THE brave and prudent major had just made these arrangements, when a
shadow passed close to him just as he was groping his way back to the
bear-room to continue his examination, for he had yet to receive M.
Goefle’s opinion--a most important one--about all that had happened in
relation to Christian. This shadow moved with an uncertain step, and
the major resolved to follow it, and did so, until, on encountering the
wall of the donjon, it began to swear in rather a mild voice, which
Christian recognized as that of Olof Bœtsoi, the son of the danneman.
“Whom do you want to see, my child?” he said, taking him by the arm.
“And how is it that you have come here, instead of returning to your
house?”
As he spoke, they all three entered the bear-room together.
“Faith, if you had not been there,” said Olof to Christian, “I should
have been a long time looking for the door. I know the outside of
Stollborg well, I could come to it with my eyes shut, but I don’t know
anything about the inside! I have never been here in my life before.
You can suppose that I could not return to the mountain right off, in
this cursed weather. At last it began to brighten a little, and, after
passing two hours at the major’s bostoelle, I set out on foot, lest my
father should be uneasy; but, first of all, I wanted to bring back a
portfolio which you left in the sleigh, Herr Christian. Here it is. I
have not opened it. Whatever was in it you will find as you left it. I
did not wish to intrust it to any one, for my father has often told me
that papers are sometimes more precious than money.”
And Olof, in concluding, handed Christian a portfolio of black morocco,
which he did not recognize at all.
“It is yours, perhaps,” he said to the major. “It may have been in the
coat that you lent me.”
“No, I never saw it before,” replied Larrson.
“Then possibly it belongs to the lieutenant?”
“Oh, no indeed!” cried Martina; “he has no portfolios, except those
that I embroider for him.”
“It is easy to find out, at any rate,” said the major; “he is close by,
in the _gaard_.”
“Wait a moment!” cried M. Goefle, who was always on the breach with his
fixed idea. “Did you not tell me, Christian, that you had upset the
baron this evening, on returning from the hunt?”
“I told you that the baron had overturned me, and was upset himself in
consequence,” replied Christian.
“It is all the same thing,” rejoined the lawyer; “whatever was in the
two sleighs must have rolled pell-mell together on the road; and this--”
“It belongs to the physician, I wager!” said Christian. “Leave it here,
Olof; we will send it to him.”
“Give it to me!” resumed M. Goefle, in a brief, authoritative tone.
“The only way of finding out to whom an anonymous portfolio belongs, is
to open it, and that shall be my duty.”
“You assume the responsibility, Monsieur Goefle?” said the scrupulous
major.
“Yes, monsieur,” replied M. Goefle, opening the portfolio, “and I
call upon you to witness what I do. You are here to examine the facts
of a lawsuit, which it will perhaps be my mission to plead. Here is
a letter from M. Johan to his master. I know his writing, and at
the first glance, I see in it: ‘The man with the marionettes--Guido
Massarelli--The chamber of roses!’--Ah, indeed! the baron, like the
senate, assumes the privilege of having his own! Major, this document
is very important, and the other, perhaps--for there are two--is still
more so. Your commission requires you to acquaint yourself with them.”
“May I go?” said the young danneman, who, like the peasants of all
countries, was terribly afraid of the law, and who accordingly, as soon
as he began vaguely to understand that the examination for a suit was
going on, wanted to make his escape, lest he should be involved in it
by having to give his testimony.
“No,” replied the major, “you must remain and listen.”
He turned to Margaret and Martina, who were whispering together about
the possibility of returning to the new chateau, and laid the same
injunction upon them.
“I beg and require you,” he said, “to remain also, and listen. Our
opponent is very powerful, and we may be accused of having forged
false proofs. In this case documents have been placed in our hands in
your presence, and you must learn their contents at the same time with
ourselves.”
“No no!” cried Christian; “these ladies must not be mixed up in a
lawsuit.”
“I am grieved that it must be so, Christian,” replied the major; “but
the laws are stronger than we, and I shall do what they require me
to do, rigorously. A man has been killed this evening whom it would
certainly be more to our advantage to hold alive. I know that you had
nothing to do with this, and that you yourself were wounded in the
scuffle in which he perished. You are passionate--you are brave and
generous--but you are not prudent in what concerns yourself. As for me,
I tell you that this affair may lead you to the scaffold, because you
acknowledge honestly having given provocation to your enemies, while
the rogues deny insolently their part in the transaction. Let us read,
then, and neglect no means of making the truth triumph.”
