The next morning broke dull and gloomy, clouded by the thick fog which
late autumn often brings in its train. It was still very early, and
only just light without, when Colonel Wilten entered the Castle. He
came on foot, and was at once shown into the Baron's private study by a
servant who had previously received his instructions. Raven appeared
immediately. He was quite ready, but his features bore no trace of a
past vigil, or a restless night. He had, indeed, slept profoundly up to
the moment when his servant had called him. On coming in, he advanced
to greet the Colonel with his usual self-possession and quiet gravity.
Some few observations were exchanged having reference to the fog, the
drive before them, the place and hour of meeting--then Raven drew out
the key of his writing-table, and gave it to the Colonel.
"I must ask you, in case of my death, to take on yourself the first and
most necessary arrangements," he said. "My papers will be found in
order. There, in that compartment, lies my will, with a few personal
memoranda which I yesterday noted down. There you will also find a
letter which I beg you to forward without delay to its address. It is
directed to Dr. Rudolph Brunnow."
"To your adversary of to-day?" asked the Colonel, in astonishment.
"Yes. It contains an explanation which I owe him, but which cannot be
given before the duel. He will find it there in writing--but now, one
thing more." The Baron paused a moment, and then slowly drew a second
letter from his breast pocket. "These lines are destined for my ward,
Gabrielle von Harder. I should wish, however, that she might be in some
measure prepared before receiving them, or the news of any ... accident
... the shock to her would be terrible. I will ask you, therefore, to
place this letter in her hands yourself; but to go to work with
prudence, with extreme prudence. A tender young creature like Gabrielle
needs care. If the intelligence were imparted to her too brusquely, too
suddenly, it might kill her."
Wilten had some difficulty in concealing his surprise at this speech,
which was a half-confession. He began to understand why his son's suit
had not been more warmly countenanced.
"I have your promise?" asked the Baron.
"In case of your death, the young Baroness Harder shall receive the
letter from my own hands, and I myself will break the news to her with
every precaution in my power. I give you my word."
"I thank you," said Raven, visibly relieved. "And now it is time we
should set out. My carriage is waiting below. May I ask you to drive
round alone to the back of the Castle-hill, where I will join you? I
wish to avoid drawing attention to this unusually early journey, and
prefer not to go out by the principal entrance. I will come through the
Castle-garden."
This arrangement struck Wilten as odd, but he assented to it in
silence. Raven rang for his hat and coat, and when his valet had
brought both, the two gentlemen left the room together, separating
below at the foot of the staircase.
As the Baron crossed the Castle-yard, he met Councillor Moser, who was
just coming out of his dwelling, and who appeared much surprised at
seeing his chief abroad at this unwonted hour. Raven stopped.
"What, Councillor? On foot so early?"
"I was only looking out at the weather, your Excellency," explained the
Councillor. "I am in the habit of taking a constitutional in the
morning, but when I see this cold, damp fog I prefer to remain at
home."
"You do well," rejoined the Baron. "The weather is not inviting."
"And yet your Excellency is going out?" hazarded Moser.
"On a necessary errand which cannot be delayed. Good-morning, and
good-bye."
So saying, the Baron held out his hand, which the old gentleman took
reverentially, but in some confusion. He had often received marks of
the kindly feeling entertained towards him by his chief, but had never
been honoured by any such approach to familiarity. This unwonted
friendliness encouraged the Councillor to speak words he had long
pondered in his heart.
"If I may be allowed a question," he began timidly. "They are saying
... there was a report in the town yesterday evening that your
Excellency is intending to retire from office. Is it true? Are you
really leaving?"
"Yes, I am going," said Raven, with quiet decision; "and going very
shortly."
The Councillor's head drooped sorrowfully.
"In that case, I shall not remain here myself," he replied in a low
voice. "I have long thought of asking to be relieved from my duties."
The Baron looked at him in silence. The old man's fidelity touched him.
Moser alone had stood by him, true and staunch to the last; he alone
had held to his allegiance, unshaken by the attacks, refusing to be
misled by all the calumnies.
"Go back into the house, my dear sir," said Raven, kindly. "You will
take cold out here in the chill morning air, lightly clad as you are.
Once more, adieu."
Again he took the old man's hand, pressing it this time with a quick,
warm pressure; then he went on his way.
The Councillor stood looking after him. He, who habitually had such a
horror of taking cold, forgot now that he was bare-headed and without
an overcoat. That shake of the hand had bewildered him, and the "adieu"
sounded so strangely in his ears. He felt as if he must hurry after his
chief and put another question to him, just to look in his face and
hear his voice once more, and the thought of the impropriety he should
be committing alone prevented him. Not until the Baron had passed out
of sight did he return to his dwelling; a deep sigh escaped his breast
as he mounted the stairs. It had come, then! The Governor had actually
tendered his resignation!
