the background of her thoughts; only her own destiny, the world in

which her fervid heart was languishing, the tortures of a lost youth,

the dread of a lonely and loveless old age,--these rose in ghostly,

exaggerated outlines before her soul, and from time to time extorted

from her a cry, that in the deep silence startled even herself.

When she came to the fish ponds, above which floated still denser fogs,

she involuntarily paused. For a long time she stood and gazed at the

dense whiteness which never shifted and which seemed to be waiting for

some wearied, hunted human life to find rest in its depths. But her

seething blood, inflamed by the unusual indulgence in wine, recoiled

from the thought of such an end. Mechanically and without thinking of

what she was doing, she picked up a stone from the roadside and threw

it into the mist-veiled water. The sullen plash of its fall recalled

her to herself. She drew a long breath, trembled, wrapped her cloak

closer around her, and then walked away more slowly than before, but

taking a direct lane toward the city, which she reached in half an

hour.

In the wild chaos of thoughts that filled her mind as she went, there

was one fixed resolution, to which she constantly returned: to-morrow

she would leave the house where she lodged, engage other rooms, and

then consider whether it would not be better to turn her back upon the

city altogether and seek some corner of the world where life would be

quite destitute of charm, nature most barren, and men utterly wretched.

Invalids often go to springs merely to find companions in suffering and

thus make their condition more endurable. Why should not the miserable

avoid the neighborhood of the happy, in order to bear their burdens

more easily among those who are wretched likewise?

As she entered the little courtyard of the house in the

Dorotheenstrasse, she noticed that there was a light in her room; but

thought the maid servant, who waited upon her and had a second key, was

probably doing something there and unsuspiciously ascended the stairs.

She had been unable to make up her mind to look at Edwin's windows.

On reaching her door, however, she did not find the key in the lock.

"Perhaps the girl has only lighted the lamp and gone out again," she

thought, as she hastily opened it. The little ante-room was dark and

nothing was moving there, so she hastily opened the door of her sitting

and sleeping room, but paused on the threshold in astonishment when she

saw Lorinser sitting in a corner of the sofa, holding on his knees a

book, from which he did not even raise his eyes at her entrance.

The little lamp with the green shade was burning on the table beside

him and illumined the strongly marked countenance with its high, smooth

forehead and firm mouth. No expression betrayed any special agitation

of mind, and when he at last raised his eyes and fixed them on the dark

figure of the woman who stood on the threshold in silence, gazing at

him as if she could not believe her own eyes, no stranger would have

suspected that he was a guest playing master of the house in the

presence of the real occupant, so perfectly unembarrassed was the smile

with which he greeted the newcomer.

"Good evening," said he, "you are late. Excuse me for having made

myself comfortable here during your absence; I provided for plenty of

light and warmth, and have whiled away the long hours--But my God!" he

exclaimed, suddenly interrupting himself, "how you look, Christiane!

You're deadly pale and trembling from head to foot--take off your damp

cloak--come--here's a warm place in the sofa corner--will you tell me

where your tea pot is? You must get warm again--"

"Leave me!" she hoarsely exclaimed, repelling the hands that tried to

clasp her cold fingers. "I need no one--I'm perfectly well--it's only

surprise, indignation, at finding you here after I've plainly told you

that I did not desire your visits, that I would never receive you

again."

"That's the very reason I've come," he replied in the calmest tone,

while his eyes wandered toward the ceiling. "You've expelled me as we

only expel one whom we deeply hate or--love a little, and therefore

fear. Do you suppose a man will endure this, without at least making an

endeavor to discover in which of the two situations he stands? I at

least, even if you were not what you are to me, am not the man to obey

blindly. I've had no rest, Christiane, that's why you see me here with

but one question on my lips; when I have the answer, I'll go. But we

must understand each other."

She had sunk into a chair, which stood beside the window. The damp

cloak still hung over her shoulders, but she had hastily removed her

hat as if the strings choked her. As she now sat gazing into vacancy,

he supposed that she was reflecting upon his words. But it was only

because she heard Edwin's step overhead, and all her former emotions

again awoke. She forgot that Lorinser had asked her a question, nay

even that he was in the room.

"You delay your answer, Christiane," he began again. "I don't wonder at

it and greatly as I desire to have a clear understanding between us, I

have no wish to hasten this explanation. Perhaps the most favorable

thing for which I can hope, is to have your soul hover in a sort of

twilight, so strangely compounded of sullen hate and dawning affection,

that neither can gain the victory. Such a condition may be singular and

mysterious to your strong nature, which is usually so quick to decide;

you think you can shake it off by ridding yourself of the man who

causes the mood. You're mistaken, Christiane. You may deceive yourself:

I know that I'm already too near to you to be crowded out of your life

so easily. You must go on until you arrive at either hate or love. No

one capable of a real emotion, has ever yet had a half feeling toward

me." He had approached nearer and was standing beside her with folded

arms, gazing at her face which in profile was distinctly relieved

against the dark curtain. His vicinity, his low, quiet words, the

firmness with which he asserted his position, angered her more and

more. With a quick indignant gesture, she threw her cloak over the back

of the chair and rose.

"I must earnestly beg you to leave me," said she. "Only on condition

that you respect my wishes now, will I consent to take no farther

notice of the manner in which you've intruded here. If you were as well

acquainted with human nature as you profess to be, you would give up

the crazy idea that I could ever give you any power over me either for

good or evil. Our characters are entirely unlike."

"You talk like a child," he answered quietly, "or you don't know what

you're saying. If the difference between us were not as wide as heaven

and hell, we never could be anything to each other. Only opposite poles

attract each other, simply because they seem to repel. Can there be a

victory without a conflict? What you are to me, Christiane, I know only

too well. What I am or shall be to you--you will soon learn, though you

may now thrust the knowledge ever so far away. Or do you know another

man," he continued gazing steadily into her face, "who in the hour when

you are forsaken by all, when you feel more wretched than you have ever

felt before, would come to you and offer you his hand to save you, who

could again make desirable the life you would fain throw away as a

worthless possession?" A lightning like glance from her gloomy eyes

fell upon him. Contrary to his usual custom, he endured it and could

not conceal his exultation; his bold shaft had struck the sore spot in

her heart.

