Misfortune made them equals.--CHARLES NODIER.
All was over now; Ordener’s work was done. He had saved the father of
the woman he loved; he had saved her too by preserving her father to
protect her. The young man’s noble plot to save Schumacker’s life had
succeeded; nothing else mattered now; it only remained for him to die.
Let those who deem him guilty or foolish judge the generous Ordener now,
as he judges himself in his own soul with holy rapture. For it had been
his one thought, when he entered the rebel ranks, that if he could not
prevent Schumacker from carrying out his guilty purpose, he might at
least help him to escape punishment by drawing it upon his own head.
“Alas!” he thought, “Schumacker is undoubtedly guilty; but embittered as
he is by misfortune and imprisonment, his crime is excusable. He sighs
to be set free; he struggles to acquire his liberty, even by rebellion.
Besides, what would become of my Ethel if her father were taken from
her; if she should lose him by the gallows, if fresh disgrace should
blast his name, what would become of her, helpless and unprotected,
alone in her cell or roaming through a world of foes?” This thought
determined him to make the sacrifice, and he joyfully prepared for it.
It is a lover’s greatest happiness to lay down his life, I do not say
for the life, but for a smile or a tear, of the loved object.
He was accordingly captured with the rebels, was dragged before the
judges assembled to condemn Schumacker, his generous falsehood was
uttered, he was sentenced, he must die a cruel death, suffer shameful
torments, leave behind him a stained name; but what cared the noble
youth? He had saved his Ethel’s father.
He sat chained in a damp dungeon, where light and air never entered save
through dark holes; beside him was a supply of food for the remnant of
his existence,--a loaf of black bread and a jug of water; an iron collar
weighed down his neck; iron fetters were about his hands and feet. Every
hour that passed robbed him of a greater portion of his life than a year
would bear away from other mortals. He was lost in a delicious dream.
“Perhaps my memory will not die with me, at least in one human heart.
Perhaps she will deign to shed a tear in return for the blood I so
freely shed for her; perhaps she will sometimes heave a sigh for him
who sacrificed his life for her; perhaps in her virgin thoughts the dim
image of her friend may sometimes appear. And who knows what lies behind
the veil of death? Who knows if our souls, freed from their material
prison, may not sometimes return to watch over the souls of those they
love, and hold mysterious communion with those sweet companions still
prisoned in the flesh, and in secret bring them angelic comfort and
heavenly bliss?”
And yet bitter reflections would sometimes mingle with these consoling
meditations. The hatred which Schumacker had expressed for him at the
very moment of his self-sacrifice oppressed him. The agonized shriek
which he had heard at the same instant with his death sentence had moved
him deeply; for he alone, of all the assembly, recognized that voice and
understood that misery. And should he never again see his Ethel? Must
his last moments be passed within the self-same walls that contained
her, and he be still unable to touch her soft hand once more, once more
to hear the gentle voice of her for whom he was about to die?
He had yielded thus to those vague, sad musings which are to the mind
what sleep is to the body, when the hoarse creak of rusty bolts struck
harshly on his ear, already attuned to the music of the sphere to which
he was so soon to take his flight. The heavy iron door grated upon its
hinges. The young prisoner rose calmly, almost gladly, for he thought
that the executioner had come for him, and he had already cast aside his
life like the cloak beneath his feet.
He was mistaken. A slender white figure stood upon the threshold, like a
radiant vision. Ordener doubted his own eyes, and wondered if he were
not already in heaven. It was she; it was his Ethel!
The girl fell into his fettered embrace; she covered his hands with
tears, and dried them with her long black hair. Kissing his chains, she
bruised her pure lips upon those infamous irons; she did not speak, but
her whole heart seemed ready to burst forth in the first word which
might break through her sobs.
He felt the most celestial joy which he had known since his birth. He
gently pressed his Ethel to his breast, and the combined powers of earth
and hell could not at that moment have loosed the arms which encircled
her. The knowledge of his approaching death lent a certain solemnity to
his rapture; and he held his Ethel as close as if he had already taken
possession of her for all eternity.
He did not ask this angel how she had gained access to him. She was
there: could he waste a thought on anything else? Nor was he surprised.
He never asked how this proscribed, feeble, lonely girl, in spite of
triple doors of iron and triple ranks of soldiers, had contrived to open
her own prison and that of her lover; it seemed to him quite simple; he
had a perfect appreciation of the power of love.
Why speak with the voice when the soul can speak as readily? Why not
allow the body to listen silently to the mysterious language of the
spirit? Both were silent, because there are certain emotions which can
find expression in silence only.