“Yes, yes, major, read, I am listening!” cried Margaret, who had turned
pale as she looked at Christian’s bloody sleeve; “I will testify, no
matter at what cost!”
Christian would have refused to take advantage of the devotion of this
noble girl, and he could ill endure the authority which the major
assumed over her. The major, however, was right, and Christian felt
this, since in this affair the honor of the officer was at stake no
less than his own. He seated himself brusquely, and covered his face
with his hands to conceal and repress the vehement emotions by which
he was agitated, while the major read in a loud voice the journal of
Master Johan, written by himself, and sent to the baron during the hunt.
“This seems to me a very mysterious document,” he said, on concluding
it; “it proves a deep-laid plot against Christian, but--”
“But you cannot understand,” said M. Goefle, who, while the major was
reading, had rapidly glanced through the second paper contained in
the portfolio, “such hatred against an unknown, without name, without
family, and without fortune, on the part of the high and mighty
seigneur the Baron de Waldemora. Well, for my part, I understand it
perfectly, and, since we see the effect, it is time to know the cause;
here it is--Lift up your head, Christian de Waldemora!” added M.
Goefle, striking the table with energy; “for Heaven has led you here,
and old Stenson was right in saying, ‘The wealth of the sinner is laid
up for the just.’”
During the silence that followed--for all were struck dumb with
amazement--M. Goefle read aloud what follows:
“_Declaration intrusted by me, Adam Stenson, to Taddeo Manasses,
Merchant, born in Perugia: To be delivered up to Christian on the day
when the circumstances herein mentioned shall permit_:
“ADELSTAN CHRISTIAN DE WALDEMORA, son of the noble Seigneur
Christian Adelstan, Baron de Waldemora, and the noble lady Hilda
de Blixen, born the fifteenth of September, 1746, in the castle of
Stollborg, in the chamber called that of the bear, on the domain of
Waldemora, province of Dalecarlia;
“Secretly confided to the care of Anna Bœtsoi, wife of the danneman
Karl Bœtsoi, by me, the undersigned, Adam Stenson, and by Karine
Bœtsoi, daughter of the above-named, and confidential waiting-woman of
the deceased Baroness Hilda de Waldemora, _née_ de Blixen;
“The said infant suckled by a tame doe, and brought up in the house of
the said danneman Karl Bœtsoi, on the mountain of Blaakdal, until the
age of four years, where he passed for the son of Karine Bœtsoi, who,
out of devotion for her deceased mistress, consented to be thought
bewitched, and in communication with evil spirits, and who thus
preserved the child, of whom she called herself the mother, from the
pursuit of his _enemies_;
“The said child, carried away by me, Adam Stenson, to withdraw it from
suspicions, by which his safety was beginning to be compromised, in
spite of the precautions hitherto taken;
“Was taken by me, the undersigned, to Austria, where I have a married
sister, who can testify to having seen me arrive at her house with a
child named Christian, speaking the Dalecarlian language;
“And, by the advice of my very faithful friend and confidant, Taddeo
Manasses, of the religion of the Old Testament, and formerly well
known in Sweden, under the name of Manasses, and very highly esteemed
by his lordship the late Baron Adelstan de Waldemora, as a man of his
word, and of discretion and honesty in his business, the trading in
objects of art, of which the said baron was a great amateur;
“I, the undersigned, went to the city of Perugia, in Italy, where then
resided the above-mentioned Manasses, and where, during the carnival,
I presented myself, being masked, to the very honorable couple, Silvio
Goffredi, Professor of Ancient History in the University of Perugia,
and Sophia Negrisoli, his legitimate wife, of the family of the
illustrious physician of that name;
“And to them surrendered, confided, and, as it might be said,
_gave_ the said Christian de Waldemora, without making known to
them his family name, his country, or the special reasons which had
made me resolve to separate from him;
“In giving this well-beloved child to the above-mentioned Goffredis,
I believed that I was fulfilling the wish of the deceased Baroness
Hilda, who desired that he should be brought up far from _his
enemies_, by learned and virtuous people, who, without any selfish
motive, would love him like their own son, and make him what he should
be, in order to sustain worthily, some day, the name he is to bear,
and the rank he is to recover, after the death of _his enemies_,