"Who has told you that I am miserable?" she passionately exclaimed.

"And if it be true how do you know that I would not a thousand times

rather remain unhappy than be rescued by you and your God? If you're

right in supposing that all mankind has abandoned me, do you wish to

rob me of what is yet left to me, my own individuality, my freedom, my

solitude, in which I need answer to no one for my suffering? You've

asked me the nature of the feeling that holds me aloof from you. It is

this: I've a _horror_ of you! In the first hour of our acquaintance I

detected in you the demon to whom nothing is sacred, not even the grief

of a poor unhappy woman; who merely to gratify his selfishness, would

fain obtain the mastery over everything, and therefore does not even

think what others despise or overlook--a creature so destitute of all

joys as I--too insignificant to be made useful. But you're mistaken,

and neither your heaven nor your hell will help you; this is the last

time you'll ever see me, as truly--"

"Silence!" he imperiously exclaimed. "Do not forswear your own

salvation, do not conjure up the fiends who are lying in wait for

souls. And moreover no such vows are needed. Believe me, Christiane, I

too have pride, and strength to suffer for its sake, and if I speak in

vain to-day, it will be my turn to avoid you. But you must listen now.

You're too just to condemn me unheard." He drew a long breath, as if he

were obliged to gather fresh courage for what he wanted to say. Then

suddenly in his softest voice, into which when he chose he could throw

an almost magical influence, he continued: "Sit down quietly; I will

try to be brief. But you are greatly exhausted. You have just suffered

bitterly again; do not deny it, Christiane, my longing jealous heart,

makes my eyes keen; I could not tell you what or whom it was that

caused you pain, but your soul is still trembling from the effects of

this blow. Is not it so?" He relapsed into silence and watched her

intently. She was gazing into vacancy but her lips quivered. "You're a

fiend," she murmured. "But go on--go on--! let us get to the end."

"To the end?" said he. "Oh! Christiane, if you were only more gentle,

if your grief had not made you insensible to the pain of others, you

would spare me further words. Have I not already told you, that from

the first moment I saw you I recognized the inevitable destiny that

bound me to you, and have vainly striven with all the powers of the

soul and mind to escape the thraldom? I have concealed from myself

nothing that could help to stifle such a flame--your obstinacy, your

atheism, your indifference to all that usually charms and misleads your

sex. I have told myself that I had no happiness to expect from this

love, no future, no help for my own needs; the thirst for rule which

you falsely impute to me--or no, let me confess it, which perhaps

usually sways me--was never so ignominiously baffled as by you.

Everything that can offend the vanity, the pride, even the honor of a

man, or repel his affection, I have experienced at your hands. And now,

Christiane, I ask you on your conscience: do you doubt the power of

nature, or as I call it, the mystical force, which alone is capable, in

spite of everything, of bringing me back to your feet? I was fully

prepared to be misunderstood, reproached, abused. But that is the very

miracle of love: it prefers to be trampled under foot by the beloved

object, rather than caressed by an indifferent hand. Now have you still

the heart to call me a fiend, only anxious to get your soul into his

power? Your soul? oh God! I have given up the hope of winning it, spite

of the pain it has cost me, I despair of initiating you into the depths

of my life with God, making you a sharer in the bliss of my fears and

longings. But believe me, Christiane, there is an earthly compensation

for the highest divine ecstacies, of which all minds are not capable, a

compensation which matures the soul and at the same time prepares it

for higher degrees of knowledge: the blending of spiritual and sensual

passion, that thrills me with ardent yearning if I only touch your

hand, meet your eyes, feel your breath on my face. No one, no matter

how much he may have suffered, issues from this bath of the soul

unrejuvenated and unrefreshed, and indeed, my friend, for your own sake

I wish you had the courage to rush with closed eyes into the flames

from which the poor mortal creature, purged from all the dross of

earthly sorrow, emerges purified as a new, divinely consoled being.

"This is the mystery," he continued as she was still silent: "no one

comes to the Father save by the Son, no one can understand heavenly

love who closes the heart to earthly affection. You have not found your

God, my friend, because you would not yield to the power of your

god-_man_, your Saviour, who would have delivered you from yourself. Do

you know for what sin Lucifer was expelled from the presence of the

eternal one? He wished to remain in presumptuous innocence, disdained

to submit to the power of love. Now he is freezing amid his flames, as

you, Christiane, shiver with cold while your whole nature is on fire.

Oh! my friend, you are silent. Would that I had an angel's tongue to

win from your soul some echo, thaw your frozen heart. You say you have

a horror of me. Oh! it is not of me, the poor weak man, whom a single

glance of yours can curb; you dread your own fall, which must precede

your deliverance, the loss by which you are to gain, the death through

which you must live. 'So a heart trembles at the approach of love, as

if it were menaced by death.' But you have a strong soul, Christiane,

you will shake off this cowardice and risk all to gain all, death for

life, sin for mercy, hate for love--

"I knew it," he whispered, and his voice grew almost mournful, without

losing its passionate impetuosity, "when I first saw you and my heart

instantly whispered your destiny: I knew this hour would come,

resolutely as you might struggle, painful as were the thorns pride

thrust into my soul. I have seen you from the beginning as I behold you

now, and could not help secretly laughing at your foolish anguish,

because you did not believe yourself formed to awaken love. You, whose

looks and words and gestures have haunted me day and night, inflamed my

blood as no woman ever had power to do! You, who hate me, _believe_ you

hate me--for this horror is only the mother of longing--have poisoned

my dreams with cruel tortures and made my waking hours miserable. If

you knew all that from childish pride I have concealed from you--fool

that I am, only to writhe the more helplessly at your feet waiting for

mercy or sentence! And the omnipotent one knows that but one thought,

one voice in my heart gave me courage to endure all this: the thought

that the hour would come when you would suddenly melt, and swept away

by the same storm, say to me: 'You have suffered enough, take me. Let

us perish to live again in each other!'" He had bent nearer and nearer

to her, his lips almost touched her hair, his gaze rested on her brow,

which was damp as if from mortal agony, and she had closed her eyes as

if fainting. As she still remained motionless, a sudden terror seized

upon him. "Christiane!" he cried, clasping her impetuously in his arms

and seeking her lips with his. But at this moment he was violently

thrust back. She had sprung from her chair and retreated a step. In the

dim light of the lamp he saw her eyes wide open and fixed with an

indescribable expression upon vacancy.

