Sonnenkamp was quite calm once more. When the Cabinetsrath was gone, he

rang, and ordered the newspaper. He read it entirely through, even the

advertisements; this put him upon another course of thought. Again and

again he read the official news at the head of the paper, official

appointments, military promotions, and grants of pardon; such things

were sprinkled along through the whole year after the grand

distribution of orders was over. He was already thinking to himself how

it would appear in that part of the paper in the morning, that His

Highness had, in his graciousness, seen fit to elevate Herr James

Sonnenkamp and his family, under the title of Baron von Lichtenburg, to

the hereditary dignity of nobles. And, what was more, the newspaper of

Professor Crutius must publish it.

Proud and erect, he strode for a long time up and down the chamber.

Then he recollected that the Cabinetsrath had informed him that the

Prince liked certain ceremonies, and that he would have to make oath

with his bare hand. He looked at his hand. How would it be if the

Prince asked about the ring on his thumb?

"Your Highness, that is an iron ring that I have worn since my

eighteenth year," said Sonnenkamp suddenly, as if he were standing in

the presence of the Prince.

But then again, he asked himself why he should expose himself to the

question. It might still be possible to take the ring off; the scar

could no longer be visible. With burning face he put his hand in water

until it was nearly numb, but the ring did not come off. He rang; Lootz

came, and he ordered him to bring ice. He held his hand on the ice, the

ring at last loosened about the thumb; it rubbed hard over the knuckle,

but at last came off. Sonnenkamp examined the sear that had been

concealed by the ring. Could any one now tell that it had been left by

a bite?

He was enraged with himself that he had awakened this remembrance

to-day. Of what use was it?

He rang for Lootz; he wanted to ask him what he would take the scar on

his thumb to be. But when Lootz came he let the question go, for it

might have excited curiosity; he gave the steward a commission for the

morrow, and finally sought rest in sleep. He did not find it for a long

while; for it seemed to him as if a chilly current of air were

continually circulating about the bare thumb. When he doubled up his

fist he felt it no longer, and so he finally went to sleep with his

fist clinched.

CHAPTER II.

DRILLING UNDER FIRE.

The sparrows were twittering with one another on the roof, but the

hack-drivers were chattering still more busily before the Hotel

Victoria, when, in the morning, Sonnenkamp's horses and double-seated

carriage waited before the porch of the hotel.

The little hump-backed driver, who always led the talk, now held the

first place, and naturally spoke first. He informed his companions that

to-day Sonnenkamp was to be made a count, yes, perhaps even a prince,

for he had more money than a prince. Unluckily, the first hack was just

then taken by a stranger, and the little driver deeply regretted that

he could not be on hand when Herr Sonnenkamp was coming out. He

recommended the others to give the Count a cheer when he was getting

into the carriage.

But it was a long while before Herr Sonnenkamp came down out of the

hotel, for he was walking up and down the spacious hall, clad in black,

with white cravat, and with the order on his breast. The Cabinetsrath

was walking by his side; he said that he could well understand that

Herr Sonnenkamp should be very much excited, but that he would be only

so much the more easy in mind at noon. Sonnenkamp was all the time

biting his lips, and more than once changed color.

"You are well, are you not?" asked the Cabinetsrath.

Sonnenkamp said yes; he could not say that that bare thumb of his was

so painful. When he was not looking at the hand, he had a sensation

as if the thumb were swelling up into a monstrous size, and the

pulse-beats in it felt like the blows of a red-hot hammer.

He examined his hand frequently, and felt comforted when he found that

he was suffering under a delusion.

Lootz came. Sonnenkamp took him aside, and he informed him that

Professor Crutius regretted that he was unable to pay him a visit,

being obliged at that moment to set about preparing the evening

edition.

"Did you bring the morning edition with you?"

"No, it will not be issued until eleven o'clock."

"Why didn't you wait for it? it is nearly eleven now."

"I thought that you might want something else, sir, before going up to

the castle."

"Very well, give me my overcoat."

Joseph was standing near at hand all ready with it; Sonnenkamp took

leave of Roland and Pranken, who were going to ride out with some

companions; he requested them to be back at the hotel at twelve o'clock

precisely.

For the last time the commoner Sonnenkamp descended those steps, to

ascend them next as a Baron. The Cabinetsrath walked by his side.

When he entered the carriage below, the hack-drivers, as they had been

recommended, wanted to raise a cheer, but they could not bring it out:

it was of no use to try without the dwarf who knew how to lead off;

they stood all together in a knot staring at Sonnenkamp, and took off

their hats.

Sonnenkamp acknowledged the salutation most graciously.

The Cabinetsrath regretted that he could not go with him; he simply

ordered the coachman to stop before the great gate of the palace.

Pranken left Roland alone, as the Ensign had promised to call for the

latter when he got back from the drill ground. With an unusually quiet

tone and modest manner, Pranken bade good bye until they met again at

table, for Sonnenkamp had ordered an elegant little lunch for four,

himself, his son and son-in-law, and the Cabinetsrath.

Sonnenkamp dashed along through the streets of the city; the people on

foot stood still. Many who knew him saluted him, and many too, who did

not know him; for a foreign prince might sit in such a carriage, and

deference must be paid to a foreign prince.

The horses trotted on gaily, as if they knew to what honor they were

carrying their master. Sonnenkamp lay back in the carriage, and played

awhile with the order upon his breast. This token gave him an

encouragement; for why was he apprehensive in taking the second step,

when he had felt no apprehension in taking the first, and no danger had

yet made its appearance?

The carriage drove past a building with many windows. Sonnenkamp knew

it. It was the editing and printing establishment of Professor Crutius.

Knots of men were standing in front of it, some of them reading a copy

of the paper; they looked up and nodded, as the handsome carriage

passed by. Sonnenkamp would have liked to stop to get a paper; he had

already grasped the check-string, intending to gives Bertram the signal

to stop, but he dropped it again.

Why is this? Why is he so anxious to get the newspaper to-day? Ah, men

are better off in the desolate wilderness, where not one human being is

to be seen, where there are no newspapers nor anything of the kind. So

Sonnenkamp thought to himself, as he drove through the lively capital

to the palace of the Prince.

A jolt suddenly startled him; the carriage was stopped. Around the

corner, a battalion of soldiers was approaching with loud music. The

carriage had to stop until the soldiers had all passed by, and it

required some effort to keep the horses in check, on account of the

noise.

Now they were all past; Sonnenkamp looked at his watch. It would be a

terrible thing if, at the very outset, he should have missed the

appointed minute, and have been obliged to excuse himself to the

Prince. Are you then so far a prisoner? Are you then so bound to the

very minute?

He was almost ready to call out to the coachman to turn back; he would

have nothing to do with the whole affair.

Again he was angry with himself at being so powerfully excited without

cause. He let down the carriage window, took off his hat, and was

delighted to feel the refreshment of the cool breeze.

Bertram proudly drew up the carriage before the grand portal. Both the

sentinels stood still; they were waiting to see whether they should

shoulder or present arms. The carriage door was opened, the sentinels

remained motionless, for only a man in black clothes, with a single

order, stepped out.

Joseph accompanied Sonnenkamp to the large high-studded porch, which

was white and richly ornamented with stucco work. At the foot of the

step were two handsomely chiselled marble wolves; they looked at

Sonnenkamp in almost a friendly way; and really, everything looked as

splendid as could be imagined. Sonnenkamp made a sign to Joseph that he

might give something, suitable to the occasion to the lackeys in

attendance here; he had provided him with an uncounted handful of gold

for the purpose; he could trust Joseph.

The porter in grand livery, with broad hat and gold-tipped staff, asked

whom he should announce.

Sonnenkamp and Joseph looked at each other in embarrassment. Joseph was

discreet enough to leave the answer to his master, and Sonnenkamp did

not know whether he ought to say Baron von Lichtenburg or Herr

Sonnenkamp.

Pooh, what did it signify giving the old name to this lackey? This name

appeared to him so repugnant, thrown off for good like a worn-out shoe;

it was so hard to understand how he had borne it so long, without being

ashamed of it before the whole world. Finally Sonnenkamp answered with

evident condescension:--

"I have been ordered to wait upon His Highness."

He felt badly to be obliged to use the word "ordered" before

Joseph--he, Sonnenkamp, had been "ordered"--but he wished to show the

footman at any rate that he was acquainted with court phraseology.

The footman pressed a telegraphic bell; a valet dressed in black

appeared at the head of the staircase, and said that the Herr Baron had

been expected for two minutes, and must make all the haste possible. It

seemed almost as if an avenging angel from heaven were announcing here

below some shortcoming or transgression.

With trembling knees Sonnenkamp stumbled up the carpeted staircase; he

had to draw on his gloves on the way up, saying silently to himself

meanwhile:--

"Keep yourself easy now."

At the top of the staircase a second valet appeared, white-haired, in

short black knee-breeches and high black gaiters, and said:--

"Do not hurry, Herr Sonnenkamp, His Highness has not returned yet from

the drill ground."

Sonnenkamp felt like knocking the first valet down for having put him

into such a state of anxiety. He regretted that he had commissioned

Joseph to give every one of the servants a piece of gold; he hoped that

Joseph, after all, was a rogue, and would keep the gold for himself,

and give the cursed attendants none of it.

The white-haired valet conversed freely with Sonnenkamp, and informed

him, that he had been with Prince Leonhard in America; it was a hateful

country, without order and without manners; he thanked God, when he got

home again.

Sonnenkamp did not know how he ought to take this freedom; but the best

way was to put up with it silently. He listened with assenting nods,

and thought to himself, What a way they have of doing things here in

the palace! It is just as if the people in it didn't walk on their

feet; everything is so mysterious; as if something was going on every

moment that had nothing at all in common with the life of other men.

The white-haired valet requested Sonnenkamp to sit down while he

waited.

Sonnenkamp did sit down, and drew off his right-hand glove; he wanted

to be able to do it without difficulty when the time came to unglove

that hand for the oath; and then he presented some gold pieces to the

white-haired valet.

The experienced valet withdrew, bowing, to the end of the room; he knew

the dread that was felt by those who are not accustomed to the court,

and would leave the man to compose himself.

Sonnenkamp sat still; again those wild pulsations began to hammer away

in his thumb; he called for a glass of water.

The white-haired valet called to another, this one to a third, and the

call for a glass of water went far into the distance.

A very old clock that was standing on the mantle-piece struck the

quarter hour. Sonnenkamp compared his watch with it, and found that it

was very slow; he determined in future to set his watch, by the clock

in the palace.

Sonnenkamp was alone: and yet he little thought that through the clear

edges of the ground glass in a door behind him, two eyes were fastened

upon him, and that those eyes were rolling savagely in their sockets.

Just as the glass of water made its appearance, it was announced that

Herr Sonnenkamp might enter. He could not even once moisten his lips.

He entered the large hall, where it was bright daylight; but he

staggered back, for directly opposite to him hung an engraving, a work

of Alfred Rethel's. A strong-limbed man with the murderer's knife still

in his hand, bending and stooping, was making his escape over a heath;

the bushes on the road were blown aside by the wind, and above the

fugitive hovers a supernatural shape, holding a sword, with the point

downward, directly over the head of the fleeing criminal.

Sonnenkamp rubbed his eyes.

What is the picture here for? Or is it only a creation of his own

fancy?

He did not have time to decide this matter for himself, for just then

the Prince entered noiselessly from behind the curtain of the door,

over the thick heavy carpet. He was dressed in full uniform, with a

broad band thrown over the right shoulder and across his breast. He

carried himself very erect, and merely nodded slightly. He bade

Sonnenkamp welcome, and excused himself for having kept him waiting.

Sonnenkamp bowed low, without uttering a word.

CHAPTER III.

A BLOOD-RED STREAK.

"Is your son with you?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"Is he still determined to enter the army?"

"He is anxious to do so."

"I like the noble-looking youth, and will take care that the ladies do

not spoil him; they would like to make a plaything of him. Has he

already applied for admission?"