Meanwhile Raven walked with slow steps through the Castle-garden. He
had not been able to resist the desire he felt to enter it once again,
and the visit involved little or no delay. A small door in the wall
gave direct communication with the Castle-hill, a footpath leading down
thence towards the town. The Governor had always used this mode of
egress when he wished that his appearance at any particular place
should be a surprise, and so preferred not to quit the Castle by the
principal entrance, and to pass the sentry-posts. He would in all
probability arrive below simultaneously with the carriage, which had to
make a considerable round by the high-road.
At the Nixies' Well the Baron lingered a few minutes. What had become
of the bright moonlit Eden of yesterday evening? All was now closely
wrapped in the morning mist. The grass, slightly frosted over,
glistened white with rime. The mighty limes, with their sparse foliage,
loomed, weird and dark, through the screen of vapour, and the drooping
branches strewed the ground with their wet and faded leaves. The
nixies' fountain still murmured on, but its shining shower was now
transformed into a mere dismal, colourless rain, which dripped
incessantly over the grey weather-beaten statues at the base; there was
something unspeakably sad in its constant, weary monotony. The
transfiguring light, which had glorified all with its splendour, had
disappeared, and stern reality stood revealed--autumn in its dreariest
aspect, autumn cheerless and desolate.
Raven drew his cloak more closely about him; the morning wind pierced
with an icy chill. He turned to the parapet whence the broad prospect
could generally best be seen. So recently as yesterday the valley had
lain there, dim, but mysteriously lovely in the magic moonlight sheen;
now the vast space was filled with seething masses of grey mist. Here
and there one of the city towers emerged vaguely, piercing the dense
clouds; but the valley, the mountains and distant horizon were
altogether shrouded from view. The Baron's gaze wandered over the city,
which had so long obeyed his rule, to lose itself in the surging sea of
fog at his feet. What was its secret? What lay hidden beyond? A golden
sunlit morrow, or grey cycles of endless gloom?
One last look up at the Castle--but a fleeting glance, for Gabrielle's
room was on the other side of the building, and her windows could not
be seen from hence--then Raven opened the small door in the garden-wall
and stepped out into the open country. He arrived at the foot of the
hill just as the carriage reached that spot. A minute later he was
seated at Colonel Wilten's side, and soon the town and Castle lay far
behind them.
Swiftly they travelled on, past the steaming meadows, by the bank of
the brawling, fast-flowing river, onwards towards the mountains. In
half an hour the goal was reached; they arrived at the skirt of the
forests which covered the hill-sides. Here the Baron and his companion
alighted, and pursued their way on foot to the appointed place of
meeting. The adversary's party was already on the ground. It consisted
of Dr. Brunnow, his second, and his son, who, it had been agreed, was
to render any medical assistance which might be required. A silent
greeting was exchanged, a short parley followed between the seconds,
then those gentlemen proceeded to make the necessary preparations.
Max stood by his father, whose pale face and haggard eyes told of a
sleepless night, and who in vain strove to hide his feverish agitation.
His lips were tightly set, and the hand his son held twitched every now
and then with a nervous quiver.
"Compose yourself, father," Max whispered; "your hand is so unsteady,
you will hardly be able to press the trigger."
"No fear, I shall be able," replied the Doctor, in the same subdued
voice, glancing at the pistols, which were at that moment being loaded
by the seconds.
"Colonel Wilten's attention is already attracted this way," said Max,
significantly. "Will you let him think that you are thus agitated by
fear of a bullet?"
Brunnow gave an angry start.
"True," he said. "The strangers present cannot guess what is passing
within me. They shall not, at least, take me for a coward."
He made an effort to collect himself, and succeeded in assuming a
calmer demeanour; but he avoided glancing towards the spot where the
Baron stood. In his usual haughty attitude, with a look of cold
determination on his features, Raven, quite unmoved, awaited the coming
event.
The mists began gradually to disperse; already the mountain summits and
the villages on the higher lands came in sight. The sun must just have
risen, for the whole eastern horizon was suffused with a red glow; as
yet, however, the rays were not intense enough to fight a way through
the thick vapour. The town still lay shrouded in its moist white veil;
but the Castle on the heights was visible now, shadowy, indeed, and in
a sort of mirage, but growing every minute more clear and definite.
