Thy hope is young, thy heart is strong, but yet a day may be,
When thou shalt weep in dungeon deep, and none thy weeping see.
_The Count of Saldana_.
Morton had left Vienna, and was journeying in the diligence on the
confines of Styria. The cumbrous machine had been lumbering on all
night. Awaking at daybreak from his comfortless sleep, and looking
through the breath-bedimmed panes before him, he saw the postilion's
shoulders wearily jolting up and down with the motion of the lazy
horses. He had one fellow-traveller in the compartment which he
occupied, a man of thirty-five or thereabouts, who had taken the
diligence late the evening before, and who now, his shoulders
supported by the leather straps which hung for the purpose from the
roof, and his head tumbling forward on his chest, was dozing with a
ludicrously grim expression of countenance. At length a sudden jolt
awakened him; he started, shook himself, looked about him, inclined
his head by way of salutation to his fellow-traveller, and opened a
conversation with a remark on the chillness of the morning. After
conversing for a time in French, the stranger said in excellent
English, "I see there is no need of our speaking French, for by your
accent I judge that you are English. I myself have a little of the
English about me; that is to say, I was four years at Oxford, though I
am German by birth."
"I am not English, though my ancestors were."
"You are American, then?" said the stranger, looking at him with some
curiosity; and from this beginning, their acquaintance ripened fast.
The German, regarding his companion as a young man of more
intelligence than experience, conversed with an ease and frankness
which fast gained upon Morton's confidence. He proved, indeed, a
storehouse of information, discoursing of the people, the country, and
even the government, with little reserve, and an admirable copiousness
and minuteness of knowledge. At length he asked Morton if he had any
acquaintance in Austria.
"None, excepting one or two persons at Vienna, to whom I had letters."
"Then you have probably made agreeable acquaintances. The society of
Vienna is a very pleasant one."
"My letters were, or purported to be, to _savans_ and literary men."
"There, too, you should have found persons well worth the meeting."
"I have no doubt of it."
"You do not speak," said the investigating stranger, with a smile,
"like one who has been much pleased with his experience."
"I have had no opportunity to judge fairly of the Viennese _savans_."
"Your letters gave you no opportunity?"
"They were given me at Paris, in a rather singular way; and, to say
the truth, the persons to whom they introduced me were so little to my
taste, that after delivering one or two of them, I determined not to
use the rest."
"You appear to have been very unfortunate. Will you allow me to ask to
whom your letters were addressed?"
"They were written by a person whom I never saw, and were given to me
by a friend,--an acquaintance,--of mine, as a means of gaining
information about the country; such information as that for which I am
indebted to you. I have been a good deal perplexed as to the character
of the persons to whom they were written."
"Very probably I could aid you."
Morton mentioned the names of the men he had seen.
The German at first looked puzzled, then amazed, then distrustful.
"Your letters were got for you by a friend of yours?"
"Yes."
"And were written by----"
"A professor from Berlin, named Speyer,--Henry Speyer."
"Henry Speyer!" repeated the German, in astonishment.
"You were saying that you had lived for some years at Berlin. Perhaps
you can tell me who and what he is."
"I know of no Professor Henry Speyer at Berlin."
"This man, I am told, is well known as a philologist."
"There is a Henry Speyer who is a philologist, so far as speaking
every language in Europe can make him one; but he was never a
professor in Berlin or any where else."
Morton looked perplexed. The German studied his face for a moment, and
then said,--
"You say that a friend of yours gave you letters from Henry Speyer to
the men you just named?"
"Yes."
"I beg your pardon! Have you ever quarrelled with your friend? Are you
on terms with your friend's mistress? or do you stand between your
friend and a fortune?"
A cold thrill passed through Morton's frame. There was an approach to
truth in both the two last suppositions.
"Either you are very much deeper than I know how to comprehend you, or
else you are the victim of a plot."
"What kind of plot?" demanded the startled Morton; "who is Speyer, and
who are the other men?"
"I will tell you. Speyer is an intriguer, a revolutionist, a man in
every way infamous. As for his being a professor, he is no more a
professor than he is a prime minister, and you may ascribe what
motives you please to your friend for giving him the name. He dares
not set foot in Austria. If he did, it would go very hard with him.
The other men are of the same kidney--his aiders, abetters, fellow
conspirators; known or suspected to be plotting for the overthrow of
the government."
"Then why are they at liberty?"
"Do you call it liberty to be day and night under the eye of the
police--to be dogged and watched every hour of their lives? They serve
as a sort of decoy. All who hold communication with them are noted
down as dangerous; and my only wonder is, that you have not before
this heard from the police."
"And what would you advise me to do?"
"Get out of Austria as soon and as quietly as you can. When you have
passed the frontier you will be safe, and not before."