"Not yet, your Highness. I wished to have the application made in the

name that your Highness is pleased to confer upon me."

"Quite right," answered the Prince. On his writing-table were two

telegraphic knobs, a white and a black one; he pressed the white one;

the old valet entered, and the Prince said,--

"I desire that there shall be no one in the ante-chamber."

The attendant withdrew. Sonnenkamp gazed questioningly at the Prince,

who said:--

"Your elevation to rank has been a difficult matter for me. You have

many enemies, of course."

Sonnenkamp's eyes closed for a moment, as if some one were brandishing

a dagger before them; and then he gazed at the picture; it was no

creation of his fancy, it was hanging there behind the Prince. Why did

the Prince have it in his cabinet?

"You are a man of noble ideas," began the Prince anew; "you have shaped

your life yourself, I respect you for that; such men deserve the

highest honors. I am glad that I can confer them on you, as I can."

Sonnenkamp wanted to say that he was well aware of the opinion of the

Count of Wolfsgarten, but that he did not question the absolute power

of the Prince; but it seemed better to be silent. Why should he embark

in a discussion which would only lengthen out the scene? And besides,

the Cabinetsrath had strongly urged upon him the necessity of

discretion.

The Prince now went over once more all the noble and good things which

Sonnenkamp had done. The latter listened modestly with downcast eyes;

he really found it very trying to hear it all now in his present

position; the Prince might defer it until a party, or a hunt, or some

other occasion would offer a favorable opportunity. Sonnenkamp was of

the opinion that the whole court, as well as himself, looked upon all

these stories about nobility as nothing more than an excellent

necessary humbug; he was astonished to find the Prince so solemn and

earnest in a tete-a-tete. Or was this part of the humbug?

But the Prince was going through with what was before him as became a

man moved by duty, however unpleasant the duty might be; he evidently

considered it proper to declare his motives, in order to exhort the man

to strive after things still more noble. He seemed to himself at this

moment a kind of priest, who, concealed from the whole world in the

inner sanctuary of the temple, is consecrating a novice; he was much

moved himself. The first chamberlain had not been wrong; the Prince had

returned to the palace some time before the hour appointed, but he had

been quietly preparing himself beforehand for this solemn ceremony.

Since Herr von Endlich's elevation to the nobility, the Prince had been

in the habit of using certain set phrases; no one knew who had

originated them, but he often repeated, like a lesson learned by heart,

the words--"Yes, yes, it is an established rule, an excellent rule,

that the monumental should not be treated lightly. One should not carve

in stone, or cast in bronze, a momentary jest or whim, to look awkward

and out of place as time goes on; such things are only fit to enliven

the passing moment. The transient should not be transformed into an

enduring monument."

He did not show distinctly what was in his mind, but it was easy to see

what he meant. He had not done well in making a pun with the name he

had conferred upon Herr Ton Endlich, for what is more monumental than

elevation to rank? The present occasion, therefore, he wished to make a

thoroughly solemn one.

Patiently, and like a child bending forward to receive confirmation,

Sonnenkamp bowed his head. Several times the Prince stretched out one

hand, several times the other, several times both together, while he

was speaking of the blessings which men strongly armed with the

knowledge of the higher duties spread around them. Sonnenkamp expected

every minute that he would lay both hands upon his head and bless him,

and although the Prince was younger than himself, he would have

received the blessing with modesty and humility, for this man had been

consecrated by the custom of ages for the dispensation of honor.

At this moment Sonnenkamp tried to be right monarchically inclined; if

it had been demanded of him, he would, with every prescribed formula,

have solemnly foresworn republic, constitution, and whatever was firmly

fixed by the power of law.

In the midst of his remarks the Prince took up a roll, covered with

blue velvet, that was lying on his table; he took off the covering and

drew out a parchment roll that crackled and rustled, and bore a broad

glistening seal.

Sonnenkamp took off his right-hand glove; now comes the moment when he

must take the oath and receive the parchment that is to make him a new

man. He was ready to be made a new man; he tried to be deeply affected,

and sought for the only thing in the world that could really affect him

deeply and make him tremble. And now in the middle of the Prince's

cabinet he saw before him a church-yard covered with snow in a Polish

village, and there was his mother's grave; he did not hear what the

Prince was saying while he held the parchment in his hand, but his

words were undoubtedly very moving.

But now, what does that mean? the Prince laid the parchment down again

on the table, and, sitting down, said:--

"I am glad to see, in your eyes, how profoundly you feel this moment.

Pray be seated." Sonnenkamp sat down, and the Prince continued:--

"Let us discuss one more subject, in a quiet way. You have held many

slaves, have you any still?"

"No, your Highness."

"Was it only a longing for Germany that induced you to return to the

Old World, or was it also your finding the condition of affairs in the

vaunted Republic unbearable?"

"The latter, your Highness, although the former had something to do

with it. I see trouble brewing in the United States, which--I say this

only to your Highness--cannot be settled except by the establishment of

a monarchy in the New World."

"Good, you must explain the matter to me more fully some other time. I

am glad to learn--very glad. It is our duty to receive instruction from

those who understand a particular subject thoroughly. What do you think

of slavery in general?"

"That is a very extensive subject, your Highness; I have put my views

upon it in writing; I shall have the honor----"

"No, just tell me concisely the kernel, the principle of the thing."

"Your Highness, the niggers are an inferior race, that is an

established physiological fact; it is idle dreaming--though honestly

maintained by many--which leads directly to the ruin of the nigger

himself, to set him down as entitled to the same rights with other

men."

"And would you--" asked the Prince, "No, I will put another question to

you. How do you regard a man who traffics in beings of this inferior

race?"

Sonnenkamp started up immediately from his chair, but he sat down again

quickly, and said:--

"Creatures, your Highness, who cannot help themselves, and who never

will be able to, are protected as they would not otherwise be by being

considered as property; that so called generosity, without profit,

without material regard either for property or for honor, is like a

soul without a body; one can conceive it, but it does not exist, at

least in the world we see before us."

"Very fine--very good. You are a thinker. I myself believe that the

negro is better off with a master. But how is it when you see with your

own eyes the child sold away from the mother, and in that way every tie

of family forcibly torn asunder?"

"But, your Highness, that happens very seldom, or rather hardly ever,"

replied Sonnenkamp with great composure, "for it would be a material

disadvantage, and would make the slaves less inclined to work; but

should it happen, any sentimental feeling about the matter would be

only narrowing the sentimentalism from a wider sphere to a special

case. A brute that has outgrown the care of its parents knows the

parents no more, mates do not know each other after the brooding time

is past. I will not say----"

"What is it?" said the Prince, interrupting him suddenly.

The white-haired valet entered.

"Why am I interrupted?"

"His Excellency the Minister begs your Highness to open this

immediately."

The Prince opened the letter, and took out a printed sheet; a red line

ran along the margin of it like a streak of blood. The Prince began to

read, he looked up from the page towards Sonnenkamp: he read on

farther, the paper cracked and trembled in his hand; he laid it down on

the table and said:--

"Confounded audacity!" Sonnenkamp was standing at the table, and it

seemed to him as if the two telegraphic knobs had changed into eyes,

one white and one black, and from the green table a fabulous creature

of strange form was shaping itself,--a queer monster with a white and a

black eye, and that it was emerging from the deep, moving along

sluggishly, and staggering from side to side. As if in the frenzy of

fever he sat there collecting all his strength. The Prince, looking now

at the paper, now at Sonnenkamp, at last walked up to him and held out

the paper; the rustle of it was like the stab of a knife as he said:--

"Here, read it--read it."

Printed in large letters on it were these words marked with red ink:--

"A humble suggestion for a coat-of-arms and escutcheon for the ennobled

slave-trader and slave-killer, James Heinrich Sonnenkamp, formerly

Banfield, from Louisiana--"

Sonnenkamp read only these words, and then stared up at the Prince, on

whose face was a distorted smile.

"Give me your hand," said the Prince, "give me your hand and tell me,

on your word of honor, that it is a lie. Give me your hand, and we will

then crush the impudent scoundrels."

Sonnenkamp staggered back, as if a shot had struck him. What was all

that he had enjoyed in life compared with the anguish of this moment?

He stretched out his hand doubled up, as if he wished to say: I can

break you like a slender twig. But he opened his hand, and held it on

high with the forefinger pointing to heaven.

Then suddenly there appeared in front of him a large powerful negro,

rolling his eyes and showing his teeth.

With a cry more like that of a wild beast than of a human being,

Sonnenkamp fell backwards upon his chair.

The figure in front of him gave a yell, and behind him yelled

another--it was Adams, who had rushed in.

"Prince! master!" cried the negro, "this is the man who took me, who

carried me off as a slave, and pitched me into the water. Let him only

show his finger, it still bears the mark of my teeth. Let me have him,

let me have him! I'll suck his blood for him, I'll choke him! Only let

me have him a minute--let me have him! then kill me!"

Adams caught hold of Sonnenkamp's hand from behind, and clutched it as

if he would crush it.

Sonnenkamp struggled with all his might to throw off the powerful hold,

wrestling with the negro clinging fast to him; and his anguish was

doubled, for he was not only wrestling, but, as he thought, he could

see in the mirror opposite two beings, one was himself--was it really

he?--the other a devil, a demon.

Is it all only a fever-fancy, or is it reality?

The Prince's finger constantly plied the telegraphic bell on his table;

servants began to pour in, in great numbers.

The Prince cried:--

"Take Adams out. See that he keeps quiet; and the rest of you show this

man out of the palace."

Adams was torn away from Sonnenkamp; he roared like a bull that has

received the fatal stroke, and foamed at the mouth.

The Prince took the parchment with the red seal up from the table, and

turned away with it.

Then Sonnenkamp rose up; he glanced at the Prince, his eyes almost

starting from their sockets, and shrieked out:--

"What would you have? and what then are you? Your ancestors, or

connections, or whatever else they were, sold their subjects away into

America, and got a fixed price for a shot-off arm, for a lucky corpse.

You have trafficked in white men, and sent them across the sea. And

what are you now? Secret proprietors of gambling hells at home. Pah! I

bought my slaves from a prince, bought them honorably, but what did you

do? You sold off your subjects, and on Sundays those who were left

behind had to say amen in the church, when the Lord of lords was

supplicated for your welfare. Are you ashamed of this kinship? But I

tell you he was a man, and deserved better to reign than----"

He was not sure whether the Prince still heard what he was saying; the

servants seized him and gave him to understand that he must be quiet,

that such loud talking was not permitted there.

Sonnenkamp had fallen; he was raised again, and led down the staircase.

He looked about him often, as if he wanted to say, I shall never tread

these halls more.

Below, the carriage was waiting. Sonnenkamp leaned on Joseph and

said:--

"Joseph, sit beside me in the carriage."

That was all he said.

When they had reached the hotel, and got out, the little fellow was in

the midst of the hackmen; they all had courage enough now, and cried

out:--

"Long live the Baron! hurra! again hurra!"

Sonnenkamp could not utter a word. Was the world mocking at him?

He could not tell how he got up the steps. In a moment he was sitting

in a large chair; he gazed at the mirror, as if in that room too the

reflection of the negro must confront him there.

He sat there, staring, without speaking a word.

CHAPTER IV.

DISSECTED.

Sonnenkamp leaned back in the arm-chair and stared before him; then he

looked at the chair itself and caught hold of the arms of it, as if he

wanted to ask, Does the chair I am sitting on still hold together?

Then, as he laid his hand upon his breast, he began to quiver like an

aspen; he felt the order, tore it off with vehemence, and cried:--

"So it in, I must struggle with two worlds. I must fight with the old

one as I have with the new. Cheer up! the new hunt is beginning. I will

not suffer myself to be put down. I must either despise myself, or

despise you; we will see who is strongest, who is most worthy."

It breathed new life into him to think that the world so despised him.

"Just so! I can do that too; I despise you all!"

"But the children! the children!" something whispered to him. When he

was waging war in America, the children knew nothing of it. He rang and

asked:--

"Where is Roland?"