the which death, according to the order of nature, ought greatly to
precede his own;
“And, in case the death of the undersigned should occur before that of
the _said enemies_, the undersigned has charged Taddeo Manasses
to make such inquiries as may be necessary, so that, at the death of
_his enemies_, Christian de Waldemora should be warned, and put
into possession of the present declaration: in faith of which--after
having made a contract with my good friend Taddeo Manasses, who
is never to lose sight of the said Christian de Waldemora, who is
to reside where he shall reside, and to come to his assistance if
other protection shall fail him; who, in case of serious illness,
threatening him with death, is to put another person sure as himself
in his place, to fulfil the same duties; and finally, who is to give
once a year news of his welfare to the undersigned--the undersigned,
wishing to keep his place in the chateau de Waldemora, so as not
to arouse suspicions, and to earn money to provide against coming
emergencies, the probable removals, and journeys of Taddeo, and the
eventual needs of the said child, quitted, not without grief, the
city of Perugia, to return to Sweden, the sixteenth of March, 1750,
believing and hoping to have done what was best to preserve from all
danger, and to place in a happy and honorable situation, the son of
his deceased master and mistress.
“ADAM STENSON.
“_Witness_:
“TADDEO MANASSES,
“_Sworn keeper of the paintings in the Exchange, at Perugia._”
“Speak, Christian!” said M. Goefle to his young friend, who remained
silent and stupefied. “Everything must be verified. Was this Manasses
really an honest man?”
“I have no reason to doubt it,” replied Christian.
“Did he not offer you assistance, at one time, on the part of your
family?”
“Yes; I refused it.”
“Do you know his signature?”
“Perfectly. He had several business transactions with M. Goffredi.”
“Look at this: is it his writing?”
“It is his writing.”
“For my part,” said M. Goefle, “I recognize perfectly, in the body of
the document, the hand and style of Adam Stenson. Will you be so good
as to open this portfolio, major, and verify the similitude? These are
the accounts of his affairs, prepared and signed by the old steward
at nearly the same period; that is to say, in 1751 and 1752. Besides,
his writing has not changed, and his hand is still firm. Here is the
proof of it: these three verses of the Bible written yesterday, and
whose application, as interpreted by him, is quite evident, and will be
useful in evidence.”
The major made the verification, but the whole affair, if not utterly
enigmatical, still seemed to him very obscure. Had the baron forged
false documents to establish that his sister-in-law had left no heirs
to contest his rights? He was quite capable of this, but M. Goefle had
seen these documents. They were actually in his possession, having been
confided to him by his father, whom he had succeeded.
“I have these documents at my house in Gevala, in fact,” replied M.
Goefle. “They have been verified by experts, and are authentic; but has
it not been fully proved, at present, that they were extorted from the
Baroness Hilda by constraint or fear? Be calm, Christian, all will be
explained. Stay, major, here is another piece of evidence, discovered
yesterday, in a dress, which I will show you; a letter from Baron
Adelstan to his wife: read it, and calculate the dates. The hope of
maternity was confirmed on the fifth of March, perhaps after two or
three months of uncertainty. The child was born on the fifteenth of
September; the baroness took refuge here during the first few days of
the said month. She was probably kept a prisoner here, and she died on
the twenty-eighth of December, of the same year. Here is another proof:
look at this miniature! Look at it, Margaret Elveda! It is Count
Adelstan, who certainly did not have it painted for the emergencies
of a suit; the painter is celebrated, and he has dated and signed his
work. And yet it is the portrait of Christian Waldo! The resemblance
is striking. Lastly, look at this life-size portrait of the count. The
resemblance is quite as remarkable. This is not the work of such a
skilful artist, but he has rendered the hands faithfully, and you can
see the bent fingers: show yours, Christian!”
“Ah!” cried Christian, who was walking up and down the room in a state
of extreme excitement, and who allowed M. Goefle to seize his trembling
hands, “if Baron Olaus has made my mother suffer martyrdom, woe to him!
These hooked fingers shall tear his heart from his breast.”