At last the young girl lifted her head from her lover’s throbbing heart.
“Ordener,” said she, “I am here to save you;” and she uttered these
words of hope with a pang.
Ordener smiled, and shook his head.
“To save me, Ethel! You deceive yourself; escape is impossible.”
“Alas! I am but too well aware of that. This castle is crowded with
soldiers, and every door is guarded by archers and jailers who never
sleep.” She added with an effort: “But I bring you another means of
safety.”
“No, no; your hope is vain. Do not delude yourself with idle fancies,
Ethel; a few hours hence the axe will cruelly dispel them.”
“Oh, do not say so, Ordener! You shall not die. Oh, spare me that
dreadful thought! Or rather, no; let me behold it in all its horror, to
give me strength to save you and sacrifice myself.”
There was a strange expression in the young girl’s voice.
Ordener gazed at her tenderly. “Sacrifice yourself! What do you mean?”
She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed almost inarticulately, “Oh,
God!”
The struggle was brief; she overcame her emotion; her eyes sparkled, her
lips wore a smile. She was as beautiful as an angel ascending from hell
to heaven.
“Listen, my own Ordener: your scaffold shall never be reared. If you
will but promise to marry Ulrica d’Ahlefeld, you may live.”
“Ulrica d’Ahlefeld! That name from your lips, my Ethel!”
“Do not interrupt me,” she continued, with the calm of a martyr
undergoing the last pang; “I am sent here by Countess d’Ahlefeld. She
promises to gain your pardon from the king, if in return you will agree
to bestow your hand upon her daughter. I am here to obtain your oath to
marry Ulrica and live for her. She chose me as her messenger because she
thought that my voice might have some influence over you.”
“Ethel,” said the condemned man, in icy tones, “farewell! When you leave
this cell, bid the hangman hasten his coming.”
She rose, stood before him one moment, pale and trembling, then her
knees gave way beneath her, and she sank to the stone floor with clasped
hands.
“What have I done to him?” she muttered faintly.
Ordener silently fixed his eyes upon the flags.
“My lord,” she said, dragging herself to him on her knees, “you do not
answer me. Will you not speak to me once more? Then there is nothing
left for me but to die.”
A tear stood in the young man’s eye.
“Ethel, you no longer love me.”
“Oh, God!” cried the poor girl, clasping his knees. “No longer love you!
You say that I no longer love you, Ordener! Did you really say those
words?”
“You no longer love me, for you despise me.”
He repented these cruel words as soon as he had uttered them; for
Ethel’s tone was heart-rending, as she threw her adored arms around his
neck, and exclaimed in a voice broken by tears: “Forgive me, my beloved
Ordener; forgive me as I forgive you. I despise you! Great heavens! Are
you not my pride, my idol, my all? Tell me, was there aught in my words
but deep love and ardent adoration? Alas! your stern language wounds me
sorely, when I came here to save you, my idolized Ordener, by
sacrificing my whole life for yours.”
“Well,” replied the young man, softened by her tears, and kissing them
away, “was it not a want of esteem to suppose that I would buy my life
by forsaking you, by basely renouncing my oaths, by sacrificing my
love?” He added, fixing his eye on Ethel: “My love, for which I am about
to shed my blood!”
Ethel uttered a deep groan as she answered: “Hear me, Ordener, before
you judge me so rashly. Perhaps I have more strength than usually falls
to the lot of a weak woman. From our lofty prison window I saw them
build your scaffold on the parade. Ordener, you do not know what fearful
agony it is to see the slow preparations for the death of one whose life
is an indissoluble part of your own! Countess d’Ahlefeld, at whose side
I sat when I heard the judge pronounce your death sentence, came to the
cell to which I had returned with my father. She asked me if I would
save you; she proposed this hateful means. Ordener, my poor happiness
must perish; I must give you up, renounce you forever; yield to another
my Ordener, poor lonely Ethel’s only joy, or deliver you to the
executioner. They bid me choose between my own misery and your death. I
cannot hesitate.”
He kissed this angel’s hand with respectful worship.
“Neither do I hesitate, Ethel. You would not offer me life with Ulrica
d’Ahlefeld’s hand if you knew why I die.”
“What? What secret mystery--”
“Let me keep this one secret from you, my beloved Ethel. I must die
without letting you know whether you owe me gratitude or hatred for my
death.”