"The young master has not got back yet; he was here at twelve o'clock,

and asked for you, but he rode away again with some comrades."

"He should have waited," exclaimed Sonnenkamp. "Well--it is better so,"

he said, calming himself.

Again he was sitting alone; his mind turned inward on itself, and now

the matter was clear to him. So it was that the men outside the

printing-office had been reading; it was through mockery that the poor

devils in front of the hotel had raised a cheer for him.

He stood up and looked through the window. The hack-drivers were

standing together in a group, and the dwarf was reading to them from

the newspaper; they may have felt that Sonnenkamp was looking at them,

for all at once they turned their gaze upwards, and Sonnenkamp as if

struck by a hundred bullets staggered back into the middle of the room;

then he sat down and held his open hands together between his knees. He

had gazed into an abyss; it had dizzied him, but he was composing

himself with courage and decision. He knew how at this moment they were

talking about him all over the city, in carpeted hall and plastered

stable--they are saying: I wouldn't take all his millions to be in

his shoes. Very assiduously did Sonnenkamp picture everything to

himself--and what will be in the paper in the morning?

Sonnenkamp sat silent a long time, buried in himself; at length a

letter was brought to him, bearing a large seal. Sonnenkamp started;

could the Prince have regretted what had happened, and have gone so far

as to join with him, and, truly great, thus defy the world? Long he

stared at the seal; but it was only that of the newspaper office, and

the weighty letter contained several pieces of gold. Crutius, with many

thanks, returned what he had received at the time he had gone up to the

villa, and explained that he would have sent it back much sooner if he

had not desired to pay it with interest.

"Pshaw! how contemptible," cried Sonnenkamp. For sometime he weighed in

his hand the gold that had been scornfully returned to him. So it is

then! Every one dares to scorn you, and you must be quiet when every

one pities you.

He had a revolver with him, he sprang up; he took it up, waved it in

the air, turned it over. "Yes, that was the course to take! To the

printing-office and shoot down this Professor Crutius like a mad dog!

But in this country that cannot go unpunished. And should he, then,

shoot himself, be thrown into prison, and have his head cut off?

"No, no! we must work the thing differently," he said to himself. He

laid the revolver back again in the case, and rang. Joseph came, he was

trembling. Who knows what the man-eater is going to do with _him_ now?

"Ah, master!" said Joseph, "I remain with you. The coachman Bertram has

taken service here in the house. I do not want double and treble wages,

which people say you will have to give now."

"Good! Who was your father, is he still alive?"

"Yes, indeed; my father is in the School of Anatomy, and when the

corpses of the suicides came to the dissecting-house, my father often

used to say: Yes, yes, when one has done that most frightful thing in

the world, he must be dissected into the bargain. Excuse me, Sir, I

too am quite confused. But the Professorin told me once, that every

one has done something in his life out of the way, and so we should

stand by and be true to one another."

A peculiar smile flitted over Sonnenkamp's countenance; the poor rogue

was playing the kind-hearted, and bestowing forgiveness upon him.

"So? the Professorin?" said he. In a moment his thoughts were in the

villa, in the park, in the hot-houses, in the greenhouse. He wanted to

ask Joseph whether the Professorin had said anything more definite, and

whether she knew all about him. But he kept back the words, and simply

said that he wanted to send some messengers.

"And do you see to it too, let Roland be hunted up and brought here at

once. Let Herr von Pranken be sent for, too," he cried out after

Joseph.

Roland was hard to find, but Pranken was not to be found at all, for he

was in a place where no one would ever have thought of looking for the

life-enjoying Baron.

The head waiter entered and said that dinner was ready, and asked when

it should be served up. Sonnenkamp looked hard at the questioner. The

creature surely knew that he would eat nothing, and had only come to

spy upon him; perhaps there were many people down below who would like

to hear how Herr Sonnenkamp bore himself just now. Sonnenkamp rose

proudly, looked at the head waiter with a repelling glance, and told

him that he need not ask, he would let him know when he wanted what he

had ordered; and at the same time he charged him to see to it, that no

one should be allowed to enter his room without having been announced.

One thing after another passed in confusion through his brain;

Joseph had told him about the suicides who are dissected in the

dissecting-room. Sonnenkamp contemplated himself from head to foot, and

then opened his mouth as if he must utter the thought that was now

running through his soul. He is being dissected, not bodily, but

spiritually, by every stinging, scandal-loving tongue.

CHAPTER V.

THE CONFESSION OF A WORLDLING.

At the very time that Sonnenkamp was entering the palace, Pranken was

going into the deanery; he was detained a few minutes by the passing

soldiery, he had to salute many a comrade covered with dust, on foot

and on horseback. He was going to that quarter of the city wherein

resounded no clang of military music; here all was still, as if

everything were holding its breath, except that in the church the organ

notes were still swelling. He went in, he saw the Dean, a large

powerful man, just returning into the sacristy. Pranken sat awhile in a

pew, until he felt sure that the Dean had reached his house; then he

left the church. The servant was standing in the open door; he said

that the reverend gentleman requested Pranken to walk in and wait a few

moments. He was shown up the staircase; it was a fine large staircase

of the old chapter house. At the top, a young priest who was just

coming out was shutting the door very quietly, even reverently; the

young priest came down the left staircase while Pranken went up the

right.

Pranken had to wait awhile in the large room where an open book lay on

the table. He looked into it; it was a scheme of ecclesiastical

preferments; he smiled. Good, the priests, like the military, have a

printed list, too. This simile gave him new courage.

The Dean entered; he had a book in his hand, between the leaves of

which he had inserted his forefinger. He saluted Pranken, making a

gesture with the book, and begged him to sit down; he offered him a

seat on the sofa, and seated himself opposite him in a chair on

casters.

"What do you bring, Herr Baron?"

With a peculiar smile, Pranken answered that he brought nothing, but on

the other hand came to get something. The priest nodded, looked into

the book once more at the place where he had his finger inserted, and

laying it aside said:--

"I am ready."

Pranken began to explain, that he had chosen the Dean in preference to

any one else, to be his confessor in an affair which only a man of

noble birth could properly appreciate and give advice about. The Dean

grasped his chin with his left hand, and said with great decision, that

after ordination and the new birth there was no longer any nobility; he

had no different power from that of the son of the poorest day-laborer.

Pranken felt that he had made a mistake at the outset, and went on to

say in a very humble way, that above all things he regarded the

priestly dignity as the highest, but that still it was well known that

the very worthy Dean knew something about the circumstances of life

which he wished to lay before him. Then he gave a concise account of

his past life; it was that of a son of a noble family until his

acquaintance with Sonnenkamp. At this point he went somewhat into

detail, and confessed that his thinking of Manna as his wife. Manna the

daughter of the millionaire, was at first nothing more than a jest, a

pastime. He related how Manna had unexpectedly entered the convent; and

with great earnestness he declared that it was Manna that had wakened

in him the knowledge of the higher life. He dwelt particularly on his

momentary determination to become a priest; but he was now of another

way of thinking; he was still too worldly in his views, but he hoped,

however, in union with Manna, to lead a life devoted to the highest of

ail interests.

With quiet attention, frequently closing his eyes, and again opening

them quickly, the Dean listened to the story.

At last Pranken paused, and the reverend father said:--

"That, I suppose, is the introduction. I must now tell you on my part

that I know this Herr Sonnenkamp and his daughter. I was staying not

long ago with a brother priest in the town which is part of the same

parish with Villa Eden--is not the place so called? I have seen the

maiden; it was then reported that she was going to become a nun. I have

also seen the park and the house; everything is very stately, very

beautiful. And now I beg of you, proceed and tell me, without any

further digression, what you wish from me."

Pranken went on to say rapidly, that in conjunction with the

Cabinetsrath he had brought matters to such a point that Sonnenkamp was

at this very hour receiving a patent of nobility.

Again he paused, but the Reverend father asked no more questions, but

simply looked at him inquiringly.

Fastening his gaze upon the table-cover, Pranken now went on to tell

what he knew of Sonnenkamp's past life; he had, up to this moment,

believed that he might regard it with indifference, but at the present

time--just since yesterday--when Sonnenkamp and his family were to be

made of equal rank with himself, it let him rest no longer.

"I don't understand you," said the Dean. "Do you find yourself

overburdened in your conscience, because you, although you knew what

the man is, still endeavored successfully to procure for him an

honorable and distinguished preferment? in a word, his elevation to the

rank of noble?"

"Yes and no," replied Pranken, "I am not clear on that point. I could

say that I am innocent, for I have never been asked my opinion on the

matter, and still----"

"Go on, I think you are on the right path; 'and still'--you were going

to say."

Pranken resumed his speech like a pupil in examination, and collecting

his thoughts said:--

"Thank Heaven that there are living beings sent into the world; to whom

we can and must tell what we do not acknowledge to ourselves. I must

still, however, confess that my open and undisguised relation to Herr

Sonnenkamp is perhaps something more than an expression of an opinion."

"Right, quite right! You have come to me then, to learn, at the very

last hour, what you ought to do?"

"To tell the honest truth, no. I simply wished to have you give me

something, an injunction of some sort to ease this constant torment and

fear of discovery."

"Wonderful world!" rejoined the Priest. "Wonderful world! You would

like to live in sinful enjoyment, and still, at the same time receive

an 'absolving benediction.'"

Pranken's thoughts wandered involuntarily to Nelly's house near by, but

with a powerful effort he called back his thoughts.

Both men said nothing for a short time; then the Dean asked:--

"Does this Herr Sonnenkamp know that you are acquainted with his past

life?"

"O no, and he must never know it."

Again there was a long pause.

From the cathedral near by came the stroke of noon; the bells rang out

the Angelus, the Priest rose and said a low prayer; Pranken did the

same. They seated themselves again, but neither spoke. Pranken was

becoming indignant; he was angry with himself for having come here;

however, there was no help for it now; with repressed anger he said at

last:--

"Very Reverend sir, I have confessed everything to you now; I beg of

you to advise me."

"Should I advise you to forsake Herr Sonnenkamp and your bride?"

Pranken shrank back.

The Dean proceeded, rising, and walking up and down the parlor:--"That

is the way with you. You will have advice, you children of worldly

pleasure, but only such advice as enjoins no privation upon you; you

will have such counsel only as enables you to accomplish your purpose,

whatever it may be, with a pacified conscience. You want mustard for

the digestion of heavy dinners, do you not?" said he, turning round

suddenly.

His eyes sparkled.

"Reverend sir," said Pranken, in a tremor, "bid me forsake Herr

Sonnenkamp and Manna, and I promise you that I will do it forthwith.

Only think what will become of the maiden, and shall not what has been

so earned be used for higher----"

"Stop!" said the Dean, interrupting him, and extending his hand with a

gesture of rebuke, knitting his brows and pressing his lips tight

together. "You think that you can bribe us with these millions? You are

another of those, who, with outward veneration, still believe within

themselves the clergy want nothing but money, nothing but power. No, we

want none of your money, so won by marriage or inheritance!"

The Priest was standing at the window, looking up at the sky, in which

dark clouds were gathering; he seemed to have quite forgotten that

Pranken was there, and the latter finally said to him,--

"Reverend sir, do you wish me to withdraw?"

The Priest turned round quickly and said, motioning with his left

hand,--

"Sit down--sit down."

Pranken obeyed.

"Now I will tell you something. What you have done to the nobility, for

you have done it, and not simply allowed it to happen, is your concern

and that of the nobility; for us, your grades of honor are matters of

no moment. Whether a man is a commoner or a noble, it is all the same

to us. But I tell you this"--the Priest hesitated, and resting his

elbow in the hollow of his right hand took hold of his chin with his

left; he seemed to be arranging his words with quiet deliberation--"I

tell you this: you must be true now, you must not forsake this man and

his daughter. You must share everything with them, whatever the worldly

honors may bring; you must consider yourself as linked to them, and

thank God in humbleness of heart that you have an opportunity of

devoting yourself, and leading your new family to the pure and noble

sacrifice of self."

