Countess Cordula von Montfort's room faced the east and looked out into
the garden. The sun of the June morning had just risen, filling it with
cheerful light.
The invalid's maid had wished to deny Els admittance, but the countess
called eagerly to her, and then ordered the windows to be opened, because
she never felt comfortable unless it was light around her and she could
breathe God's pure air.
The morning breeze bore the smoke which still rose from the fire in
another direction, and thus a refreshing air really entered the room from
the garden, for the thunderstorm had refreshed all nature, and flower
beds and grass, bush and tree, exhaled a fresh odour of earth and leafage
which it was a delight to breathe.
The leech Otto, to whom the severely wounded Ulrich Vorchtel had been
carried, had just left the countess. The burns on her hands and arms had
been bandaged--nay, the old gentleman had cut out the scorched portions
of her tresses with his own hand. Cordula's energetic action had made
the famous surgeon deem her worthy of such care. He had also advised her
to seek the nursing of the oldest daughter of her host, whose invalid
wife he was attending, and she had gladly assented; for Els had attracted
her from their first meeting, and she was accustomed to begin the day at
sunrise.
"How does it happen that you neither weep nor even hang your head after
all the sorrow which last night brought you?" asked Cordula, as the
Nuremberg maiden sat down beside her bed. "You are a stranger to the
Swiss knight, and when we surprised you with him you had not come to a
meeting--I know that full well. But if so true and warm a love unites
you to young Eysvogel, how does it happen that your joyous courage is so
little damped by his father's denial and his own unhappy deed, which at
this time could scarcely escape punishment? You do not seem frivolous,
and yet--"
"Yet," replied Els with a pleasant smile, "many things have made a deeper
impression. We are not all alike, Countess, yet there is much in your
nature which must render it easy for you to understand me; for,
Countess----"
"Call me Cordula," interrupted the girl in a tone of friendly entreaty.
"Why should I deny that I am fond of you? and at the risk of making you
vain, I will betray----"
"Well?" asked Els eagerly.
"That the splendid old leech described you to me exactly as I had
imagined you," was the reply. You were one of those, he said, whose mere
presence beside a sick-bed was as good as medicine, and so you are; and,
dear Jungfrau Els, this salutary medicine benefits me."
"If I am to dispense with the 'Countess,'" replied the other, "you must
spare me the 'Jungfrau.' Nursing you will give me all the more pleasure
on account of the warm gratitude----"
"Never mind that," interrupted Cordula. "But please look at the bandage,
beneath which the flesh burns and aches more than is necessary, and then
go on with your explanation."
Els examined the countess's arm, and then applied a household remedy
whose use she had learned from the wife of Herr Pfinzing, her Aunt
Christine, who was familiar with the healing art. It relieved the pain,
and when Cordula told her so, Els went on with her explanation. "When
all these blows fell upon me, they at first seemed, indeed, unprecedented
and scarcely possible to endure. When afterwards my Wolff's unhappy deed
was added, I felt as though I were standing in a dense, dark mist, where
each step forwards must lead me into a stifling morass or over a
precipice. Then I began to reflect upon what had happened, as is my
custom; I separated, in my thoughts, the evil menacing in the future from
the good, and had scarcely made a little progress in this way when morass
and abyss lost their terrors; both, I found, could be left to take care
of themselves, since neither Wolff nor I lack love and good will, and we
possess some degree of prudence and caution."
"Yes, this thinking and considering!" cried the countess, with a faint
sigh. "It succeeds in my case, too, only, unluckily, I usually don't
begin until it is too late and the folly has been committed."
"Then, henceforth, you must reverse the process," answered Els cheerily.