"You're a fiend!" she exclaimed. "Leave me instantly! if you have the

Satanic courage to utter another word, I will throw the window open and

rouse the quiet night with shrieks of murder. Do you hear what I say?

If your own honor is not as indifferent to you as mine, go--go--GO!"

She uttered the last word in so loud a tone, and waved her hand so

imperiously toward the door, that he remained silent. Yet he did not

seem to be deeply agitated; nay even a smile hovered around his lips as

he took his hat and overcoat from the sofa, bowed carelessly, and with

a "good night" left the room. She heard him open the door that led into

the entry and slam it violently after him, but could not distinguish

his steps on the stairs. She was aware of his noiseless tread, however,

and so at last believed herself alone. But the solitude only enabled

her to collect her thoughts, and they made her still more wretched. She

sank back into her chair, and the grief and anguish so painfully

repressed found vent in passionate tears.

What had she been forced to hear! Although indignant at the art with

which the gloomy fanatic blended the highest with the basest things,

the divinest impulses with the maddest desires, striving with subtle

boldness to lull to sleep the pure voice of the soul: was it not

passion, she asked herself, that blazed within him, the language of

unbridled love, which risks all to attain its object, and summons hell

as well as heaven to its aid? Then she was not too repulsive to kindle

such a fire, there was one man who would dare all for her, whom neither

her hatred nor abhorrence could restrain from persecuting her with his

ardent longings! From the chill in which she had shivered during her

long walk through the misty night, into what a fiery gulf was she now

hurled! or no, not yet into the blazing abyss, but the flames that rose

from it were near enough to make her gasp for breath. She could not sit

still in her chair, the air was so oppressively sultry; she opened the

window, but instantly closed it again, as the fog, cold and damp as the

atmosphere of a tomb, floated into the room making her shiver. Long

before this the little fire in the stove had gone out, now the lamp

failed also. She was in darkness, but she did not heed it. Pacing to

and fro, absorbed in a chaos of thoughts, she mechanically loosened one

article of clothing after another, letting each lie, where it fell.

While thus groping about, she found herself beside her bed and sank

down upon it. "To sleep!" she said aloud, and started at the sound of

her own voice, then hastily cowered under the quilt as if for

concealment. But she could not close her eyes; they burned too

painfully after the long walk through the foggy night. She could not

banish from her thoughts the eyes of the dangerous man she had just

driven away; nothing availed her; they flashed upon her everywhere,

even from the darkness and through her closed lids. In her terror she

tried to banish the spectre by a spell which had never yet failed her,

by conjuring up Edwin's form before her mind. Now even this was

useless: with all her efforts, she could not recall the features that

were usually so distinct; but Toinette's lovely face suddenly came

uppermost in her mind, so bright and smiling that she felt a sharp

pang, and drew the coverlid over her eyes to shut out the memory. The

next instant she again threw it back, raised her head from the pillow

and sat up, as if suffocating. A weary moan escaped her lips, she threw

her bare arm over her face and buried her teeth in her own flesh until

the keen agony recalled her to consciousness.

"He was right," she said to herself, "there is but one magic, the magic

of sin. A God now, to whom one could pray: Deliver us from evil--but a

God, who must first be implored--!"

She sat erect bewildered with anguish, her heart throbbing stormily;

then gradually she sank back, into a recumbent posture, and at last

fell into a half slumber. The night seemed yet more silent, the world

seemed dead, and only she with her unappeased longing for happiness,

could not perish. Suddenly she fancied that she heard a strange

crackling sound, as if a bat were fluttering over the floor. A shudder

ran through her frame; she could not move, her limbs seemed paralyzed

by approaching death.

"Who is there?" she cried. No answer.

"Is there any one in the room?" All was still as death.

"I am delirious," she said to herself. "Oh! this long night! If morning

would only come. Oh! for sleep--for one hour's sleep!"

She buried her head in the pillows and at last really fell asleep. In

her dreams she met Edwin, and his manner toward her was different from

what it had ever been. He smiled at her with his happiest look, and

then grew grave again exactly as he had done when she had watched his

reflection in the mirror, while he sat opposite to the beautiful girl.

But now all his whispers and fond glances were directed toward her. Her

heart would not believe it, it must be a dream, a voice ever repeated

in her ear; but he talked so persistently and entreatingly, with looks

and tones of such ardent passion, only, strange to say, in the exact

words she had just heard from Lorinser, that intoxicated with delight,

she could no longer strive against the miracle. Beloved by him! A

thrill of joy made her tremble. She saw him bend over her, felt his

breath on her face, her burning lips half parted in the empty gloom and

murmured wild words----

A piercing shriek suddenly rang through the silent house, a shriek

which in its terrible shrillness sounded so little like the accents of

a human voice, that the sleepers whose ears it reached only started a

moment, and then as all remained still, quietly relapsed into slumber

again, believing it to be some dream or illusion of the senses. Up in

the "tun" Balder moved in his restless sleep, and asked if he had

screamed so himself. Mohr had sprung from his chair and was trembling

from head to foot. He thought he had distinctly heard the terrible cry

proceed from the room beneath. "Let me go down," he whispered to Edwin.

"It sounded as if some one were shrieking for help against an

assassin." Edwin stopped him. "Where do you want to go?" he whispered.

"If it were she, perhaps she has thus relieved her heart of some heavy

burden." They listened intently, but all below remained as still as

death. Mohr gradually grew calm and continued to renew for Balder the

applications of ice.

But the old maid-servant, who had come up the steep stairs with her

little lamp for the last time, to ask if anything was wanted, was just

passing Christiane's door when the terrible cry of mortal agony and

wild despair fell on her ear. The kind hearted woman also thought that

some sudden pain had attacked the young lady, but did not hesitate an

instant to open the door with the pass key she always carried, and

hastily enter the room.