“Let him give vent to his Italian passion,” said M. Goefle, who had
risen, fearing that Christian was going to rush out. “He is a generous
nature; I know him--I know his whole life. He must give voice to his
grief and his indignation; do not you understand? But have patience,
Christian! the baron, perhaps, has not been so criminal in the past
as we suppose. We must learn all the particulars--we must see Stenson
again. It is absolutely necessary, major, that Stenson should be
delivered and brought back here, and yet you will not consent to do it.”
“You know perfectly well that I cannot!” cried the major, very much
agitated and excited. “I have no rights over the authority of the
seigneur, above all in the punishment of a domestic, and if the baron
wants to make this old man suffer, he will not want for pretexts--”
Here the major was interrupted by Christian, who could no longer
restrain his impetuosity.
“What!” he cried, “do you not see that they shrink from nothing in
that den? I understand, too well, what they mean by their _chamber
of roses_, as they call it in bitter and horrible mockery. And
that poor old man, who has nothing left but his breath, that faithful
servant, who saved me from _my enemies_, as he says in his
declaration, and who, after that long and fatiguing journey, has
devoted to me a whole life of privation and labor silently endured,
shall I leave him now to perish for me, at this very hour, in torments?
No, it is impossible; you shall not hold me back, major! I do not
recognize your authority over me, and, even if I must cut my way out
from here, sword in hand--well, so much the worse, you would have it
so.”
“Silence!” cried M. Goefle, snatching from Christian’s hands the sword
which the young man had just seized from the table. “Silence! Listen!
some one is walking over our heads in the walled-up room.”
“How can that be possible,” said the major, “if it is really walled up?
Besides, I do not hear anything.”
“Nor do I hear any footsteps,” replied M. Goefle, “but be quiet, and
look at the chandelier.”
They looked without speaking, and not only did they see the chandelier
tremble, but heard also the faint jingling of the brass ornaments
striking together, as they were shaken by some movement in the upper
story.
“It must be Stenson!” cried Christian. “No one else can know the
outside passages.”
“But are there any?” said the major.
“Who knows?” replied Christian. “For my part, I think so, though I was
not able to satisfy myself fully. I noticed a breach in the wall as
high as to the second story, but that did not seem to me practicable.
But hush!--do you hear anything more?”
They listened, and heard, or thought they heard, a door open, and
then followed a faint knocking or scratching on the walled-up door of
the bear-room. Had Stenson escaped from the hands of his enemies, and
not daring to return to the _gaard_ by the court, which he would
suppose to be in their hands, had he entered the donjon by a passage
known to himself alone? Was he calling his friends to his assistance,
or giving them a mysterious warning, that they might expect a new
attack? The major considered these conjectures chimerical; but, before
they could make any investigations, they were interrupted by the
lieutenant, who entered with Danneman Bœtsoi.
“Here is one of our friends,” he said, “who has come from our
bostoelles, where he has been looking for his son. Is he not here?”
“Yes, yes, my father!” replied Olof, who was very much alarmed at all
that he had heard, and was quite pleased to see the danneman arrive.
“Were you uneasy about me?”
“Uneasy, no!” replied the danneman, who had just descended a dangerous
mountain-road in this frightful weather to look for his child, but who
considered it derogatory to his paternal dignity to acknowledge his
solicitude. “I knew that our friends would not let you start alone;
but, because of the horse, which might have been lamed--”
While the danneman was explaining his anxiety after this fashion, the
lieutenant made a communication to the major, by which the latter
seemed very much struck.
“What is the matter?” asked M. Goefle.
“The matter is,” replied Larrson, “that we have, one and all of us,
given ourselves up to gloomy ideas that are making us very ridiculous.
The lieutenant, while making his round, heard what seemed to be the
lamentation of a human voice sweeping through the air, and the soldiers
are so frightened at all that they have heard of the Gray Lady of
Stollborg, that, but for their excellent discipline, they would already
have decamped. It is time to have done with these dreams, and since
there is no way of penetrating into this walled-up room from within, we
must examine the outside of the building carefully, and see whether the
brigands of the new chateau are not making use of this phantasmagoria
at this very moment, to entrap us in some way. Come with us, Christian,
since you are convinced, you say, that there must be some means of
climbing up there.”