Pranken started up, kissed the Priest's hand, and exclaimed,--

"I will, I promise you. Keep your eye on me; you shall see that I will

go through with whatever you enjoin upon me."

"Go then, and God be with you; you have a heavier burden to carry than

you now think for. Go, and God be with you."

He laid his hand on the Baron's head; Pranken turned away, and full of

humility descended the staircase; at the bottom he gave the soldier a

brotherly shake of the hand.

After Pranken had gone, the soldier kept looking at his hand, and then,

searching on the floor; he could not imagine that the free and easy

Pranken had not given him a gold piece. No, that would have made a

ringing; he must surely have given him paper money; but he could not

find it on the clean stone-floor.

As if he had anticipated the soldier's thoughts, Pranken returned, and

departed after putting a gold piece into his hand.

He came by Nelly's house, where yesterday--it seemed to him a

dream--no, it cannot be!--he had waited an hour. He glanced up, and

thought he saw some one leaning at the open window, whose eyes followed

him; he fixed his look upon the ground, and passed on.

He came to the parade-ground, listened to the music, saw the officers

standing in a group, and--who can calculate the sinuous course of

thought?--he thought that the watchword was now being given out to the

officers; and he had a watchword too, which no one else was to know,

given to him by the man behind the cathedral, who had dashed him down

as if he would break every one of his bones. A smile went over

Pranken's features.

"Thou hast played well, but thou hast only played," he said, recalling

to mind the Dean. "You shall see that I can play well too; I know my

part, and I will yet show you a little of my skill in playing."

Pride again rose within him, and he could not comprehend that he, Otto

von Pranken, had been such a mortified piece of humility. But it is

very well to have been so once.

He came to the Hotel Victoria in a half-humble, half-conceited mood,

and he now felt a real training-day hunger. Such mental emotions have

this advantage, that they make one hungry.

Pranken anticipated with a feeling of satisfaction his dinner with the

Baron, his father-in-law.

As he stood at Sonnenkamp's door and was about to ring, he heard some

one inside saying in a loud tone:--

"But Where's Herr von Pranken?"

"Here!" cried he, as he went in.

CHAPTER VI.

HONOR LIES BLEEDING.

Sonnenkamp's decoration was lying at Pranken's feet as he entered, and

the first thing he did was to stoop down and pick it up. Joseph left

the room. Pranken balanced the decoration as if it were a heavy weight.

Sonnenkamp seemed to be waiting for Pranken to speak first, and when

the latter said, "I congratulate you," broke in:--

"No, no--do not. I thank you for coming to me again. I thank you

sincerely--very sincerely. You meant well by me."

"What's this? Meant well? I don't comprehend."

Sonnenkamp stared at him; the whole city, the coachmen on the streets

knew it, and can this man be ignorant? Does he want to gull him?

"Have you read the Journal?" inquired Sonnenkamp.

"The Journal! No; what's in that?"

Sonnenkamp reached him the paper.

"Here--my diploma of nobility," he said, turning round and looking out

of the window while Pranken was reading. He did not want to look at the

man's countenance.

There was a long-continued silence in the room, and then Sonnenkamp

felt a hand upon his shoulder. He turned round quickly. What's the

meaning of this? will the haughty young nobleman have a personal

struggle with him?

"Herr Sonnenkamp," said Pranken, "I am a nobleman----"

"I know--I know. Take your hand off of me, you'll soil it."

"And I am your friend," proceeded Pranken calmly. "I cannot approve of

what you have done to provoke such a publication."

"Be brief, I've already heard sermonizing enough to-day."

"Herr Sonnenkamp, I always go counter to the public sentiment; I

respect you, notwithstanding, and I love your daughter. I am almost

glad that I can show you by a sacrifice how my intention----"

"Herr von Pranken, you do not know what you are doing. Your friends,

your family----"

"I know the whole. Pooh! the virtuous people may let the stones alone

which they would willingly throw at us. Whoever merely winks with the

eye shall receive my challenge."

"I admire your courage, but I cannot take advantage of it."

"Not take advantage of it! You have no right to decline it. I am your

son as well as Roland; I stand by you, and now it shall be shown who

has genuine nobility and bravery. I admire you--but we'll drop this

now. Has Roland got back yet?"

"No."

"Then he has gone with the Ensign to the dinner. I will go for him."

Sonnenkamp looked at him in amazement as he drove off; he could not

comprehend it. He was now alone again. He mentally accompanied the

messengers he had sent round the city, and out to the pleasure-grounds.

His thought went out in search of Roland, but did not find him, any

more than the messengers did. Roland had gone with the Cabinetsrath's

son, as Pranken had conjectured, to the military club-house, where a

number of the garrison officers, after the laborious review of the

forenoon, had ordered a dinner. There was a great deal of merriment and

drinking, and they drank the young American's health. Roland was one of

the liveliest among them. There came in a straggling guest, and cried,

out in the midst of the uproar,--

"Have you heard? The slave-trader has been caught with a paper lasso."

"What's to pay?" was, called out.

The new-comer read out of the paper:--

"A proposal, with all due deference, for a coat of arms and a device

for the ennobled slave-trader and slave-murderer, James Henry

Sonnenkamp, alias Banfield, of Louisiana.

"It would give us peculiar satisfaction to run a parallel between the

young nobility in the two hemispheres; to live on the labor of others

is their motto; 'thou art born to do nothing,' say the young nobility

of the Old as well as of the New World. The Americans have also a

superstitious belief that there is some peculiar honor in being

ennobled. Not because we share in this belief, but rather in order to

do something towards removing it, we have written to America for

information about a certain Herr Sonnenkamp. We have hitherto been

silent, and we should have been silent longer and forever, out of

regard for the children of this outcast, for they do not deserve to

bear the load of guilt. We are no friends of the nobility: we regard

this institution as of the past and as dead; but the nobles are our

German fellow-citizens, also, and a part of our nation. As citizens,

merely, we have no power to thrust out a man from our community, and we

should have felt obliged to let this man alone; but now, we are ready

to furnish the evidence that the man who calls himself Sonnenkamp, and

lives at Villa Eden, has been one of the most merciless slave-traders

and slave-murderers. Then proceed, O German nobles, and ennoble

him,--give him a coat-of-arms. The heralds of our editorial office

recommend as a device----"

"Stop!" screamed out the Ensign, for Roland had fallen senseless from

his chair.

He was carried out of the room, and restored to consciousness.

Fortunately, a carriage now drove up, from which Pranken got out.

Roland was lifted into it, and they drove to the hotel.

Shaking with a fever fit, and wrapped up in a soldier's cloak, Roland

sat in one corner of the carriage. He would occasionally open his eyes,

and then close them again.

Pranken told him that he ought to despise the world, but Roland was

silent; once only he heaved a deep sigh and exclaimed,--

"O Eric!" They reached the hotel. Joseph was waiting before the door.

The first word that Roland spoke was a request to be left alone. He

went up the steps with Joseph.

"You are to go to your father," said Joseph.

Roland nodded, but when he had gone up-stairs he hastened to his room

and locked the door.

Joseph went to Sonnenkamp and told him that Roland had returned.

"He is to come to me," he said.

"He has locked himself in."

"Has he his pistols with him?"

"No, I have them with me."

Sonnenkamp went to Roland's room and knocked; but there was no answer.

He begged and entreated Roland to answer him, but Roland made no sound.

"If you do not open immediately, I will shoot myself before your door!"

cried Sonnenkamp.

Pranken, who was with him, said:--

"Roland! Roland! will you be guilty of the death of your father?"

"Open! open!" moaned Sonnenkamp before the door.

The bolt was drawn back, and Roland stood rigid, looking at his father,

who stretched out his arms toward him; but Roland remained motionless,

with lips pressed together, and eyes glaring like one insane.

"My son!" cried Sonnenkamp. "My only son! my beloved son! my child!

forgive me! forgive me!"

Roland rushed toward his father, grasped his hand, and wept over it.

"Oh, my child, your tears on my hand! Look,--this wound, this

scar,--look, the tears of my child heal it, the tears of my child

alone!"

Throwing himself upon Roland's breast, he exclaimed:--

"You, my son, you will not despise your father!"

While he spoke, his heart throbbed violently, and, for the first time

in his life, Roland saw his father weep. He embraced him and wept with

him.

Father and son then sat opposite each other speechless and motionless,

until at last Roland said:--

"Father, there is one way of salvation--only one way of salvation!"

"I am ready, speak, my son."

"I know it, father--I know it! That sublimest One said to the youth,

'Go and give away all that thou hast, and follow me.' And Parker has

said that this disgrace must be wiped out; and Benjamin Franklin would

say: 'Thou art free, be not a slave to thyself!' Cast all away from

you, father, let us be poor--poor! Will you?"

"I thank you, my son," replied Sonnenkamp; he was easier when he

saw that Roland had relieved his feelings. "You have a stout heart,

a bold spirit, you have noble courage; Herr Eric has taught you

well--grand--brave--I thank him--I thank you--that is fine--that is

right--the best!"

"Then you agree to it, father?"

"My son, I do not wish to make any pledges--not any; but I promise you,

that you shall be satisfied with what I shall do; just in this moment I

cannot determine anything."

"No, now; this very moment! it is the grandest, the only moment! It

must be done now! After this moment is death, night, damnation,

distraction, misery! Oh, father, you must be strong! I will work for

you, for my mother, for Manna, for myself! And Eric will be with us! I

know not what can be done, but it will----do cast everything away from

you!"

"My son, whatever I have of unrighteous possessions, so called, those I

will put away. I consider you, my son, no longer in your minority, you

are more, you are my brother, you are a man, you are judge of my

actions, you are to give your directions--everything with you, through

you, out of your pure, your blessed heart, out of your unbroken--yes,

your friend Eric, our friend Eric, shall also determine--but let us not

come to the final determination at this moment."

And again father and son sat opposite to each other in silence, until

Roland began:--

"Father, let us go home to-day."

"No, not to-day. We must both, first of all, get some strength."

Pranken had withdrawn into the adjoining room; he now sent Joseph to

say that it was time for dinner. Roland was shocked at the idea of

eating anything now; but Sonnenkamp swore that he would not put a

morsel into his mouth, although he was almost famishing, if Roland did

not sit with them at table, and eat at least a few mouthfuls. Roland

yielded.

The Cabinetsrath's place was empty, showing what henceforth would be

wanting to their table-enjoyment. Pranken beckoned to Joseph, who

understood what he meant and quickly removed the plate.

Sonnenkamp now said that he expected the Cabinetsrath would probably

give up the Villa he had received; and Roland now learned how bribery

had been employed, and how corrupt and selfish men were. Sonnenkamp

took particular notice what an impression this made upon Roland, and a

triumphant expression passed over his countenance. It's well so! Roland

is to become acquainted with the whole baseness of human beings, to

find out that all people are more or less abject, and then what his

father has done will gradually seem to him of less account, and be

painted in fainter colors.

A choice table was set, but the three ate as if they were at a funeral

repast, with the corpse lying in the next room--the mortal remains of

worldly honor. Neither gave expression to the feeling which each of

them had; they ate and drank, for the body must have nourishment, in

order to bear up under this new heart-ache.

Father and son slept in the same chamber, but neither spoke, for

neither of them wanted to keep the other from sleep, which would alone

wrap them in oblivion.

"Don't give up!" said Sonnenkamp at last, as he fell asleep. Roland

slept also, but after an hour he awoke and tossed about restlessly. The

darkness seemed to stand like a black wall before him, and he sat up as

if in delirium.

To lose one's senses, one's reason--yes, to lose them! they are

suddenly gone, you know not when, you know not where; you only know

they are not here, and they are no longer in your power. But if you

could only find them! Your thoughts are no longer under your own

control; they come and go, they combine and disperse according to their

own pleasure; and yet you inwardly feel that this will not last, it

cannot last; that the time must come when you will once more have the

mastery.

"If it were not night! if it were only not night!" groaned Roland to

himself, as he awakened in a wandering mood from a short hour's sleep.