There Gabrielle slept in peaceful ignorance, dreaming of the morrow and
the felicity to come; while here the momentous die was cast which was
to decide her fate.
Colonel Wilten now declared that all was ready, and the combatants
stepped on to the ground. Raven stood well erect, his eye clear and
full, the hand which held his pistol absolutely steady, as though
certain of its aim. Brunnow's composure was evidently forced, and
sustained by a great effort. Though the approach of the decisive
moment, and the fear of misinterpretation, in some measure restored
firmness to his bearing, his hand shook visibly as he levelled the
deadly weapon at the breast of the friend he had once so ardently
loved.
Wilten gave the signal. The two shots crashed forth together; and, for
a moment, both adversaries stood upright, facing each other. Then one
man dropped his weapon, pressed his hand to his breast, took a step
back, and fell, without uttering a sound.
Arno Raven lay stretched on the ground, and the white rime on the grass
around him grew dark with a deep-red stain.
Max hastily assured himself that his father was unhurt, and then
hurried to the side of the wounded man, whom the Colonel was already
endeavouring to succour. Brunnow stood motionless, clutching his
pistol, and gazing over with fixed, vacant eyes at the group opposite
him. The gentleman who had acted as his second came up to him and
spoke.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, in a low voice. "Was it not
the Baron who challenged you? He fired in the air."
The word seemed to dispel the torpor which paralysed Brunnow. He threw
down his pistol, and rushed over to the others.
"Arno!" he cried, with an exceeding bitter cry of despair. Max was
attempting to staunch the blood; but his father thrust him violently
aside, as though he alone had a right to that place, tore from him the
handkerchief, and pressed it to the wound. The young man withdrew in
silence, signing to the Colonel and his father's second, who were
looking on at the scene in surprise and concern, to step aside with
him.
"Can you give the Baron no assistance?" asked the Colonel, in a
half-whisper.
"There is none to be given," replied Max. "My first glance at the wound
showed me it was mortal. It is only a question of a few minutes, and my
father will do what is necessary. I beg of you to leave him alone with
the dying man."
"Of the two shots, one only could have proved fatal," said Brunnow's
second, meaningly.
The Colonel nodded.
"I saw it too. Raven averted his pistol at the last moment. Strange!"
The three men looked at each other in silence. They began to divine for
what reasons this duel had been provoked; but none gave utterance to
his thoughts. They felt that at yonder spot, where the adversary knelt
by the side of his fallen foe, a scene was being enacted which had
nothing in common with the ordinary circumstances of a duel; and,
respecting the young doctor's request, they remained reverentially at a
distance.
Brunnow had passed one arm round the wounded man, whose head lay on his
breast, and supported him, while with the other hand he pressed the
handkerchief to the bleeding part. Whether it were the pain of this
touch, or the bitter cry "Arno!" which brought him back to
consciousness, Raven opened his eyes and made a faint, deprecatory
gesture.
"Let that be," he said. "You aimed well. I was sure of it."
"Arno, why have you done this thing to me?" groaned Brunnow. "Must it
be my hand, none but mine? Oh! I see now, I understand why you drove me
to it."
There was such anguish in his tone that it affected even the dying man.
He tried to hold out his hand to the speaker.
"Forgive me, Rudolph," he said, but half audibly. "Do not reproach
yourself. I thank you."
His voice forsook him, but with a supreme effort he raised himself, and
his roving eyes seemed to search for something in the distance, Brunnow
supported him, striving with mortal anxiety to stem the flow of blood,
the red life-stream which his own hand had let loose; yet his science
told him that here no exertions could avail to succour or to save.
Suddenly the sun broke through the veil of mist. Yonder, on the
heights, stood the Castle, illuminated by the morning splendour. Its
walls and towers gleamed in the rosy flood, and its windows flashed
swift lightning greetings over to the valley beneath. Arno's eyes were
fixed intently on one spot; his last look was for the "sunbeam" which
even now sent a bright message to him from thence. In another moment
the picture paled, the shining vision receded farther and farther from
view. Dark shadows gathered about the dying man. Before his dimmed eyes
came as the eddy of cool water closing in upon him, and he was drawn
down, down into mysterious, glimmering depths where all earthly sounds
were hushed, where all the striving and the strife, the happiness and
sorrow of life, died away into one long continuous dream; while,
intermingling with this dream, there ran ever an unvarying far-off
murmur, the low spirit-singing of a spring borne faintly below from
some immeasurable distance.
Brunnow laid the dead man gently down. He himself would have risen, but
his strength abandoned him, and he sank unconscious to the ground
beside the lifeless body of the comrade, the friend of his youth.