“No no!” replied Christian; “it would take too long to look, and
perhaps we should not find a practicable ascent after all. It will be
surer and quicker to break down this wall. It is only to knock out the
first brick.”
Even while talking, Christian had torn the great map of Sweden from
its rings, and, armed with the hammer that he used in his scientific
excursions, he attacked the partition under it with desperate vigor,
sometimes striking the resounding brick surface with the square end
of the instrument, and sometimes thrusting the sharp edge into the
holes he had succeeded in making, pulling down violently great masses
of the wall, welded together with mortar, and which fell with a hollow
sound upon the sonorous staircase. It would have been useless to oppose
him. He was possessed, driven on by a sort of fury, that compelled
him to escape from the inactivity to which he had been condemned.
The strange suspicions he had already conceived that some person was
imprisoned in this ruin, returned to him like a nightmare. He was
under such excitement that he was even ready to admit the truth of
the superstitious ideas to which M. Goefle had yielded belief in this
very place, and to suppose that he had been summoned by a supernatural
warning to discover the infernal secret which had enveloped his
mother’s dying moments with gloom and mystery.
“Stand out of the way! stand out of the way!” he cried to M. Goefle,
who, impelled by a similar anxiety, mingled with curiosity, was
hurrying up every instant to the foot of the staircase; “if the wall
should crumble and fall suddenly, I could not prevent it.”
In fact, the superadded partition, which extended over quite a large
surface, was completely undermined by Christian’s furious onslaught;
it was giving way, tottering, falling in every direction. The intrepid
assailant was covered with dust, and seemed protected only by a miracle
in the midst of a rain of bricks and cement. His friends dared not
speak any longer; they scarcely dared to breathe; every instant they
thought to see him buried under the falling fragments, or struck by
some flying brick. A cloud enveloped him, when he cried:
“Victory! here is the continuation of the staircase. Bring a light,
Monsieur Goefle!--”
And, without waiting, he rushed into the darkness. But in the few
seconds that elapsed, while he was groping for the door, which he found
half-open before him, the major had time to join him.
“Christian,” he said, holding him back, “if you have any friendship for
me, any deference for my rank, you will let me go first. M. Goefle
believes that we shall find here decisive proofs of your rights, and
you cannot testify in your own cause. Besides, beware! These proofs may
be of a character to make you shrink back with horror.”
“I will support the sight of them,” replied Christian, made desperate
by this thought, which was already his own. “I wish to know the truth,
even if it should crush me. Go first, Osmund, it is your right; but I
follow you; it is my duty.”
“No!” cried M. Goefle, who, together with the danneman and the
lieutenant, had rapidly ascended the staircase behind the major, and
who threw himself resolutely before the door. “You shall not pass,
Christian! You shall not enter without my permission. You are violent,
but I am obstinate. Will you lay your hand upon me?”
Christian drew back, vanquished. The major entered with M. Goefle; the
lieutenant and the danneman remained on the threshold, between them and
Christian.
The major took a few steps into this mysterious chamber, which was
scarcely lighted at all by the glimmering of the candle brought by
M. Goefle. It was a large room, finished with heavy wood-work, like
the bear-room, but entirely empty, dilapidated, and a hundred times
more lugubrious than that apartment. Suddenly the major drew back and
lowered his voice, so as not to be heard by Christian, who was standing
so near the entrance.
“Look!” he said to M. Goefle; “look there, on the floor!”
“It is true, then,” replied M. Goefle, in the same tone; “this, indeed,
is horrible! Go on, major! courage! We must know all.”
They approached a human form, which was lying at the end of the room,
the body bent forward and apparently kneeling, the head leaning against
the wainscot, as far as they could judge; for it was almost entirely
concealed by the black and dusty veil with which the whole form was
enveloped.
“It is she! it is the phantom I beheld!” said M. Goefle, recognizing
under this veil the gray robe, with its soiled and trailing ribbons.
“It is the Baroness Hilda, dead, or a prisoner.”
“It is a living person,” said the major, as he raised the veil with a
hand trembling with emotion; “but it is not the Baroness Hilda. This is
a woman whom I know. Come here, Joë Bœtsoi! Come in, Christian. There
is nothing here that you need fear to behold. It is only poor Karine,
swooning or asleep.”