For the first time in his life, he awoke in the night distressed and

sad at heart, with the whole world dark and impenetrable before him.

"Oh, if it were not night! if it only were not night!" he said to

himself again. He thought of what Eric's mother had once said: "In the

night-time everything is more terrible; day comes, and with the

daylight all sufferings, both of the body as well as those of the mind,

are less formidable; the eye then looks upon the things of the world,

and the sunlight illumines and enlivens everything."

"It will be day again!" he comforted himself at last, and sank away

into sleep out of all his brooding fancies.

Early in the morning they started with Pranken for the Villa.

CHAPTER VII.

SICK AT HEART.

The morning air was fresh and cool. Bertram was not on the box of the

carriage, but a hired coachman sat next to Lootz. Roland knew the

horses, and wanted to take the stranger's place, but Sonnenkamp said in

a hoarse voice:--

"No, my child, don't leave me. Sit with me. Stay with me."

Roland obeyed, and took a seat in the close carriage, with his father

and Pranken. They drove in silence through the city, each thinking:

When, and under what circumstances, will you ever come here again?

Roland looked out as they were passing the pleasure-grounds, where in

the summer they had excited so much attention at the officers'

entertainment. Withered leaves were lying on the tables, and everything

was bare and desolate. Sighing and shutting his eyes, Roland leaned

back in the corner of the carriage. The bloom of youth had faded out of

his countenance over night, and everything was wilted like a flower

touched by the frost.

They drove along, for a time, without speaking. Roland, however, soon

heard his father making himself merry over the unadulterated rascality

of mankind, and one and another person who were generally spoken of

with respect and held in high estimation were spoken of as hardly fit

to associate with galley-slaves. A beginning was made with the

Cabinetsrath, who had allowed himself to be bribed in such a way, and

yet could act as if there had never been anything of the kind. And so,

in succession, the good name of everybody was torn into shreds.

Pranken let Sonnenkamp expend his violence and rage, not saying a word

even when Clodwig was attacked. What was the use! It is the delight of

one suffering under mortification, above all one who is suffering

through his own fault, to bring down others to his own level. Roland

was deeply, troubled, and his heart grew cold at the thought of being

able to hold his own position only by being made thoroughly acquainted

with, and keeping constantly before his eyes, the darker side of all

human beings.

Tenderly and cautiously, Pranken began to bring into notice the idea

that a firm religious belief was the only adequate support, and he

openly inveighed against those who would withdraw this support, the

only real one, and the highest, from one who relied upon it. Roland

knew that Eric was intended, but he did not let it be seen. Pranken

went farther, and said that Eric's father, whom mother and son decked

out as a demi-god, was a man who at the university had no scholars, and

at whom all the learned men had shrugged their shoulders.

Gloomy thoughts, like cloudy forms, thronging in succession, overcast

the soul of the youth. One thought prevailed over all others, and

allowed him no rest:--Yesterday, honor was everything; to-day, it has

no existence. What is honor? It is the seasoning in each particle of

life's food, and without it existence is tasteless. This thought

startled Roland as if he had seen some terrific vision. He saw the

clouds actually before him, in the shape of dense volumes of smoke from

Sonnenkamp's cigar. A voice cried out, in mock-merriment, from the

midst of the cloud: The people in the whole region round ought to give

him a special vote of thanks, for now they were, in comparison with

him, snow-white angels, and all that they needed was a pair of wings.

All the little men and little woman could say: Lord, I thank thee that

I am not like this Sonnenkamp here. "I am truly a godsend to you; thank

me, O world!"

This humor pleased Pranken, and he said, laughing, that no one, a year

hence, after one had become accustomed to it, would think anything of

the present troubles; and he would urgently entreat that not a word

should be said about selling the villa and moving away.

Sonnenkamp gave Pranken a nudge, but he had no idea that this

communication, although it gave Roland anew the feeling of

homelessness, affected him far less than the jeering outburst of his

father concerning the thanks due him from the world.

A disintegration of the thoughts and feelings of the youth had taken

place, and it was impossible to anticipate what changes might be

brought about in these different elements through the introduction of a

new agency. A feeling had been awakened within him, that he must bear

an indelible stain for his whole lifetime.

The mists dissolved, the day was bright, the sun shone warmly, but

Sonnenkamp was chilly, and wrapped himself in his cloak. He sat in the

carriage, staring out upon the road, but he saw nothing except the

shadow of one of the horses, and this shadow was moving its legs to and

fro. Is everything only a shadow in like manner? Is what moves you and

draws you onward just such a shadow as this?

A vehicle coming towards them raised a cloud of dust, at which

Sonnenkamp stared. Whenever you look at this dust, you feel as if you

must be smothered by it; but when you are in the midst of it, turn your

face away, and it is not so bad after all. Perhaps what has now

happened is just such a whirling cloud of dust. Turn your face away.

He saw the shepherds with their sheep upon the stubble-field, and asked

himself: Is that a better life? He wanted to sleep; he threw away his

cigar and shut his eyes. It seemed to him as if the carriage were all

the time going down hill. But when he opened his eyes, they were on the

level road.

Again he shut his eyes, for this was the only way he could be alone.

And now he really went to sleep. Roland gazed in silence out into the

bright sunshine. Ah, the sight of nature is helpful only to the joyous,

or to one who is beginning to rally from sorrow; she brings no

consolation to the heavy laden and the deeply saddened spirit; her

changelessness, her unsympathizing and steadfast life, seem almost

insulting.

Up to this time, Roland had lived in that twilight realm which

separates youth from manhood, and now the period of youth was closed.

His pride had been turned to shame, but he was mature enough to forget

himself soon, and to direct his regards to his father, who is doubly

unhappy; unhappy on his own account, and on account of having brought

harm upon others--upon those nearest to him.

Sonnenkamp slept; but in his dreamy state between wakefulness and

sleep, the rattling carriage-wheels seemed to him the clanking chains

of fettered slaves.

He woke suddenly, and stared as if bewildered. Where was he? What had

happened? He wrapped himself in his cloak again, and hid his face.

Pranken bent toward Roland, whispering to him:--

"I know how you are inwardly shattered, but there is one cure for you,

a grand act, the most sublime deed."

"What is it?"

"Speak lower, don't wake up your father. The one thing for you to

do,---it is grand,--the great and noble thing for you is to enter the

Papal army; this is the only thing to be done. This is the last, the

highest tower to be defended now, and if that falls, the atheists and

communists have won the day. I would do it myself, if----"

"Yes," interrupted Roland, "that would be the thing! We give away all

our property to the Holy Father, and he issues a bull in favor of the

abolition of slavery."

Sonnenkamp could not keep asleep any longer.

"That's right, my young fellow," he cried. "That's right! the Pope

ought to do it. But do you believe that he will do now for money--even

were it ten times as much--what he has not done of himself? The idea is

a grand one, Herr von Pranken, very grand and very--very shrewd."

There was a little raillery in this commendation, for he thought: You

want to get the whole inheritance, and hand over my son to the knife.

"But my dear, noble, high-aspiring young friend," was what he said

aloud, "honestly, do you believe that the Pope will do what our Roland

expects?"

"No."

They drove on in silence. They saw the Villa in the distance, and on

the tower the banner of the American Union was flying, together with

the green and yellow flag of the country.

When they came to the green cottage, Roland asked to got out of the

carriage, and permission was given.

Roland went into the garden, where a bright voice called to him:--

"Mutual congratulations! we congratulate you, and you should

congratulate us, too; we are betrothed."

Lina and the Architect were coming, holding each other's hand, through

the meadow from the Villa. Lina left her lover and came up to Roland,

saying:--

"We didn't want to wait until the dedication of the castle, we have our

celebration by ourselves. Oh, Roland, how beautiful and how happy

everything is in the world! But why don't you speak? Why do you make up

such a melancholy face?"

Roland could only wave her off, and hurried into the house. The

betrothed remained standing in the garden, sorely puzzled, when Lina

said:--

"Oh, Albert, there's no good in being here. Nobody welcomed us at the

Villa, Manna was not to be seen, Herr Dournay isn't there, and Roland

runs away. Come, we'll quit the whole premises. Forgive me for having

brought you here before going anywhere else. I thought these were the

people to whom I should make known my happiness in the very first

place. Come, we'll go to your castle, and spend the whole day for once;

you shall be a solitary knight, and I'll be a castle-maiden. Come, I

thought there was to be a betrothal here to-day, too; but it doesn't

look like it at all, and there's something frightful the matter."

Lina and her betrothed went together to the castle, up through the

vineyard, but they were detained at the Major's, who was standing

utterly helpless by the garden-hedge.

Such a thing had never happened as took place to-day.

Fraeulein Milch had locked herself in her room; she must have met with

something very extraordinary.

The Major was perfectly delighted to hear of the betrothal, but he only

said:--

"Ah, there might be one down therein the Villa, too; but I'm

afraid--I'm afraid we'll hear some bad news from there."

The Major insisted upon the betrothed couple taking a seat in his

arbor, saying that Fraeulein Milch would soon be down.

The Fraeulein was sitting in her chamber alone, for the first time in a

sore struggle. The world had been a matter of indifference to her, and

only of account so far as some thing could be obtained from it

agreeable to the Major. She found the neighborhood very friendly, and

she was grateful to the soil, for the Major had a good digestion, and

elsewhere he suffered from dyspepsia. She was also grateful to the

Rhine, which occasionally furnished a nice fish, and she would nod to

the mountains, as if she would say: That's right! just produce good

wine; the Major likes to drink it when new, but he mustn't drink too

mach of it. Thus was the Fraeulein kindly disposed towards man and

beast, towards water and plants; it was a matter of indifference that

nobody troubled himself about her. She had strenuously declined every

intimate connection, and now, through the Professorin, she had been

drawn more among people, and had to-day been so deeply mortified. She

had known Bella for a long time, although very distantly, and she had

disliked her for a long time, although very distantly; but what she had

experienced to-day was something wholly novel, and it grieved her

sorely.

"O," said she to herself, "O, Frau Countess, you are highly virtuous,

virtuous in the extreme, most respectfully virtuous, and beautiful too,

you are; but I was once young and beautiful, and no one has ever

ventured to give me an uncivil word; I have gone through the streets

unattended by a servant, I was my own attendant, my own protector, and

my own support. O Frau Countess, you stand very far up on the list of

rank, I don't know but that you ought to be addressed as Your Highness!

O Frau Countess, take care, there is another list of nobility which the

Major ought to give you a glimpse of; no, not he; it would mortify him

to death; but Herr Dournay, he must do it. No--nobody--only myself."

And just as she had become composed, the Major again knocked, crying:--

"Fraeulein Milch! dear good Rosa," he added in a whisper, "Rosie,

Rosalie!"

"What do you want?" the Major heard laughingly asked.

"Oh heavens! it's all right now you are laughing again. There are two

good people here, the Architect, and Lina the Justice's daughter; they

are betrothed, and have come to receive our congratulations. Do come,

join us in the garden, and bring right off a bottle and four glasses."

Fraeulein Milch opened the door. The Major asked:--

"Mayn't I know what has been the matter with you?"

"You shall know, sure enough, but don't ask me any more now. So the

young people are betrothed, and at the house? I must dress myself up a

little, and I'll come down immediately."

"So do. That's nice."

Fraeulein Milch was delivered from all her own trouble, when the duty

was enjoined upon her of rejoicing with the joyful; and the betrothed

couple forgot the castle, and remained for hours sitting with the Major

and Fraeulein Milch in the arbor.

Then the journal came, and the Major begged to be excused for reading

it before his guests; he received the paper after the burgomaster, the

school-master, and the barber had read it, and so he could keep it. As

he had nothing more to do with the world, it made no difference whether

he learned an hour or two sooner or later what had happened.

"Oh, here's a great black mark," exclaimed Lina.

"That's the burgomaster's mark," said the Major. "Fraeulein Milch, would

you read to me? There must be something very special."

The Fraeulein took the paper, but she covered her face with her hand

after she had looked into it.