When the light of her little lamp streamed far before her into the dark

ante-chamber, the old woman remained standing on the threshold as if

petrified, unable to take a single step forward or backward. She saw

Fraeulein Christiane standing motionless with bare feet, beside the wall

at the head of the bed, the coverlid closely wrapped around her, her

unbound hair streaming over her shoulders, her right arm with the

fingers of the hand extended, stretched out before her, her eyes,

dilated so that the whites glittered in the light, fixed in a rigid

stare on the dark figure of a man, who also stood motionless in the

middle of the room. Not a syllable was uttered. A stifled cry, like a

rattling in the throat, came from Christiane, and from the spot where

the man stood a sound very like the grinding of teeth. The man then

turned, noiselessly and with apparent calmness, and seemed to be

looking for something on the floor; then waving one hand toward the

wall, and concealing his face with the other, he kept his back toward

the little lamp, and glided bare headed past the old woman out into the

dark entry.

At the same moment the white figure beside the bed sank down, and as

the old servant rushed forward, the light fell upon a face deadly pale

and distorted by the wildest convulsions of human agony.

CHAPTER VII.

Day had scarcely dawned, when the door of the tun was softly opened and

Heinrich Mohr's herculean figure appeared on the threshold; he took

leave of Edwin with a silent pressure of the hand. When, late in the

evening, he had come to the house to see whether Christiane had

returned in safety, he was soothed by the light in her window, and went

up stairs to pay Balder a visit and calm his excited nerves by a game

of chess. When he heard what had occurred and saw the poor young

fellow's condition, he could not be dissuaded from watching with him

through the night. Franzelius had rushed off for the doctor as soon as

Edwin returned. He found Marquard's doors locked, his master would

probably not come home that night, the servant said with a significant

smile. Another doctor, the best that could be procured, was then

summoned and prescribed the necessary remedies. After this the night

passed quietly without incident. The friends, both equally moved by

this vicissitude of fate, scarcely exchanged a word during the long

hours, but sat side by side on the bench by the turning lathe, each

with a book which neither read, listening to the irregular breathing of

the invalid. Toward morning, the slumber produced by opium seemed to

pass into a healthy, natural sleep, and Edwin now insisted that Mohr

should go home and make up part of the rest he had lost, begging him

first to leave at Toinette's lodgings a note, which contained the

following lines:

"_Do not expect me to-day. Whilst I was eagerly imbibing full draughts

from the cup of life, death knocked at our door. We still hope to

defend our citadel against him, but until we are entirely sure of doing

so, I shall not leave my post at Balder's side. Whether or not I can

forget you in any fate that may befall me, you well know. I shall send

you messages from time to time. If you want any books, please inform

me._

"_The envy of the_ '_so-called gods_' _has this time produced a master

piece._

"Edwin."

When Mohr passed Christiane's door, he was on the point of ringing her

bell, but it occurred to him that it was not yet six o'clock. But he

came back again during the forenoon. He had scarcely been able to sleep

an hour; a strange anxiety urged him to return to the house in

Dorotheenstrasse, which contained all that was dear to him. As he

vainly pulled Christiane's bell for the third time, the maid-servant

came up the stair's bringing Edwin's dinner; (Reginchen would not

appear.) The woman was evidently confused when Mohr hastily asked where

the young lady had gone and when she would return. Fraeulein Christiane

had gone out early in the morning, she answered sulkily, she couldn't

say where. She didn't trouble herself about the lodgers.

He was not particularly surprised; only it was disagreeable to be thus

compelled to wait before he could see her again. But as he intended to

stay in the tun for the day and night, he hoped at any rate to hear

when she returned.

On going up stairs he found Marquard, who tried to put the best

possible face on matters.

"There's no immediate danger," he said in a low tone, while Balder was

sleeping, "if he will only keep quiet and not play any more tricks.

What the devil induced him, instead of taking a little ride in the

sunshine, to venture alone into the city and wander about the foggy

streets till he was warm and tired."

That he had done this, Balder had written with a trembling hand on a

scrap of paper, for which he asked Edwin as soon as he awoke, as if by

his written testimony to remove all suspicion of any other cause.

Franzelius, who came up a moment to inquire about his health, and

scarcely dared to look the invalid in the face, had kept silence. And

indeed he knew nothing definite; he left after insisting that he must

be permitted to watch the following night. There was no longer any

mention of his fixed idea that he was pursued.

Here was a fresh instance of the power a pure and noble soul can exert

over coarser natures. There was not a loud word heard in the house;

everybody moved about on tiptoe; a Sabbath-like stillness pervaded the

workshop beneath, only interrupted by the smothered grumbling of the

head journeyman, if the apprentice who was sent up stairs in his

stocking feet every two hours to inquire about Balder, remained too

long. Even the old gentleman in the second story had been to the tun in

person to express his sympathy for Edwin, and Madame Feyertag, the only

person who succeeded in seeing the patient, came down with tearful eyes

and declared that he looked like a young Saviour, and it was heart

rending to see such a picture of a man suffer so terribly.

Reginchen, as has already been mentioned, did not appear. The

maid-servant said she was ill. Such a thing was hard to imagine, but no

one had much thought for anything except whether Balder would ever rise

from his bed again.

We must, however, except Heinrich Mohr, who in the deathlike stillness

of the house listened for nothing more anxiously than the sound of

Christiane's door. But there was no movement or sound beneath, though

hour after hour elapsed and she had never before remained absent

without informing the pupils who came to take lessons at the house, and

who were dismissed to-day by the old servant, with a shrug of the

shoulders. The uncertainty became harder and harder to bear. He had

never passed hours so full of torture as these in the quiet sick room,

beside the friend to whom he could not even speak of his fears, for

Edwin's sole anxiety was for his brother.

Evening had already come, when Mohr with a beating heart suddenly heard

a carriage drive up the street and directly after rapid steps cross the

courtyard. Now the first flight of stairs creaked, a woman's light

footsteps could be heard upon them; they paused at the first landing

but Christiane's room was not the goal, for with light cautious steps

the late visitor mounted higher, reached the door of the tun, and

tapped lightly on it.