“No, no,” said the danneman, approaching his sister softly; “she is not
asleep, she is not fainting; she is saying her prayers, and her soul is
in heaven. Do not touch her, do not speak to her until she rises.”
“But how did she get here?” said M. Goefle.
“Oh, as to that,” replied the danneman, “it is a gift she has to go
wherever she wishes, and to enter, like the bird of the night, through
the cracks of old walls. She goes, without a thought, into places where
I have sometimes followed her, recommending my soul to God. For that
reason, I am never uneasy when she disappears from the house; I know
that there is a _virtue_ in her, and that she cannot fall. But
see, she has finished praying within herself! she rises; she is going
towards the door. She takes her keys from her belt. Those are keys
which she has always kept like relics, and we did not know where they
came from--”
“Watch her,” said M. Goefle, “since she does not seem either to see or
hear us. What is she doing now?”
“Oh,” said the danneman, “that is a habit that she has, of trying to
find a door when she comes up to certain walls. See, she rests the key
upon it, and turns it, then she sees that she is mistaken, and goes
further on.”
“Ah,” said M. Goefle, “that accounts for the little circles traced on
the wall in the bear-room.”
“Can I speak to her?” said Christian, who had approached Karine.
“You can,” replied the danneman; “she will answer you, if your voice
pleases her.”
“Karine Bœtsoi,” said Christian, “what are you looking for here?”
“Do not call me Karine Bœtsoi,” she replied; “Karine is dead. I am the
_vala_ of ancient days,--she who must not be named!”
“Where do you wish to go?”
“To the bear-room. Have they walled up the door already?”
“No,” said Christian, “I will lead you there. Will you give me your
hand?”
“Go on,” said Karine, “I will follow you.”
“Do you see me, then?”
“What should prevent me from seeing you? Are we not in the land of the
dead? Are not you poor Baron Adelstan? You have come to ask me for the
mother of your child. I have just been praying for her and for him. And
now--come, come, I will tell you all!”
And Karine, who seemed suddenly to recognize where she was, passed
through the door, and went down the staircase into the bear-room,
where Margaret and Martina were terribly frightened by her appearance,
although young Olof, who had gone up to the door, and heard all that
was going on, had assured them that they had nothing to fear from the
poor seeress.
“Do not be afraid of her,” said Christian, who was following Karine a
little in advance of the two officers, M. Goefle, and the danneman,
and who paused, when she did, near the young ladies: “watch all her
movements; and try, as I am doing, to guess what she is dreaming about.
Does she not seem to be rendering the last duties to a person who has
just died?”
“Yes,” replied Margaret, “she closes their eyes, she kisses their
hands, and crosses them upon their breast. And now she weaves an
imaginary crown, and places it upon their head. Stay, she is looking
for some one--”
“Are you looking for me, Karine?” said Christian to the seeress.
“Are you Adelstan, the good iarl?” replied Karine. “Ah well, listen,
and behold: you see that your well beloved has ceased to suffer! She
has gone to the land of the elfs. The wicked iarl said: ‘She shall die
here,’ and she is dead; but he said also: ‘If a son is born to her, it
shall die first.’ But he counted without Karine. Karine was there;
she received the child, she saved it, she gave it to the fairies of
the lake, and the Snow Man never knew that it was born. And Karine has
never told her secret, even in fever and in grief! She speaks now,
because the belfry of the chateau is ringing for the dead. Do you not
hear it?”
“Can it be true?” cried the major, opening the window in all haste:
“no, I do not hear anything. She is dreaming.”
“If it is not ringing, it will not delay long,” replied the danneman.
“Already, this morning, she heard it, from our mountain. We knew that
it could not be; but we knew also that she hears in advance, as she
sees in advance, the things that are to be.”
Karine, feeling the air from the window, approached.
“It was here,” she said, “it was to this window that Karine Bœtsoi
brought the child, so that it should fly away.”
And she began to sing the refrain of the ballad that Christian had
heard in the fog.
“The child of the lake, more beautiful than the star of the evening--”
“Is that a song that your mistress taught you?” asked M. Goefle.
But Karine did not seem to hear any voice but Christian’s.