"What's the matter? You read, dear Lina."

Lina read the bitter paragraph by Professor Crutius; she wanted to stop

after the first few lines, but the Major begged:

"Read on; do read on."

She read on to the end.

"O Thou really good Builder of all the worlds, what queer material

you've put into the construction of the world! Good heavens! there's

something frightful about a newspaper; now everybody knows about this."

Fraeulein Milch was just on the point of saying that this was no news to

her, but she had the self-command, doubly difficult for a woman, to

keep from telling what she knew. It was better to say nothing, as she

would thus escape a long explanation to the Major why she had said

nothing about it a long time ago. Not till the Major begged her to go

to the Professorin, who would be greatly troubled by this

communication, did she say:--

"The Professorin, as well as I, knew it a long time ago."

In his bewilderment, the Major did not ask how it happened that she

knew; he only opened his eyes wider. He had said to her a great many

good and kind things, but the best of all was when he observed:--

"Yes. You might belong to our Brotherhood, you can keep a secret."

After a while the Major continued:--

"Look, children, down below there is the wonderfully beautiful Villa

with its parks, its gardens, and with its millions inside the

house--ha! and Roland and Manna. Fraeulein Milch, don't try to prevent

me. I must go down there, for nobody knows what's going on there, and I

must do something to help them. Don't say anything against it, Fraeulein

Milch, I entreat you."

"I haven't said anything to hinder you; on the contrary, I think you

ought to go."

Before she had finished speaking, a messenger came from the Villa for

the Major to go there.

Lina wanted to join him, thinking she might be of some assistance to

Manna; but the Major said that the Professorin and Aunt Claudine were

enough already, and Lina ought not to spoil now any of her happiness.

Just as the Major was about to set off, a voice cried:--

"Herr Major, just stop. I'm coming."

With flushed face, and out of breath, Knopf came up.

"Do you know it?" asked the Major.

"Yes, indeed, and that's the reason I've come. Perhaps I can do

something at the Villa."

"Good! I'm going, so come with me. No, you stay here, stay with the

Fraeulein. I'll have you sent for if you're needed."

And so the Major walked down the mountain, and the four who remained

followed him with affectionate looks.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE TRIUMPH OF THE OPPRESSED.

Roland entered the cottage, and found the Professorin, Eric, and Manna

in grave conversation together; they had imparted the dreadful secret

to each other, and what weighed the most heavily upon them was the

thought how Roland would bear it when he should learn of it. He now

came in and said:--

"Manna, we are disgraced children!"

The three hastened to him, and affectionately embraced and kissed him.

"Be strong, brother!" said Eric, throwing his arms around him. "I can

blow you strong, my brother."

Hiawatha's saying echoed in Roland's soul, and he looked around on all

sides, as if bewildered. He sat down speechless on a chair, and the

three dear to him sat in silence near him.

Sonnenkamp, meanwhile, had got out at the entrance of the park, and

walked towards the villa; it seemed to him as if the ground would give

way under his feet, and the house and trees vanish. Are you sick? he

asked himself. You are not to be sick! He whistled softly to himself;

his gigantic strength still held out.

Here everything is as it was, and you yourself are here, too, he said,

exerting a powerful control over himself, as he stood upon his property

and grounds. He seemed to be wrestling with a hostile world enlisted

against him, and he repelled the encompassing foes with heroic

strength; they should not cut off the sources of his confidence and

power. He felt himself well armed and equipped. Pranken is right; one

must not let himself be cowed, one must bid defiance to the world, and

then it will bow itself in humility, and in a year--no, much sooner,

all will come and flatter him.

He remained standing on the steps, holding on by the railing, for all

his strength seemed exhausted; but drawing a deep breath, and plucking

up his courage, as it were, he soon recovered his self-possession. He

looked about without constraint, he had become so accustomed to

feigning, that he was determined no one should see in him any trace of

disturbance.

He went up the steps with a firm and steady stride. He took Pranken's

arm, and told him in a candid tone how highly he esteemed him and

admired his strength, of which he already felt the effect in himself.

He went with Pranken to his room, nodding to everything, which still

held its place here, and should hold it firmly for the time to come. He

requested his son--so he called Pranken--his son, of whom he was proud,

to impart what had happened to Frau Ceres, the very first thing, in his

quiet and self-possessed, his easy, his all-subduing manner that he so

much admired.

"Make no reply if she storms. This stormy outburst is no longer

formidable."

In this declaration there was a sort of tranquillizing influence which

Sonnenkamp himself felt. It is better that the whole world should stand

up in arms against him, than to be forever and forever under the

dominion of this crafty, threatening, and annoying woman. Now her

weapon was gone, and the dagger which she had always kept hidden was

now unsheathed in the eyes of all the world, and was in every hand.

Pranken went to Frau Ceres; he had to wait a long time in the

ante-room, but at last Fraeulein Perini came out.

Pranken briefly told her that the secret she had confided to him, and

which he had kept so faithfully, was now made public.

"So soon?" said Fraeulein Perini; and when Pranken inquired how Frau

Ceres would be likely to receive the annihilation of her hopes of being

ennobled, and the whole detestable uproar in the world, she replied,

smiling, that she could not tell, for Frau Ceres was now suffering

under a terrible trial of a wholly different kind.

She could hardly go on, she was so choked with laughter, but finally it

came out.

Yesterday morning, Frau Ceres in some incomprehensible way had broken

off her most beautiful nail, a real prodigy of most careful cherishing,

and she was utterly inconsolable.

Pranken could not help joining in the laugh. He accompanied Fraeulein

Perini into the room.

Frau Ceres gave him her left hand to kiss, holding the right carefully

concealed. She asked whether Pranken had brought with him the armorial

device, and pointed to an embroidery frame on which she wanted at once

to work the coat-of-arms, and also to an altar-cloth, whose border was

already completed.

Pranken now broke the news to her in a very careful manner.

"And he always said I was stupid! I am cleverer than he," Frau Ceres

burst out; "I always told him that Europe was no place for us, and that

we ought to have remained where we were. Hasn't he caught it now? He's

ashamed to come himself, and so he has sent you. He's ashamed, because

I, the simpleton, who had never learned anything, knew the affair so

much better than he did."

In this first moment, a mischievous joy seemed to be Frau Ceres'

predominant feeling; the man who had always treated her as a feeble

plaything must now see that her ideas were more correct than his.

She sat long in silence, moving her lips, and with a scornful, exultant

expression, as if she were uttering to her husband all her present

thoughts. Pranken thought it incumbent on him to add, that in a short

time the family would be as much respected as before.

"Do you believe that we shall be ennobled then?"

Pranken was perplexed what reply to make, for it seemed as if the woman

did not yet comprehend what had happened. He evaded a direct answer,

and only said that he remained true to the family, and regarded himself

as a son of the house.

"Yes, to-morrow ought to be the wedding. Here in Europe, you have so

many formalities. I'll drive to church with you. But where's Manna? She

has horribly neglected me."

"But, my dear Baron, it is well, this connection with the tutor's

family will now come to an end. Don't let it continue any longer, dear

Baron."

She requested Fraeulein Perini to tell Manna to come to her.

Pranken could not comprehend how this woman, half childish, half

cunning, sometimes malicious, sometimes peevish, could be also

sometimes so affectionate; but there was no time now to try to solve

the riddle. He besought the Mother--such was the appellation he now

gave to Frau Ceres--to leave Manna alone for a few days; he would first

see her alone, and then they would come together to the mother and ask

her blessing.

"I give you my blessing now," said Frau Ceres, forgetting herself so

far as to give him both hands.

She told him that Bella had been there, and had hardly shown herself to

her; that she had come, and then had driven away again in a manner that

she couldn't comprehend at all.

Here a shot was heard.

"He has shot himself; he has done it now!" cried Frau Ceres, in a

singular tone; it was not lamentation, nor laughter, but something

peculiar, utterly inexplicable.

Pranken hurried away.

CHAPTER IX.

THE HAND-WRITING ON THE WALL.

Sonnenkamp had seated himself in his room, and the letter-bag lay

before him, but he did not open it. What matters it what the outside

world desired! One thought was uppermost, that he must do something,

something startling, something that would shatter the whole world to

pieces. What? He did not yet know. He sat speechless in the midst of

the fairest landscape, with the windows darkened, as in a cellar.

No, not harm thyself, that wouldn't do! anything but weakness, cried he

to himself. Why be afraid of this old sentimental spinster, Europe,

with her fine modes of speech! What hast thou done? Thou hast acted

with due reflection, and thou standest by what thou hast done. It is

well that there's nothing more to conceal, that everything is known.

He rose and went into the park. From a lofty acacia-tree one of the

main branches was hanging down, which had been broken, so that the tree

was like a bird that had lost one of its wings. The head-gardener told

Sonnenkamp that a gust of wind had swept over the park the night

before. Sonnenkamp nodded several times as he looked at the tree, and

then indulged in his inaudible whistle.

A gust of wind may break down a tree like this, but a man like him

stands firm.

He went farther on, and coming to the fruit-garden, saw the splendid

show of fruit upon the trees; glass bell-shaped vessels, filled with

water, were hung by wires underneath the different fruits, so that they

might be continually supplied with moisture, and be made to grow. All

this you can effect; you can direct nature, why not man? why not

destiny? He gazed at the huge fruits as if they could give him an

answer, but they remained dumb. He stood for a long time before one

tree, that had been trained to the shape of a coronet, and stared at

the branches.

In a spider's-web stretched between two twigs a fly was

struggling--whew! how convulsively it struggled! perhaps it moaned

also, but we couldn't hear it. Yes, high and noble fly, you have a fate

no different from that of the human fly. Everywhere spiders--yes,

spiders! And you are better off, you will be speedily eaten.

Sonnenkamp struck his forehead with his clenched fist: he was angry

with his brain, that led him into such subtile speculations.

He turned away and went back to his room. The best thing you can do, he

said to himself, is to make a speedy exit; then are your children free,

and you are free too. He took a revolver from the wall just as some one

knocked at the door.

"What's the matter? what do you want?" A groom gave his name, and

Sonnenkamp opened the door. The groom informed him that his black horse

rattled in the throat and foamed at the mouth; that he was sick, and

they could not tell what ailed him.

"Indeed?" cried Sonnenkamp. "Have you not walked the horse out for

exercise? Has any one ridden him?"

"Yes; the Herr Captain ordered the horse to be saddled the night

before, and was a long time gone with him."

"So! Come, I'll cure him speedily." He went down to the stable, looked

grimly at the horse, and then shot him through the head. The horse gave

one hoarse rattle, and fell headlong.

"So! it's all over now!" cried Sonnenkamp. "Now you are free!"

As he was leaving the stable, Pranken came up.

"What have you done?"

"Pooh! I've shot a horse, and every one who doesn't mind," he said in

a loud tone, so that all the servants might hear, "knows what to

expect."

He ordered the groom to saddle another horse.

Joseph came with the inquiry from Frau Ceres as to what had happened.

Sonnenkamp sent word to Frau Ceres that he had shot the black horse. He

smiled when he heard Pranken's report of his wife's state of feeling;

he avoided going to her, and he experienced a sort of grateful joy

towards destiny, that the large house rendered it possible for each of

the inmates to live by himself.

He went to see the Professorin; it was hard for him to meet her eye and

that of Eric, but it must be done; he must arm himself to look all men

boldly in the face. Was he a coward? had he not bid defiance to the

world, and was he now to be afraid of this tutor's family?

He entered the green cottage. He extended his hand neither to Eric nor

his mother, and only asked where the children were. He received the

answer that they had locked themselves in the library.

He said in a light way to Eric and his mother that he had been

especially desirous for them to know the whole; it would now be seen

who was faithful. Turning to Eric, he said:--

"I have shot the black horse, which you rode last night. What is mine

is mine."

He went quietly away; he stood some time near the library door, and

heard Roland and Manna talking, but without distinguishing a word.

He knocked twice, but there was no answer, and he turned away.