Edwin who was sitting beside the lamp, dozing a little after his

sleepless night, instantly started up. "Come in!" he called softly,

forgetting that no one was allowed to enter the sick room. The door

opened, and Toinette's slender figure, wrapped in a silk cloak, glided

noiselessly in. Her first glance lighted upon the bed where Balder was

quietly sleeping, then she laid her finger on her lips and nodded to

the two friends, who had started from their chairs and were gazing at

her in astonishment.

"Toinette--you here!--you've come yourself!" exclaimed Edwin.

"Hush!" she answered. "He's asleep, I'm going away again directly. But

I couldn't rest, I was determined to see how bad matters were. You

wrote me such a short note, that I haven't got over my fright yet. Tell

me, is he out of danger?"

"We hope so. But won't you sit down?"

"No, no," she answered, now for the first time glancing around the

dimly lighted room, with an involuntary sigh which betrayed to Edwin

how poor and uninviting the famous "tun" appeared to her. "I shall

disturb you!" she added in a whisper. "Only let me look at him once

more. Thank you," she added to Mohr, who had moved the lamp nearer the

sleeper. For a few moments all three were silent.

"He's very handsome!" she said softly. "What a gentle face! So that is

your brother! Do you know I should have known it instantly, though you

don't look at all alike. What pretty slender hands, one would never

think they had learned a trade; but he's moving, as if in pain; take

the lamp away, we mustn't wake him."

"Won't you not at least sit down a moment?" pleaded Edwin, who could

hardly restrain his feelings. "I can't offer you a sofa though. Neither

philosophy nor the turning lathe has progressed so far as that."

"No, I can't stay. I kept the droschky waiting at the door because I

only wanted to inquire in person. What a terrible attack! But at least

he does not suffer. What does the doctor say?"

At this moment the invalid moved his head, raised it a little from the

pillow, and slowly opened his eyes. His gaze was fixed upon Toinette,

whom he seemed to notice with quiet curiosity, but without surprise.

Whether he took her for some dream-vision, or whether he was really

awake, they could not tell. "How sweet those violets smell!" he

murmured. "Is it Spring already?" A faint smile lighted up his face and

then died away. Slowly, as if closed by some stranger's hand, his

eyelids drooped, and with a heavy sigh he sank back upon the pillows.

"He thinks he has seen a vision, and will dream on about it," whispered

Edwin. "I wonder if he will remember you to-morrow."

"Don't tell him I was here," Toinette replied quickly, drawing her hood

over her head. "Goodnight. I'm glad I've seen him, I really could not

have slept without it." Mohr silently bowed. Meantime Edwin had lighted

a small lamp and was prepared to accompany her down stairs.

"I'm making you a great deal of trouble," she said as she slowly

descended the rickety steps, "but one might easily break one's neck

here. And then, I've something to tell you, a request to make, but you

mustn't be angry with me."

"What can I do for you?"

"It's not for me, it's for your brother. Things must not go on so, he

ought to have a change, he can't spend the winter in that oppressive

atmosphere. I'm angry with myself for having managed so badly, lived so

recklessly. A fortnight ago I should have been twice as rich. But

you'll certainly treat me like an old friend and take what I have, that

he may go to some warmer climate, if not to Cairo or Madeira." He stood

still on the stairs. The hand which held the light trembled.

"And you, Toinette? What is to become of you?"

"That's a matter of no consequence. Surely you know that 'My Highness'

must end sooner or later, and I shall not have been utterly useless at

last."

"Toinette! What are you saying! You're jesting, and I--in all

seriousness, do you suppose I would accept your offer?"

"You would be very unwise if you did not. Do you call yourself a

philosopher and still cling to such foolish prejudices? What can one

human being give another that deserves less thanks than miserable

money? I thought you despised it as much as I. But I see you're no

wiser than other men, who don't hesitate a moment to take everything

from a girl, love and life and honor, but who when the point in

question concerns a few paltry pieces of money, become stiff-necked

from an incomprehensible pride. Go! I see you don't love your brother

even as well as I do."

In her indignation she ran down the stairs and crossed the courtyard so

rapidly, that in following her his candle was blown out.

As he helped her into the carriage, he whispered: "We'll discuss this

matter another time. But whatever I do or leave undone, I thank you,

Toinette, thank you from the bottom of my heart, for having been so

sisterly, so kind, so--"

"Hush," she said. "Go back to your ugly tun again. I'm not at all

satisfied with you, and am not to be conciliated by fine words so

easily. Reflect until to-morrow. I shall see you again toward evening."

"No, dearest," he answered hastily, "you must not do that. Beautiful

and worthy of you as it was to cast aside all scruples to-day, you must

not again expose yourself to gossip without cause. Did you see good

Madame Feyertag's face as we passed the shop door? I can't bear to have

people form such an opinion of you, and besides--suppose he should see

you when in the full possession of his senses and fall in love with

you? One fever is enough isn't it?"

"You're a fool," she answered laughing, but instantly becoming grave

again; "but if you'll write every day and give a full, very full

account of him, I'll stay at home. But reflect upon what I said to you.

Good night."

The droschky drove away, and Edwin looked after it till the dim lamps

vanished around the corner. For the first time in all these weeks it

did not seem to him impossible, but rather it seemed a blissful

certainty, that the ice between them would be broken and a spring time

arrive, which would make amends for all his tortures. At this moment

everything, even Balder's fate, receded into the background. Bare

headed and without a cloak, he stood for a long time in the gloomy

street, as if intoxicated by contending emotions, and did not feel the

first flakes of a November snow storm fluttering down upon him.

CHAPTER VIII.

Christiane did not return home at all that night.

Mohr, who had insisted that Franzelius must exchange with him and give

him the night watch, again sat at the window through all the long dark

hours uttering not a word, his eyes fixed steadily upon the door into

the courtyard. When Edwin, toward morning, started from a short

slumber, he found him still in the same position; his eyes were red and

fixed, his face grey and haggard. He gave contradictory, half comical,

half sulky answers, and altogether behaved so strangely, that Edwin,

who had no suspicion of his state of mind, declared he was sick and

insisted that he must go directly home and to bed.

He obeyed as mechanically as an automaton. In the courtyard below, the

maid-servant met him, and he learned from her that Madame Feyertag had

received a note from Fraeulein Christiane early that morning: the young

lady had been obliged to set out on a journey very suddenly, and it was

uncertain when she would return.