But directly after she changed her tone, which sounded serious enough as
she added: "The sorrow of the poor Vorchtels and the grief my betrothed
husband must endure, because the dead man was once a dear friend,
certainly casts a dark shadow upon many things; but you, who love the
chase, must surely be familiar with the misty autumn mornings to which I
allude. Everything, far and near, is covered by a thick veil, yet one
feels that there is bright sunshine behind it. Suddenly the mist
scatters----"
"And mountain and forest, land and water, lie before us in the radiant
sunlight!" cried the countess. "How well I know such scenes! And how I
should rejoice if a favourable wind would sweep the grey mist away for
you right speedily! Only--indeed, I am not disposed to look on the dark
side--only, perhaps you do not know how resolute the Emperor is that the
peace of the country shall be maintained. If your lover allowed himself
to be carried away----"
"This was not the first time," Els eagerly interrupted, "that young
Vorchtel tried to anger him in the presence of others; and he believed
that he was justified in bearing a grudge against his former friend--it
was considered a settled thing that Wolff and his sister Ursula were to
marry."
"Until," Cordula broke in, "he gazed into your bright eyes."
"How could you know that?" asked Els in confusion.
"Because, in love and hate, as well as in reckoning, two and three
follow one," laughed the countess. "As for your Wolff, in particular,
I will gladly believe, with you, that he can succeed in clearing himself
before the judges. But with regard to old Eysvogel, who looks as though,
if he met our dear Lord Himself, he would think first which of the two
was the richer, your future brother-in-law Siebenburg, that disagreeable
'Mustache,' and his poor wife, who sits at home grieving over her
dissolute husband--what gratitude you can expect from such kindred--"
"None," replied Els sadly. Yet a mischievous smile hovered around her
lips as, bending over the invalid, she added in a whisper: "But the good
I expect from all the evil is, that we and the Eysvogels will be
separated as if by wall and moat. They will never cross them, but Wolff
would find the way back to me, though we were parted by an ocean, and
mountains towering to the sky divided----"
"This confidence, indeed, maintains the courage," said the countess, and
with a faint sigh she added: "Whatever evil may befall you, many might
envy you."
"Then love has conquered you also?" Els began; but Cordula answered
evasively:
"Let that pass, dear Jungfrau. Perhaps love treats me as a mother deals
with a froward child, because I asked too much of her. My life has
become an endless battue. Much game of all kinds is thus driven out to
be shot, but the sportsman finds true pleasure only in tracking the
single heathcock, the solitary chamois. Yet, no," and in her eagerness
she flung her bandaged hand so high into the air that she groaned with
pain and was forced to keep silence. When able to speak once more, still
tortured by severe suffering, she exclaimed angrily: "No, I want neither
driving nor stalking. What do I care for the prey? I am a woman, too.
I would fain be the poor persecuted game, which the hunter pursues at the
risk of breaking his bones and neck. It must be delightful; one would
willingly bear the pain of a wound for its sake. I don't mean these
pitiful burns, but a deep and deadly one."
"You ought to have spared yourself these," said Els in a tone of
affectionate warning. "Consider what you are to your father, and how
your suffering pains him! To risk a precious human life for the sake of
a stupid brute--"
"They call it a sin, I know," Cordula burst forth. "And yet I would
commit the same tomorrow at the risk of again--Oh, you cautious city
people, you maidens with snow-white hands! What do you know of a girl
like me? You cannot even imagine what my child life was; and yet it is
told in a single word--motherless! I was never permitted to see her, to
hear her dear, warning voice. She paid with her own life for giving me
mine. My father? How kind he is! He meant to supply his dead wife's
place by anticipating my every wish. Had I desired to feast my eyes on
the castle in flames, it would, perhaps, now lie in ashes. So I became
what I am. True--and this is something--I grew to be at least one
person's joy--his. No, no, at home there are others also, though they
dwell in wretched hovels, who would gladly welcome me back. But except
these, who will ask about the reckless countess? I myself do not care to
linger long when the mirror shows me my image. Do you wish to know what
this has to do with the fire? Much; for otherwise I should scarcely have