Martina Akerstrom replied for her:
“Yes, yes,” she said, “I know that ballad perfectly well: it was
composed by the Baroness Hilda. My father found it among the
papers that were seized at Stollborg, and left at our house by his
predecessor. There were also several Scandinavian poems, which the poor
lady had translated into verse and set to music, for she was a very
skilful musician; a real artist, indeed. That was one of the things
they brought against her to prove that she worshipped pagan gods. My
father blamed the former minister very much for his conduct, and he has
carefully preserved these precious manuscripts.”
“Now, Karine,” said M. Goefle to the seeress, who had fallen into a
sort of quiet ecstasy, “have you nothing more to say?”
“Leave me,” answered Karine, who had entered into another phase of
her trance; “leave me! I must go to the hogar, to meet him who is to
return.”
“Who told you so?” inquired Christian.
“The stork who perches on the roof-top, and who bears to mothers,
seated under the chimney-corner, news of their absent sons. That is why
I put on the dress that my well-beloved gave me, so that he might at
least see something of his mother. For three days I have been waiting
for him, I have been singing to him to draw him hither; but at last he
has come,--I feel him near me. Bring bluebells, bring violets, and call
old Stenson, so that he may rejoice before he dies. Poor Stenson!”
“Why do you say _poor Stenson_?” cried Christian, terrified. “Do
you see him in your vision?”
“Leave me,” replied Karine; “I have said,--now the _vala_ sinks
again into the night.”
Karine closed her eyes and tottered.
“That means that she wishes to sleep now,” said the danneman, receiving
her in his arms. “I will seat her here, for she must sleep wherever she
may be.”
“No, no,” said Margaret, “we will lead her into the other room, where
there is a large sofa. Poor woman, she is burning with fever and
exhausted with fatigue. Come!”
“But what was she doing overhead?” said M. Goefle, returning to the
staircase and addressing the major, while the two young girls conducted
the family of the danneman into the guard-room. “Nothing will get it
out of my head that we shall find in this room, walled up by Stenson
with so much care, some secret even more important, some proof even
more unanswerable than the memories of Karine, and the declaration of
Stenson. Come, Christian, we must absolutely--but where are you then?”
“Christian?” cried Margaret, returning hastily from the guard-room; “he
is not with us. Where is he?”
“He has already gone up above,” said the major, running up the wooden
staircase.
“Damnation!” cried M. Goefle, who ascended with Osmund into the
walled-up room; “he has gone! He has slipped through this crack like an
adder. Is not that he running along the wall? Christian!--”
“Not a word,” said the major. “He is running along the edge of an
abyss! Do not startle him. Now--I can no longer see him; he is lost in
the fog. I should like to follow him, but I am larger than he. I could
never pass through there.”
“Listen!” rejoined M. Goefle. “He has jumped down!--He is
speaking!--Listen!--”
Christian’s voice was distinctly audible in the silence of the night;
he was saying to the soldiers:
“It is I! It is I! The major sends me to the chateau.”
“Ah! the foolhardy, the brave boy!” cried M. Goefle. “He takes counsel
only with his own heart. He has gone all alone to face his enemies, and
deliver Stenson.”
In fact, Christian had flown away, to use the danneman’s expression,
like the bird of the night, through the crack of an old wall. The name
of Stenson, pronounced by Karine, had pierced his heart.
“That he may rejoice before he dies!” she had said, as her prophetic
vision passed away.
And would he indeed be doomed to die under the blows of his
executioners? Were those heart-rending words one of the cruel, mocking
delusions with which hope inspires us?
Christian was imprisoned, and his efforts paralyzed by the prudence
of the major. A quarrel between them on this subject was imminent,
and although he knew the danger of attempting to escape through the
crumbling wall of the old tower, he preferred running this risk
to measuring his strength with one of the excellent friends that
Providence had sent him. When he had before seen this accidental
opening in the wall, he was too far away, and too much preoccupied, to
observe it closely. The fog was slowly dissipating, but the light was
still vague and dim. However, Karine had passed through it.
“My God!” he said, “let my devotion inspire me with the supernatural
faculties which we sometimes see exerted in delirium.”
Knowing well that skill and caution would be of no use now, since he
could not see two steps before him, the child of the lake, trusting to
the continual miracle of his destiny, ran swiftly down a path by which
he had not ventured to ascend during the day.