Mohr nodded and acted as if the news had no special interest for him.

Nevertheless he entered the shop, where Madame Feyertag was standing,

under the pretext of inquiring for Reginchen's health. She was getting

better, her mother said; it was only affectation, the whimsical child

seemed to think it a joke to fold her hands in her lap and let herself

be nursed. Then the conversation turned upon the music teacher, and her

note was shown. It was written in pencil, evidently in great agitation,

but afforded no farther clue.

Herr Feyertag also came in. He was very much depressed and his

Schopenhauer wisdom seemed to have left him entirely in the lurch, for

his whole heart was bound up in Reginchen, and this was the first time

the child had caused him the slightest anxiety. He did not speak very

kindly of Christiane, for whom he had always expressed the highest

esteem. He would never let an interesting woman lodge in his house

again. That had hitherto been his maxim, for women must above all

things be women, and the strong minded ones, who lived alone, played on

the piano, and were taken up with the sorrows of the world, did not

exactly belong to the "weaker sex"--with or without moustaches--His

good wife cast a significant glance at him, and shrugging her shoulders

said "We know why you prefer weak women, Feyertag. Instead of talking

such stupid nonsense, you ought to go to the police and ask if they

know anything."

The faithful friend left the house with a still heavier heart. He told

himself many times, that all this was perfectly intelligible, that

nothing was more natural than this sudden departure, that the movements

of musicians were perfectly unaccountable, and November weather no

hindrance if the point in question were a duty toward friends and

relatives. Might not a sick friend have summoned her, or her assistance

been requested at some concert in the country? Nothing was more

probable. And yet, when he thought of her passionate outburst in the

Pagoda, her sudden disappearance--why, if all were well, should he have

this heavy heart, why should he be visited with this mysterious

anxiety, which oppressed his breath, and aroused a hundred sorrowful

ideas?

He got through the day as well as he could, found an opportunity to

question Adele, who also had not seen her friend since the excursion,

and, as it grew dark, betook himself once more to the tun, where he

felt most at ease. If she returned, he would at least be near her and

would know it; this was his secret thought.

The day seemed to have passed tolerably well. Marquard was satisfied,

Edwin said. How Balder felt when not asleep, was difficult to

determine. He had not said anything except that he was very

comfortable, but they knew him well, he had always concealed his

sufferings. Fortunately he slept most of the time, and without

narcotics. Entire exhaustion of all the vital powers seemed to have

followed the attack.

He was still sleeping, when in the evening a very timid knock summoned

Edwin to the door. In the passage outside, where a small lamp lighted

the stairs, stood a figure wrapped in a narrow, old-fashioned cloak,

with a high collar, in whom Edwin did not recognize the zaunkoenig until

the embarrassed little gentleman mentioned his name.

He had only heard of Balder's serious illness that noon, when one of

the apprentices brought him a pair of shoes, but had had no rest since,

and his daughter and Frau Valentin who was with them, had both urged

him to inquire immediately in person. He was also to ask whether the

ladies could be of any assistance in nursing or sending delicacies;

Frau Valentin placed at their disposal her whole store of jellies and

her cook, who had had a great deal of experience in preparing food for

the sick. He said all this in such an earnest, beseeching tone, that

Edwin pressed his hand with deep emotion. He would certainly remember

this kind offer when Balder was convalescent. Would he like to see him

a moment?

The little man entered the room on tip toe, bowed courteously to Mohr

whom he did not know and then stood motionless beside Balder's bed.

Suddenly he turned away, drew out his handkerchief and made every

effort to stifle in its folds the agitation that found vent in

passionate tears. When this was no longer possible, he hastily waved a

farewell to Edwin and hurried to the door.

"He's forgotten his hat," said Mohr. "I'll follow the good old fellow

and see that he gets down stairs safely, I was going away at any rate,

Edwin. Our tribune of the people will probably soon be here." On the

landing before Christiane's door he overtook the little artist, who had

paused to collect his thoughts and dry his wet face.

"I've brought you your hat, Herr Koenig," said he.

The artist nodded his thanks, put his hat on mechanically, and then

slowly descended the staircase. He seemed so absorbed in thought that,

contrary to his usual courteous custom, he took no notice of his

companion.

But on reaching the street before the house, where Mohr was about to

take leave of him, the artist suddenly seized his arm, and said: "If

you have time, my dear sir, I beg you to walk a few steps with me. I've

something to tell you. You're an intimate friend of both brothers. The

Herr Doctor often mentioned your name. Perhaps, too, you know how it

happened that I--that I found myself compelled to stop the lessons he

gave my daughter. My creator knows it was no easy matter for me--or my

daughter either, as you may well believe. It was like punishing her

when she felt perfectly innocent. But that's not the point; to one who

loves his child--but it ought not to be a chastisement for does not our

heavenly father deny us many dear and precious things, we know not why?

Of course I don't mean to compare our human wisdom with the infinite

wisdom of God; I only say all this because perhaps you have thought me

hard hearted. Indeed I'm not; I've probably suffered even more than my

dear child; but I did not dream that she'd take it so much to heart. I

tell you she has altered beyond recognition, become a totally different

creature, not like a girl of eighteen or nineteen, but a wearied soul

for which all the happiness of this world is past. My heart bleeds when

I see her wandering about, uncomplaining, often even wearing a smile,

but so pale! And that's why I couldn't restrain my tears when I saw

your friend's brother lying on his couch of pain, I don't know how it

happened, but I couldn't help thinking suppose my child, my Leah,

should lie before me so, and I--an old man--no, no, my God--thy mercy

will spare me that, this cup--" Overpowered by his feelings, he stood

motionless with his face buried in his hands. To rouse him from his

grief, Mohr at last said:

"You wanted to tell me something?"

"Yes indeed," replied the little artist, recovering his self-command.

"You see, I'm aware your friends have no superabundance of money, and a

sickness--you understand what I mean. I'm still in the Herr Doctor's

debt. If you could induce him, at least now--"

"I doubt whether my friend would hear of such a thing, my dear sir. But

you need feel no anxiety. We're a sort of communistic society, and

where Balder's interests are concerned Edwin is not too proud to

receive help from his friends."