been wounded. The lightning had struck only the convent barn; the cow
stable, when we arrived, was still safe, but the flames soon reached
it also. Neither the nuns nor the men had thought of driving the cattle
out. Poor city cattle! In the country the animals have more friendly
care. When the work of rescue was at last commenced the cows naturally
refused to leave their old home. Some prudent person had torn the door
off the hinges that they might not stifle. Just in front of it stood
a pretty red cow with a white star on her face. A calf was by her side,
and the mother had already sunk on her knees and was licking it in mortal
terror. I pitied the poor thing, and as Boemund Altrosen, the black-
haired knight who entered your house with the rest after the ride to
Kadolzburg, had just come there, I told him to save the calf. Of course
he obeyed my wish, and as it struggled he dragged it out of the stable
with his strong arms. The building was already blazing, and the thatched
roof threatened to fall in. Just at that moment the old cow looked at me
so piteously and uttered such a mournful bellow that it touched me to the
heart. My eyes rested on the calf, and a voice within whispered that it
would be motherless, like me, and miss during the first part of its life
God's best gift. But since, as you have heard, I act before I think,
I went myself--I no longer know how--into the burning stable. It was
hard to breathe in the dense smoke, and fiery sparks scorched my shawl
and my hair, but I was conscious of one thought: You must save the
helpless little creature's mother! So I called and lured her, as I do at
home, where all the cows are fond of me, but it was useless; and just as
I perceived this the thatched roof fell in, and I should probably have
perished had not Altrosen this time carried my own by no means light
figure out of the stable instead of the calf."
"And you?" asked Els eagerly.
"I submitted," replied the countess.
"No, no," urged Els. "Your heart throbbed faster with grateful joy,
for you saw the desire of your soul fulfilled. A hunter, and one of the
noblest of them all, risked his life in the pursuit of your love. O
Countess Cordula, I remember that knight well, and if the dark-blue
sleeve which he wore on his helm in the tournament was yours--"
"I believe it was," Cordula interrupted indifferently. "But, what was of
more importance, when I opened my eyes again the cow was standing
outside, licking her recovered calf."
"And the knight?" asked Els. "Whoever so heroically risks his life for
his lady's wish should be sure of her gratitude."
"Boemund can rely on that," said Cordula positively. "At least, what
he did this time for my sake weighs more heavily in the scale than the
lances he has broken, his love songs, or the mute language of his longing
eyes. Those are shafts which do not pierce my heart. How reproachfully
you look at me! Let him take lessons from his friend Heinz Schorlin, and
he may improve. Yes, the Swiss knight! He would be the man for me,
spite of your involuntary meeting with him and your devout sister, for
whom he forgot every one else, and me also, in the dancing hall. O
Jungfrau Els, I have the hunter's eyes, which are keen-sighted! For his
sake your beautiful Eva, with her saintly gaze, might easily forget to
pray. It was not you, but she, who drew him to-night to your house. Had
this thought entered my head downstairs in the entry I should probably,
to be honest, have omitted my little fairy tale and let matters take
their course. St. Clare ought to have protected her future votary.
Besides, it pleases the arrogant little lady to show me as plainly as
possible, on every occasion, that I am a horror to her. Let those who
will accept such insults. My Christianity does not go far enough to
offer her the right cheek too. And shall I tell you something? To spoil
her game, I should be capable, in spite of all the life preservers in the
world, of binding Schorlin to me in good earnest."
"Do not!" pleaded Els, raising her clasped hands beseechingly, and added,
as if in explanation: "For the noble Boemund Altrosen's sake, do not."
"To promise that, my darling, is beyond my power," replied Cordula
coolly, "because I myself do not know what I may do or leave undone
tomorrow or the day after. I am like a beech leaf on the stream. Let us
see where the current will carry it. It is certain," and she looked at
her bandaged hands, "that my greatest beauty, my round arms, are
disfigured. Scars adorn a man; on a woman they are ugly and repulsive.
At a dance they can be hidden under tight sleeves, but how hot that would
be in the 'Schwabeln' and 'Rai'! So I had better keep away from these
foolish gaieties in future. A calf turns a countess out of a ballroom!