Returning to the villa, and mounting a horse, he rode to the

Cabinetsrath's villa, for he wished to give these people a piece of his

mind. And as he was riding along, it seemed to him as if the groom

behind him suddenly reined up, and then as if there were two following

him. Who is this unknown companion? He forced himself not to look

round. The horse trembled under the pressure of his legs. He reached

the country-house of the Cabinetsrath, stopped at the gate, and asked

after the minister's wife.

The gardener said that she was not there, and that she would not be

there any more.

What does this mean? He laughed aloud when he was informed that the

villa, with all its appurtenances, had been sold the day before to the

American consul at the capital. He is outwitted; these people are his

neighbors no longer, and there can nothing be said about demanding back

the property bought at a merely nominal sum. And after the first flush

of anger, Sonnenkamp experienced a peculiar satisfaction in the thought

that there were so many sagacious people in the world; it is a pleasant

thing that there are so many foxes and lynxes to be found everywhere,

and under their own particular masks.

A court-lackey rode up. Sonnenkamp reined in. Could it be possible that

they repented and were sending a courier after him?

"Where are you going?" he asked of the court-lackey as he stopped.

"To Villa Eden."

"To whom?"

"To the Professorin Dournay."

"Might I ask who sends you, and what your errand is?"

"Why not?"

"Well, what's the errand?"

"The Professorin was formerly a lady in waiting on the gracious mother

of the Prince, and the gracious Princess was very fond of her."

"Very well, very well. And now?"

"Well, now, the Professorin is living there with a horrible man who has

deceived the whole world, and is a slave-trader, and one's life isn't

safe there a single minute, and now the gracious Princess sends me

there, and I am to say to the Professorin--and if she will, to take her

along with me at once--that she can be delivered from this monster."

The lackey was astonished to see the man who had questioned him ride

away without speaking another word.

Sonnenkamp boiled with rage; but he shortly laughed out loud again.

"That's all right! afraid,--the whole world is afraid of him. This

confers strength; this is far better than the silly honor, with which

one must behave himself."

He felt a profound contempt for those in high station. Now they take up

the neglected widow, now,--why not before?

He rode to the castle. Here were the laborers who were erecting a wing

of the building; they saluted their employer with evident reluctance.

Sonnenkamp smiled; at any rate, they had to salute him. He would have

liked to get the whole world together, in order to look it, once for

all, defiantly in the face.

He rode to the Major's. Fraeulein Milch was standing at the window, and

before he said anything, she called down:--

"The Herr Major is not at home." And now he turned homeward.

When he came to the garden-wall, he noticed some large letters, and

riding nearer, he saw written in many different ways: Slave-trader!

Slave-murderer! An artist, with no very practised hand, had drawn the

picture of a gallows on which a figure was hanging with protruding

tongue, and on the tongue was the word Slave-trader! He ordered the

porter to keep better watch, and to shoot down the insolent fellows who

should do any such thing.

The porter said:--

"I'll not shoot; I shall leave the service on St. Martin's day,

anyhow."

Sonnenkamp rode back toward the green cottage; he wanted to take away

his children, and he wanted to tell the Professorin not to give any

more charity to the rabble that dared to write such words on the white

wall of his garden. But he turned about again. The best way would be to

take no notice of it.

Panting with rage he returned to his room, and he wondered at the

thought which came over him, that this house was his own no longer;

every one in the neighborhood was thronging in, scoffing, pitying, and

he was living, as it were, in the street, for every one was speaking

about him, and he could not help himself. He stamped his foot on the

floor.

"Here 'tis! You wanted honor,--you wanted to be talked about, and now

they do talk,--but how? I despise the whole of you!" he exclaimed.

He turned over all manner of plans in his mind, how he should get the

better of the world. But what was there that he could do? He could not

hit upon anything.

CHAPTER X.

ROLAND'S MOAN.

Roland and Manna sat in the library, holding each other's hand; they

were like two children who had taken refuge from the storm in a strange

hut. For a long time they were unable to speak. Manna was the first to

gain composure, and in a tone of forced cheerfulness, passing her hand

over her brother's face, she said:--

"Do you know the story of the little brother and the little sister?

They lost themselves in the wood, and then found their way home again.

And we are like two children in the wild forest. But we are children no

longer; you are grown up, you are strong, you must be so."

"Oh, don't speak," replied Roland, "every word goes through my brain,

even the sound of your voice. O sister! no, there's none like it! Do

you think in all these hundreds and hundreds of books there's one

single

fate like ours? No, there can't be."

After a longer interval, Manna again began:--

"Now I can tell you what I meant, when I said that I would be an

Iphigenia; I wanted to sacrifice myself for you all, in order to take

the expiation from you."

"Oh, don't speak. What do these stories of the children in the wood, of

Orestes and Iphigenia, have to do with us? Orestes was happy, he could

consult the gods at Delphi; at that time the gods could be offended and

appeased; they were obliged to give a response--but now? we? Where, in

these times, is there a single mouth which gives a response in the name

of the gods? The Greeks had slaves too; and we? Now they tell us that

love has come into the world, and that all men are the children of God!

Is this love? And the priests blessed the marriage of a man who held

slaves--children of God as slaves,--and they baptized these children,

letting them still be slaves! Alas! I'm getting crazed! O, my youth! O,

my youth! Alas! I am still so young, and I must bear for a long, long

life-time--must bear this--everything! There's a blackness before my

eyes, a spot upon everything I see--all is black--black! At the time

when Claus was imprisoned--Children do not suffer for the crime of

their father; they can have no part in it, but they do suffer from it a

whole lifetime. Where is justice--help me, sister!--do help me!"

"I cannot, I do not comprehend it! O, it was that drove me out of the

sanctuary! I don't comprehend it!"

The brother and sister sat together in silence, until Roland suddenly

threw himself into Manna's arms, and hiding his head on her bosom,

said:--

"Manna, I wanted to kill myself, I could not bear it. Yesterday,

everything so beautiful--and here on your heart I cry--I must live--I

don't know what I am to do--I must live! Were the children to kill

themselves for their parent's guilt, that guilt would be made still

greater."

Again Roland leaned his head on the arm of the sofa, murmuring to

himself:--

"He did not carry it out at once, and now it will never be done."

"What do you mean?" asked Manna. Roland gave her a glassy stare, but he

kept it to himself that he had exhorted his father to put away all his

property, and that the father had led him to believe it should be done;

but now he seemed to see clearly that nothing of the kind would ever

take place. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and lay there

paralyzed as in an awful void, everything crushed and shattered within

him.

Manna understood how he felt, and kneeling by the sofa, she cried:--

"Roland, I have a great secret to tell you; Eric and I----"

"What?" exclaimed Roland, sitting upright.

"Eric and I are betrothed."

"You? you two?"

He sprang up, pressed her in his arms, exclaiming again:--

"You? you two?"

"Yes, Roland; and he has known everything for a long time."

"He has known everything? And he has not rejected you with

disdain?--and he has instructed me so faithfully?--Oh!"

Roland and Manna held each other in a long embrace. There was a knock

at the door, and they separated, looking at each other in dismay. They

knew it was their father's knock, but neither of them said so. There

was another rap, and they still were silent. Retreating footsteps were

heard, and they knew their father's step. Both knew what it meant not

to open when their father knocked, but each refrained from speaking of

it.

Roland's thoughts must have gone from one person to the other, for he

now said:--

"Herr von Pranken has advised me to enter the Papal army. O, if I only

knew a battle-field where human brotherhood was to be fought for! O, if

I knew where that was, how gladly would I die on it! But that cannot be

won upon the field of battle. Oh, sister! I don't know what I'm

thinking, what I'm saying. Hiawatha fasted, and we must fast too."

"Let us go home!" said Manna, finally.

"Home! home! What is home to us? What can be our home?"

Roland, however, rose up and went hand in hand with Manna through the

meadow to the villa.

The sun shone bright, the hay exhaled so sweet a fragrance, the vessels

were rushing up and down the stream, and just then a merry procession

was moving towards them on the road; it was a so-called harvest

mummery. On a cask sat the second son of the Huntsman crowned as

Bacchus with vine-leaves; around him stood maidens clad in white, with

dishevelled hair; they were swinging jugs, shouting and rejoicing. On

the horses rode shapes disguised with moss.

Everybody was shouting and screaming amidst the loud report of

fire-arms.

Brother and sister stood and gazed after the merry train, which

disappeared behind the trees, and each knew the other's thoughts. Yes,

all others can be merry, but we! They went on farther, and at last

Roland said:--

"I know not how it is with me, I feel as if I were not really

experiencing all this; I am only dreaming of it, and looking at it like

a departed spirit. Everything is so distant, so inacessible, so dim, so

shadowy. When I look upon you, I feel all the time that we cannot

approach each other at all, that there lies between us a dreadful

immensity of distance, and father--mother!"

With a wild stare he looked around him, as if he saw ghosts everywhere.

Manna held his hand more firmly; he became more tranquil; nay, he even

smiled thankfully.

Griffin came bounding along just at this moment; he was overjoyed to

see his young master once more, and jumped up on him again and again.

Roland caressed him and said:--

"Yes, dear Griffin, when I had lost and forgotten you, then you found

your way home. Ah, dear Griffin, don't you know a way home for me now?

I am not your master, I am nothing."

The dog seemed to understand Roland's sad looks and words; he looked up

at him so affectionately, as if he wanted to say:--Ah! do not pine thy

young life away.

Brother and sister stood side by side on the bank of the Rhine. Roland

exclaimed,--

"I see my face in the water, sister, there is no brand upon my

forehead--no brand--and still----"

He wept bitterly, for the first time.

"Come, let us go on," said Manna consolingly.

"On, on! Yes, our path is long, unendingly long," rejoined Roland, as

he allowed himself to be led away by his sister.

They entered the courtyard of the villa. The servants were slowly

leading away the horses with their blankets on.

Roland opened his mouth: he wanted to cry out: Take off the blankets!

Take off the blankets, and hide the shame with them! Let the horses all

spring out into the open air. We have no more right over them, they are

no longer ours! But he could not utter the words.

Then he looked up at the green-houses, at the trees, as if he wanted to

ask them all if they knew to whom they belonged.

He asked Manna to go into the stable with him. He looked into the

servants' faces as if begging respect from them, and he thanked them

for saluting him, and for asking him what his commands were. Men still

saluted him, men still obeyed him! In the stable, he caressed his pony

and wept upon his neck.

"O Puck! shall you ever carry such a light-hearted youth again?"

The dogs were jumping round him; he nodded to them, and said

sorrowfully to Manna:--

"The brutes are altogether the happiest creatures in the world; they

inherit nothing from their parents, nothing but life--no house, no

garden, no money, no clothes. Ah, my good Puck, what a fine long mane

you have!"

There was something rising almost to frenzy in Roland's thought and

speech, as, tugging at the beast's long mane, he exclaimed:--

"If slaves could not speak, could not pray, they would be happy like

you, and like you, my faithful dogs!"

Manna was becoming uneasy at the unwearying tenor of Roland's thoughts;

she said:--

"You must now remain all the time with our friend Eric, and not leave

him a moment."

"No, not now--not now! Those are no arrows of Apollo, for the pedagogue

to ward off!"

Manna did not understand what Roland was saying; his mind seemed to her

distracted, and he did not explain how it was that the Niobe group rose

before his eyes. At length, after some time, he said:--

"Yes, so it is! The maiden hides in her mother's lap, but the boy holds

up his own hands and wards off the fatal shaft. And at night, when I

was wandering off to Eric, I listened to the story of the laughing

sprite. It takes a long while for an acorn to grow into a tree, and a

cradle to be made out of the tree, and a child that lies in the cradle

to open the door. Don't you hear? he laughs; he must go through his

transformation."

Manna begged him to be quiet, and said:--

"I must go to father."

"And I to mother."

Pranken met them on the steps; he held out his hand to Manna, and she

said:

"I am unspeakably thankful to you for the great loyalty you have shown

to my father."

"Stop a while, I beg of you."