"That's just it," sighed the little artist. "If he only knew what good

friends he has outside of your circle. Frau Valentin--an excellent

woman, believe me, has in spite of everything the highest esteem for

this admirable young man. But you see, as he so openly rebels against

being called a child of God, and doesn't even recognize a heavenly

father, can you blame an earthly father if he does not want his only

daughter's inheritance of the kingdom of heaven argued and

philosophized away? She's so young, ought she to surrender her mind and

soul to a man who knows nothing, and wishes to know nothing of God?

Isn't it better for her temporal welfare to suffer, rather than her

soul should sustain an injury?"

At any other time Mohr could scarcely have refrained from arguing with

the little artist and driving him into a corner. Now as he slowly

walked beside him through the rude November storm, he only listened

with half an ear. His thoughts were far away, yet at every muffled

female figure whose gait and bearing had the most distant resemblance

to Christiane's, he involuntary started.

"If the hard winter were only over," the artist prattled frankly on,

without taking the slightest umbrage at the silence of his gloomy

companion. "Well, with God's favor, we shall soon see another Spring

and then I shall no longer be anxious about my daughter. The doctor

thinks change of air, amusement, and journeying, would restore her more

quickly than any other remedy. A few months ago, this opinion would

have startled me. A poor artist, who has never been prosperous or had

particularly rich patrons--dear me, how could he obey such

prescriptions? But when the need is greatest, God's help is nearest;

that has been made manifest to me afresh. Just imagine, my dear sir,

what has happened. I had only one little picture at this year's

exhibition, which closed a fortnight ago--the times have been very

bad--I was obliged to devote myself exclusively to my remunerative

labor, wood engraving. Well, as I said before, I couldn't make up my

mind to be entirely unrepresented in the exhibition, although I should

hardly have been missed. So just before the doors closed I finished a

little picture, one of my zaun pieces, which perhaps you've seen here

and there. My speciality, my dear sir, in which I'm safe from

competition. But what happened? On the last day, when I had wholly

resigned all hope of selling my zaunkoenig this time, in spite of its

moderate price of forty thalers, and was walking resignedly through the

hall, thinking: 'no wonder you're left; almost all the others are

better,' I saw three gentlemen standing before my little daub, engaged

in eager conversation and pointing so frequently to the picture, that I

at first thought they were making fun of it; but no, they talked as

gravely and earnestly as if they were standing before some master piece

from which a whole theory on aesthetics might be demonstrated. I now

recognized one of the gentlemen, a well known connoisseur in art, Baron

L., and he also recognized me and whispered something in the ear of the

taller of his two companions, who had a very aristocratic air, after

which they continued to converse for some time in a low tone, the

aristocratic gentleman looking at me through his eye glasses, till I

was really embarrassed and tried to slink away. But the baron called to

me and begged me to return, he wanted to introduce me to His Highness,

Prince Bataroff, who wished to make my acquaintance. Well I couldn't

escape, I was obliged to answer a multitude of questions, especially

about art, how I painted, what my thoughts were while painting, and

even _why_ I painted, as if that were not as much a matter of course,

to an artist as eating and drinking. At last, after the prince had said

something in Russian to his companions, he asked me what I earned a

year by my pictures on an average. I quickly made a rough estimate and

named the sum, which of coarse is no princely revenue, and on which

alone I could not live. Upon this His Highness said: 'Would you pledge

yourself, Herr Koenig, on your word of honor, to give everything you

paint to me, and not touch a brush without my orders? In return I would

give you a regular yearly income, four times the amount of the sum you

have named. But you understand me: if you should break your promise--'

here the professor interposed and said that was not to be feared from

me, that I was known to be a man of principle and religion, but he

winked at me to accept the offer without a moment's hesitation. Tell me

yourself, my dear Herr Mohr, could I have justified my action to my

child if I had delayed? I joyfully agreed to the proposal, and am now

in a situation to take my daughter to Switzerland next May, perhaps

even on a little trip into Italy. Wasn't I right in saying that the

ways of Providence are wonderful?"

"Wonderful indeed," replied Mohr, "so wonderful that in your place I

should have been curious to discover the connection of affairs. As you

acknowledge that your paintings are a specialty, how do you account for

this Russian patron's fancy for getting a whole brood of zaunkoenigs?"

"I asked the baron that question directly afterwards; for between

ourselves, the prince didn't seem to me exactly in his right mind, and

I thought it wrong to profit by a monomania. I know very well that I'm

only a mediocre artist, many of my works I can't endure myself. But the

baron quieted my scruples. My salary was no more to the prince than the

bottle of wine which I certainly should not grudge myself on a holiday,

is to me. Besides, he had a very shrewd head and was interested in my

artistic individuality, as he called it. Well, a man's wishes are his

own private affair. I'm now a Russian court painter, and the first

quarter's salary has been paid in advance, but there's nothing said

about an order and the sketch of my lagune, which I have sent and would

like to finish, has not been returned to me: 'it will do very well,'

was the answer. His Highness is still reflecting what he will order

first."

"I congratulate you," said Mohr dryly. "If your opinion that you're

only a mediocre artist were correct, it would at least be an _aurea

mediocritas_, a golden mean, with which one might well be satisfied."

"My dear sir," replied Herr Koenig good naturedly, without showing the

slightest irritation, "all things must serve to benefit those who love

God. I submitted to my mediocrity, even when no Russian prince gilded

it for me. If all creatures were of the same size, all men, plants and

animals the tropical giants now to be found in some regions, what would

become of the bright, cheerful diversity in the world? Even to belong

to it, I consider so great a happiness that I think those artists very

unfortunate who wish themselves out of it because they have attained

only average success or even fallen below mediocrity."