What do you think of that? New things often happen."
Here she was interrupted; the housekeeper called Els. Sir Seitz
Siebenburg, spite of the untimely hour, had come to speak to her about
an important matter. Her father had gone to rest and sleep. The knight
also enquired sympathisingly about Countess von Montfort and presented
his respects.
"Of which I can make no use!" cried Cordula angrily. "Tell him so,
Martsche."
As the housekeeper withdrew she exclaimed impatiently: "How it burns!
The heat would be enough to convert the rescued calf into an appetising
roast. I wish I could sleep off the pain of my foolish prank! The
sunlight is beginning to be troublesome. I cannot bear it; it is
blinding. Draw the curtain over the window."
Cordula's own maid hastened to obey the order. Els helped the countess
turn on her pillows, and as in doing so she touched her arm, the sufferer
cried angrily: "Who cares what hurts me? Not even you!"
Here she paused. The pleading glance which Els had cast at her must have
pierced her soft heart, for her bosom suddenly heaved violently and,
struggling to repress her sobs, she gasped, "I know you mean kindly, but
I am not made of stone or iron either. I want to be alone and go to
sleep."
She closed her eyes as she spoke and, when Els bent to kiss her, tears
bedewed her cheeks.
Soon after Els went down into the entry to meet her lover's brother-in-
law. He had refused to enter the empty sitting-room. The Countess von
Montfort's unfriendly dismissal had vexed him sorely, yet it made no
lasting impression. Other events had forced into the background the
bitter attack of Cordula, for whom he had never felt any genuine regard.
The experiences of the last few hours had converted the carefully
bedizened gallant into a coarse fellow, whose outward appearance bore
visible tokens of his mental depravity. The faultlessly cut garment was
pushed awry on his powerful limbs and soiled on the breast with wine
stains. The closely fitting steel chain armour, in which he had ridden
out, now hung in large folds upon his powerful frame. The long mustache,
which usually curled so arrogantly upwards, now drooped damp and limp
over his mouth and chin, and his long reddish hair fell in dishevelled
locks around his bloated face. His blue eyes, which usually sparkled so
brightly, now looked dull and bleared, and there were white spots on his
copper-coloured cheeks.
Since Countess Cordula gave him the insulting message to his wife he had
undergone more than he usually experienced in the course of years.
"An accursed night!" he had exclaimed, in reply to the housekeeper's
question concerning the cause of his disordered appearance.
Els, too, was startled by his looks and the hoarse sound of his voice.
Nay, she even drew back from him, for his wandering glance made her fear
that he was intoxicated.
Only a short time before, it is true, he had scarcely been able to stand
erect, but the terrible news which had assailed him had quickly sobered
him.
He had come at this unwontedly early hour to enquire whether the Ortliebs
had heard anything of his brother-in-law Wolff. There was not a word of
allusion to the broken betrothal.
In return for the promise that she would let the Eysvogels know as
soon as she received any tidings of her lover, which Els gave unasked,
Siebenburg, who had always treated her repellently or indifferently,
thanked her so humbly that she was surprised. She did not know how to
interpret it; nay, she anticipated nothing good when, with urgent
cordiality, he entreated her to forget the unpleasant events of the
preceding night, which she must attribute to a sudden fit of anger on
Herr Casper's part. She was far too dear to all the members of the
family for them to give her up so easily. What had occurred--she
must admit that herself--might have induced even her best friend to
misunderstand it. For one brief moment he, too, had been tempted to
doubt her innocence. If she knew old Eysvogel's terrible situation she
would certainly do everything in her power to persuade her father to
receive him that morning, or--which would be still better--go to his
office. The weal and woe of many persons were at stake, her own above
all, since, as Wolff's betrothed bride, she belonged to him inseparably.