“You must die! Must you then die? Oh, God! it is but too true, and the
scaffold stands ready even now; and no human power can save my Ordener,
whom they will slay! Tell me,--cast one look upon your slave, your wife,
and tell me, promise me, beloved Ordener, that you will listen to me
without anger. Are you very sure--answer me as you would answer to
God--that you could not be happy with that woman, that Ulrica
d’Ahlefeld? Are you very sure, Ordener? Perhaps she is, she surely is,
handsome, amiable, virtuous. She is far superior to her for whom you
perish. Do not turn away your head, dear friend, dear Ordener. You are
so noble and so young to mount the scaffold. Think! you might live with
her in some gay city where you would lose all memory of this fatal
dungeon; your days would flow by peacefully, without a thought of me. I
consent,--you may drive me from your heart, erase my image from your
thoughts, Ordener. Only live! Leave me here alone; let me be the one to
die. And believe me, when I know that you are in the arms of another,
you need not fear for me; I shall not suffer long.”
She paused; her voice was drowned in tears. Still her grief-stricken
countenance was radiant with her longing to win the ill-omened victory
which must be her death.
Ordener said: “No more of this, Ethel. Let no name but yours and mine
pass our lips at such a moment.”
“Alas! alas!” she replied, “then you persist in dying?”
“I must; I shall go to the scaffold gladly for your sake; I should go to
the altar with any other woman with horror and aversion. Say no more;
you wound and distress me.”
She wept, and murmured: “He will die, oh, God, a death of infamy!”
The condemned man answered with a smile: “Believe me, Ethel, there is
less dishonor in my death than in such a life as you propose.”
At this instant his eye, glancing away from his weeping Ethel, observed
an old man in clerical dress standing in the shadow under the low,
arched door. “What do you want?” said he, hastily.
“My lord, I came with the Countess d’Ahlefeld’s messenger. You did not
see me, and I waited silently until you should notice me.”
In fact, Ordener had eyes for Ethel only; and she, at the sight of
Ordener, had forgotten her companion.
“I am,” continued the old man, “the minister whose duty it is--”
“I understand,” said the young man; “I am ready.”
The minister advanced toward him.
“God is also ready to receive you, my son.”
“Sir,” said Ordener, “your face is not unknown to me; I must have seen
you elsewhere.”
The minister bowed. “I too recognize you, my son; we met in Vygla tower.
We both proved upon that occasion the fallibility of human words. You
promised me the pardon of twelve unhappy prisoners, and I put no faith
in your promise, being unable to guess that you were the viceroy’s son;
and you, my lord, who reckoned upon your power and your rank when you
made me that promise--”
Ordener finished the thought which Athanasius Munder dared not put into
words.
“Cannot now obtain pardon even for myself. You are right, sir. I had too
little reverence for the future, it has punished me by showing me that
its power is greater than mine.”
The minister bent his head. “God is great!” said he.
Then he raised his kind eyes to Ordener, adding, “God is good!”
Ordener, who seemed preoccupied, exclaimed, after a brief pause:
“Listen, sir; I will keep the promise which I made you in Vygla tower.
When I am dead, go to Bergen, seek out my father, the viceroy of Norway,
and tell him that the last favor which his son asks of him is to pardon
your twelve protégés. He will grant it, I am sure.”
A tear of emotion moistened the wrinkled cheek of Athanasius.
“My son, your soul must be filled with noble thoughts, if in the
self-same hour you can reject your own pardon and generously implore
that of others. For I heard your refusal; and although I blame such
dangerous and inordinate affection, I was deeply touched by it. Now I
ask myself,--_unde scelus_?--how could a man who approaches so near to
the model of true justice soil his conscience with the crime for which
you are condemned?”
“Father, I did not tell my secret to this angel; I cannot reveal it to
you. But believe that I am not condemned for any crime of mine.”
“What? Explain yourself, my son!”
“Do not urge me,” firmly answered the young man. “Let me take my secret
with me to the grave.”
“This man cannot be guilty,” muttered the minister.
Then drawing from his breast a black crucifix, he placed it on a sort of
altar rudely shaped from a granite slab resting against the damp prison
wall. Beside the crucifix he laid a small lighted lamp which he had
brought with him, and an open Bible. “My son, meditate and pray; I will
return a few hours hence. Come,” he added, turning to Ethel, who during
this conversation had preserved a solemn silence, “we must leave the
prisoner. Our time has passed.”
She rose, calm and radiant; a divine spark flashed from her eyes as she
said: “Sir, I cannot go yet; you must first unite Ethel Schumacker to
her husband, Ordener Guldenlew.”
She looked at Ordener.
“If you were still free, happy, and powerful, my Ordener, I should weep,
and I should shrink from linking
[Illustration: _The Marriage of Ethel and Ordener._