Mohr cast a keen side glance at him. Were these words, which struck his

sensitive spot, intentionally aimed at him? Had Edwin told the little

gentleman anything about his symphony or comedy, and was this lecture

on contentment intended to put a damper on his fruitless zeal? But the

artist's bright innocent expression contradicted such a suspicion, and

made it impossible for the other to utter the sharp answer that was

already hovering on his tongue. Besides, while engaged in this

conversation they had reached the little house on the canal, and the

artist urged his companion so cordially to come in for a moment and

take a cup of tea, that Mohr in spite of his dejection, could not

refuse. Where else should he go? The wind was blowing from the river

with icy coldness, and all life on the banks seemed frozen. Nothing

awaited him in his lonely bachelor lodgings save a dark night full of

anxious dreams. So he allowed himself to be guided across the timber

yard, along the narrow path between the lofty piles of wood, toward the

door, from which streamed a faint ray of light.

CHAPTER IX.

Leah was seated at the table in her little sitting room; before her was

the tea urn, and a closed book but she seemed to have been occupied

with neither, but entirely absorbed in her own thoughts. As the two men

entered she started up, her first glance fell upon the stranger, and a

look akin to disappointment flittered over her face. Had her ears

deceived her and made her suppose that Edwin was accompanying her

father?

She did not speak, but with downcast eyes listened to the report of the

invalid's condition. Her father introduced his guest as a friend of her

former teacher; she bowed in visible embarrassment. By degrees,

however, as Mohr himself thawed out and began to talk about his

university life with Edwin, she too became more at ease and performed

the duties of hostess with the most winning grace. The guest was very

much pleased with her, he even wondered that Edwin had never spoken of

her personal appearance, which was really worth mentioning, though a

sickly pallor made her seem older than her years, and her movements

when she walked, were weary and languid. After she had poured out the

tea, she took some sewing and sat down in an armchair at a little

distance from the others, not far from the niche in which her mother's

bust stood. A warm light animated the still features of the marble

image, and Leah's transparently pale complexion, especially when her

beautifully sparkling eyes were fixed on her work, made the semblance

between the living woman and the dead marble so striking as to produce

an almost uncomfortable impression upon the visitor. He again relapsed

into his own gloomy cares and presentiments, and if the little artist

had not continued the conversation with the most persistent

cheerfulness, the mood that prevailed in the pleasant room would have

become more and more dismal.

But with each passing moment the zaunkoenig seemed to become more

comfortable in his nest. When Mohr, out of courtesy, asked to see some

of his work, he brought out of his studio with a diffidence with which,

however, was blended an air of quiet satisfaction, a large portfolio,

and began to spread the sketches before his guest. "These are old

designs," said he. "When my wife was alive, I was in the habit while

we sat together in the evening--the child yonder used to go to bed

early--of scrawling my fancies on a sheet of paper. They were not so

modest and tame as now, but took the boldest leaps and caricoles, as if

they belonged to a great artist who possessed the ability to execute

them. To be sure, even in those days, I knew that I was no Poussin or

Claude Lorraine; but when alone, after toiling honestly all day as a

mediocre artist, I would permit myself during the evening hours, to

dream of what I would paint if I were one of those great geniuses. Now

these fits come more rarely, and I'm slow to detain them. If I can't

wholly reform, I merely sweep a bit of charcoal over the sheet for a

time, and my sleeve effaces even the smallest trace."

Mohr turned over the drawings, which were on rather an exaggerated

scale, and the way in which he expressed his opinion of one and another

and detected the artistic idea in the often very imperfect lines,

seemed to delight the little gentleman greatly. When the cuckoo clock

struck eleven and the guest rose, with an apology for having already

remained too long, the master of the house most cordially invited him

to come again very soon, if their modest tea table had not seemed

tedious. The portfolio, he added smiling, certainly should not appear

again.

"My dear sir," replied Mohr, "I fear you would repent this

philanthropic offer, if I availed myself of it. I have a vein of that

'shelterless, restless barbarian,' and I like you too well not to spare

you a closer acquaintance with me. But no one can answer for himself.

If my own society becomes unbearable even to myself, I shall come and

beg to be allowed to sit quietly in this sofa corner for an hour. Your

tea urn sings so melodiously that in listening to it one quite forgets

what a discord usually prevails in this world."

He shook hands with the father and daughter and left the little house

in a strange paradoxical mood. "What is it that we want?" he muttered

to himself, as, insensible to the storm he stood beside the river,

gazing down into its gloomy depths. "This man, to whom everything seems

to work together for good, because as a well trained child of God, he

believes in time and eternity; who is satisfied with everything, his

mediocrity, his weakness, his skill and want of skill, who makes

a virtue of every necessity, even the heart-sorrow of his only

child,--does he deserve honor or detestation? Is not this yearning for

God, which ennobles everything to him, and shows him a paradise behind

every face, in reality only selfishness in disguise? Is not even this

piety, viewed apart from intellectual blindness, a fondling of self at

the expense of others? I, who enter this house for the first time, can

scarcely see the lovely girl without compassion and indignation at her

fate, and her own father, trusting that his dear God will again lead

the stray sheep back to the fold when the wolf has once been made

harmless, reconciles himself to see the beautiful, talented, patient

creature waiting away because her proper nourishment is withheld from

her. Really, we savages are the better men! If I should ever have a

daughter--"

He did not finish the sentence. The wind suddenly dashed such a whirl

of snow flakes into his face, that he was forced for a time to close

his eyes and mouth and cling involuntarily to the railing. When he

again looked around him, the storm seemed to have raged itself calm,

the moon even cast a misty light through the black clouds, and for a

moment revealed the houses on the opposite side of the canal, from

which, as it was now almost midnight, only a few lights gleamed.

"It's time to go home," murmured the young man. "Every one in the boats

below is already asleep. I wonder how a man feels who's born in the

cabin of a boat on the Spree and dies there, after gazing for sixty

years through his window into this _Cloaca maxima_!"

He had not walked a hundred paces along the bank of the river, when he

saw on one of the largest boats, loaded with wood, a crowd of people

pressing in excited but silent eagerness around a dark object on the

deck. From time to time the rays of a ship's red lantern flashed over

the group, revealing the broad faces of the fair haired men and women,

who were standing around something lying at their feet, and seemed to

be discussing what was to be done with it, but in suppressed voices, as

if it were a matter of great importance to settle the affair among

themselves.

On one of the boat landings, directly opposite to the scene, stood Mohr

endeavoring to discover the cause of this nocturnal assemblage.