"Even without the ring?" interrupted Els bitterly; and when Siebenburg
eagerly lamented that he had not brought it back, she answered proudly
"Don't trouble yourself, Sir Seitz! I need this sacred pledge as little
as the man who still wears mine. Tell your kinsfolk so. I will inform
my father of Herr Casper's wish; he is asleep now. Shall I guess aright
in believing that the other disasters which have overtaken you are
connected with the waggon trains Wolff so anxiously expected?"
Siebenburg, twirling his cap in confusion, assented to her question,
adding that he knew nothing except that they were lost and, after
repeating his entreaty that she would accomplish a meeting between the
two old gentlemen, left her.
It would indeed have been painful for him to talk with Els, for a
messenger had brought tidings that the waggons had been attacked and
robbed, and the perpetrators of the deed were his own brothers and their
cousin and accomplice Absbach. True, Seitz himself had had no share in
the assault, yet he did not feel wholly blameless for what had occurred,
since over the wine and cards he had boasted, in the presence of the
robbers, of the costly wares which his father-in-law was expecting, and
mentioned the road they would take.
Seitz Siebenburg's conscience was also burdened with something quite
different.
Vexed and irritated by the countess's insulting rebuff, he had gone to
the Green Shield to forget his annoyance at the gaming table in the Duke
of Pomerania's quarters. He had fared ill. There was no lack of fiery
Rhine wine supplied by the generous host; the sultry atmosphere caused by
the rising thunderstorm increased his thirst and, half intoxicated, and
incensed by the luck of Heinz Schorlin, in whom he saw the preferred
lover of the lady who had so suddenly withdrawn her favour, he had been
led on to stakes of unprecedented amount. At last he risked the lands,
castle, and village which he possessed in Hersbruck as his wife's dower.
Moreover, he was aware of having said things which, though he could not
recall them to memory in detail, had roused the indignation of many of
those who were present. The remarks referred principally to the Ortlieb
sisters.
Amid the wild uproar prevailing around the gaming table that night the
duel which had cost young Vorchtel his life was not mentioned until the
last dice had been thrown. In the discussion the victor's betrothed
bride had been named, and Siebenburg clearly remembered that he had
spoken of the breaking of his brother-in-law's engagement, and connected
it with accusations which involved him in a quarrel with several of the
guests, among them Heinz Schorlin.
Similar occurrences were frequent, and he was brave, strong, and skilful
enough to cope with any one, even the dreaded Swiss; only he was vexed
and troubled because he had disputed with the man to whom he had lost his
property. Besides, his father-in-law had so earnestly enjoined it upon
him to put no obstacle in the way of his desire to make peace with the
Ortliebs that he was obliged to bow his stiff neck to them.
The arrogant knight's position was critical, and real inward dignity was
unknown to him. Yet he would rather have been dragged with his brothers
to the executioner's block than humbled himself before the Swiss. But he
must talk with him for the sake of his twin sons, whose heritage he had
so shamefully gambled away. True, the utmost he intended was the
confession that, while intoxicated, he had staked his property at the
gaming table and said things which he regretted. Heinz Schorlin's
generosity was well known. Perhaps he might offer some acceptable
arrangement ere the notary conveyed his estate to him. He did not yet
feel that he could stoop so low as to receive a gift from this young
upstart.
If his father-in-law, who supported him, was really ruined, as he had
just asserted, he would indeed be plunged into beggary, with his wife,
whose stately figure constantly rose before him, with a look of mute
reproach, his beautiful twin boys, and his load of debt.
The gigantic man felt physically crushed by the terrible blows of fate
which had fallen upon him during this last wakeful night. He would fain
have gone to the nearest tavern and there left it to the wine to bring
forgetfulness. To drink, drink constantly, and in the intervals sleep
with his head resting on his arms, seemed the most tempting prospect.
But he was obliged to return to the Eysvogels. There was too much at
stake. Besides, he longed to see the twins who resembled him so closely,
and of whom Countess Cordula had said that she hoped they would not be
like their father.
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Abandoned women (required by law to help put out the fires)
The heart must not be filled by another's image