"No, I cannot now--no longer."

The brother and sister separated, and as Roland entered his mother's

room, the latter said:--

"Don't trouble yourself about this Old World, we are going back again

to the New, to your real home."

Roland caught these words as if they came from afar off; and he

exclaimed:--

"That's it! that's it! It is the Delphic oracle!"

"What do you say? I am not learned." Roland did not answer. Something

was beginning to emerge out of the chaos around him, but it sank

quickly out of sight again.

"Wait a moment, it is time to go to dinner," said the mother.

She put on a shawl and went with Roland to the dining-room.

Here, also, were Pranken and Fraeulein Perini; the two were standing

talking together in a low tone.

Roland went for Eric.

"Isn't it dreadful to have to eat again?" he said. "What bits of slaves

do we eat to-day? Ah, Eric! lay your hand upon my forehead. So--so--now

that's good."

They had to wait some time before Sonnenkamp came, and Manna did not

appear until some time afterwards.

Her cheeks were glowing.

They sat there at table so near together, and so far--far apart were

they from each other. Eric and Manna looked at each other only once;

there was in their glance an expression full of intelligence. Roland

said softly to Eric,--

"When the huntsman came home from court there were potatoes on his

table."

Eric laid his hand consolingly on his shoulder; he knew everything that

was going on in the soul of the youth from this reminiscence. The

huntsman was innocent, and here?

Pranken displayed all his tact in managing to bring forward every safe

subject of conversation; the building of the castle furnished him

abundant material.

They rose from the table, and all separated as before. Roland requested

Eric to allow him to remain alone by himself for that day.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BOND OF HONOR.

It was evening. Roland was going through the village. In the streets

floated an odor of the May wine; everybody was merry and bustling; the

wine-presses were creaking and dripping in the streets, men were moving

along slowly with full heavy tubs on their backs.

Roland gazed at everybody with questioning look; he would have liked to

cry out,--

See, here is a beggar, he begs of you something of love, of kindness,

of pity for him and his father. Ah, only a little charity!

He saw the houses to which on his births day he had carried

joy-bringing gifts; the people returned his greetings, but they were

not, as formerly, gladdened and honored by them; he left the village.

Outside of it, on the river-bank, he sat behind a hedge, as he did

before he ran away to Eric. Now he was sitting in unspeakable sadness,

that bade fair to wither his life-strength. A water-ousel flew up near

him. With childish self-forgetfulness, he bent the boughs away from

each other, and saw a nest with five young ones stretching out their

bills. How happy he would have been in by-gone days to have made such a

discovery! Now, he stood there, and said to himself sadly,--

Ah! you are at home.

He heard a carriage come rattling towards him on the road, and he

thought of that poor servant in the night, who would rather hunger and

beg than possess property unjustly acquired.

Not far from him on the bank a boat was loosened from its chain; he

heard the chain rattle, and at the same moment he felt in his heart as

if he heard the slaves, who, bound in one long chain, were coming

towards him; and this again transformed itself in his imagination, and

he saw the dwarf, fettered as he had once seen him, and the groom; they

were walking along the road, and behind them the constable, with his

loaded gun gleaming in the sun.

He looked, up.

There, indeed, was a constable walking along. What if he were coming to

arrest his father?

O no, there was no fear of that!

What was the matter, then?

And while his eye was still fastened on the bush behind which the

constable disappeared, he became, as it were, clairvoyant, his sight

reaching out to all things instinctively. His thought stretched away to

Clodwig, to the Doctor, to the Major, to the Huntsman. What are they

all saying? Profoundly it came upon him: Man does not live for himself

alone. There is an invisible and inseparable community, whose bond is

respect and honor. He could bear no longer to sit alone with his

confused thoughts; he said to himself almost aloud;--

"To the Huntsman's."

With nimble foot and beating heart, as if he expected to find something

there, he knew not what, he ascended the mountain. Before reaching the

town he was met by the second son of the Huntsman; he too was slowly

plodding: he was carrying a heavy tub of young wine. The lad was of the

same age with Roland, and while still at some distance, he cried out:--

"Father said that you would come. Just go right in, he is expecting

you."

Roland thanked him and went on. As he entered the Huntsman's house, the

latter cried out to him:--

"Knew you were coming. Have a salve for you. Needn't tell me anything,

know everything this long while. Can give you something."

"What?"

"Boy, there are two things in the world that help; praying and

drinking. If you can't pray, drink till you have enough. Come, that's

the best thing."

"Shame on you," rejoined Roland, "shame on you, there is another

thing."

"What now? What?"

"Why, thinking. I cannot yet do it well at all, and I know not what

will come of it, but still help must come of it."

"Huzza!" cried the Huntsman, "you're a splendid lad! Say, have you

decided yet what you'll do with the big pile of money, when you've once

got it in your hand?"

"No."

"Very well. No doubt you'll learn. Now, I tell you, don't fret your

young life away. Have pity on your father; he is a poor man, with all

his millions. Show that you're a lad who deserves to have the sun shine

on him.

"Listen! mind!" he said, interrupting himself suddenly.

The black-bird was singing the melody: "Rejoice in your life." Roland

and the Huntsman looked at each other, and Roland smiled.

"Just so!" cried the Huntsman. "Learn that by heart, too. Rejoice In

your life, all else is silly stuff. The bird is sensible. You've done

your part well." He nodded to the black-bird, which was regarding the

man and the boy with a wise look, as if it knew what it had done, and

was sure of applause; and turning to Roland, he continued merrily;--

"So--just so!--just so! Hold up your head, and if you need any one,

call on me. You got me out of prison; that I'll never forget. Now come

and be merry, as your dogs are."

He took out a loaf of bread, which Roland was to give to the dogs to

eat; but Roland ate first with great zest.

"Hurrah! victory!" shouted Claus, "you're hungry. The battle's won! Now

let the water run down the Rhine, there's another day to-morrow."

Eric had had a presentiment that Roland would be at the field-guard's;

he went after him, and was rejoiced to find him calm once more. They

went home together, and Roland said:--

"Over there at the Huntsman's it came into my head all at once: What

would Benjamin Franklin say to me now? Do you know, Eric, what he would

say?"

"Not entirely, but I think he would say that a man who does nothing but

grieve stands on a level with the brute, which in a mishap cannot help

itself. The power of man has its beginning in this, that he can grasp,

comprehend, and direct his misfortune in such a way as to make

something out of it for his own good. If you suffer yourself to fall

asleep in affliction, you are responsible for your own injury. Rouse

yourself. As long as there is anything which you can esteem in

yourself, you have aright to the esteem of others."

"Thanks," exclaimed Roland. "For my part, I have been thinking what

Benjamin Franklin would say. I saw him before me with his genial

countenance, his long snow-white hair, and he said:--Mark you, the

worst thing is not what shames us in the eyes of the world, but to

allow the shame so to pervert your mind that you look upon all men as

base."

What he had listened to on the way he had shaped into a strong pillar

of thought for himself.

Eric could not tell how it gladdened his heart to feel that he had

fashioned this youth for such things; he wanted to cry out to him, You

are a man; but he repressed it. It would not do to say it aloud. With a

tranquillity wrung from the most profound grief, they both returned to

the villa.

They reached the garden wall, from the face of which the porter was

scraping something.

"There it is! there it is!" exclaimed Roland. "I have read it!"

The porter was scraping the mortar with a sharp iron, and this scraping

went through Roland's soul as if the work were done on his own heart.

All the coolness and composure that he had gained disappeared.

"There it is!" he exclaimed. "It will have to be scraped off again

to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow, and forever. Ah, Eric, why are

men so wicked! What good does it do them to insult us?"

Eric consoled him by saying that men are not so wicked, they merely

liked to irritate and mock one another.

He accompanied Roland to his room, and there the youth sat still, his

hand clenched and pressed against his lip, till his teeth left their

mark on his fingers. For a long while he spoke not a word. He looked at

the stuffed bird, and said softly to himself once more, "Hiawatha!"

He stood at the window, and looked down into the park, up into the sky,

where the swallows were gathering in great flocks, getting ready to

cross the sea into warmer lands. Everything, everything has its home,

something was saying in the heart of this youth; the plant that cannot

stir is carried to a secure shelter, and the swallow draws to a place

where it can still be happy. O, if some one could only tell us now

where we might be happy!

All at once he shrank back from the window, for he saw the Russian

prince entering the courtyard; behind the Prince came the Doctor in his

carriage. Roland begged Eric to leave him alone, and not bring any one

to see him.

Eric went away, and Roland locked himself up in his room.

CHAPTER XII.

SONNENKAMP FINDS A CONGENIAL SPIRIT.

Sonnenkamp was sitting alone in his large room; he looked up towards

the castle, which was nearly completed. Who will dwell in it? He turned

his eye away. He stood for a long time in front of Roland's picture.

"One should have no children, know nothing of them," he exclaimed. He

was terrified at the sound of his own voice.

He opened the money-safe; he contemplated the neatly-arranged papers,

and the drawers that contained the coined and uncoined gold.

"What help are you to me? and still----"

There was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he asked.

Joseph answered:--

"His Highness the Prince is here, and wishes----"

The Prince? Could it be possible? Was it all only a dream? Is the

Prince coming to ask his pardon? Does he feel----?

Sonnenkamp went to the door; he opened it; there stood the Russian

Prince Valerian. He said, with friendly words, that he had come to see

if he could, in any way, be of assistance, and Herr Weidmann also----

"I need no assistance! I need no one," broke in Sonnenkamp, shutting

the door and locking it once more.

"I have no pity, and want no pity," said he to himself, holding both

his clenched hands on his breast. There was another knock.

"What is it? Why don't they leave me in peace?"

Through the key-hole came the sound of a gentle voice:--

"It is I, the Countess Bella."

Sonnenkamp shivered.

Is it a trick? It is some one who insists on speaking to him, assuming

that name and that voice.

Well! At any rate, the person who puts on that mask is very cunning.

Let us see who it is that is so shrewd!

He opened the door and stood transfixed; it was indeed Bella.

"Give me your hand!" she cried. "Your hand! You are a hero, I have

never before seen a hero. And what are all these puppets around you?

Stuffing for uniforms, nothing more; cowardly professors and newspaper

hacks! There is still a bugbear which they call humanity, of which they

are all in fear; before which they creep away, like children from the

wolf. You alone are a man!"

"Sit down," at last said Sonnenkamp in astonishment; he did, not in the

least understand what all this could mean. Bella kept up the same

strain, saying:--

"I knew that you were a conqueror, but I did not know that you were

such a mighty one."

Still Sonnenkamp was not able to understand. What does this woman want?

Is this a kind of mockery? But he was disposed to think otherwise, when

she exclaimed:--

"They are weaklings--cowards, all of them, the world of rank

particularly! They ought to have created you a count, an ordinary baron

is altogether too small a thing for you. You have done what they all

would have liked to do--no, not all, but only certain ones who have the

mettle within them. But they are ashamed before the man who

accomplishes what they had not the energy, or the courage, or the

daring to accomplish. They have swords, they carry fancy daggers, and

are frightened at the rattan of the school-master, who raps them on the

fingers with it and says to them: 'Know ye not that we are living in

the epoch--or do they call it the century, the age--of humanity?' By

good right, all the nobles of the land should leave their cards for

you, and congratulate you. How many of these puppets would be in

possession of nobility, if they had to win it by heroism like yours?

Look at me; were I young, had you come in my youth, I would have gone

out with you into the wide world; you have in you a Napoleonic vein.

Give me your hand!"

She reached out both her hands and pressed his passionately.

"You do not recollect, but I have kept it in mind," said she in a

haughty tone, "when you and Prince Valerian dined with us, you said:

'There is a priestcraft of Humanity.' You were right. Before the flimsy

humanity of Jean Jacques Rousseau, they all bow down in fear, strong

free men; they are dreaming of a paradise of equality, where black and

white, noble and mean, the genius and the blockhead, shall be brewed

into a mass together; they have a new faith in a book, the 'Contrat

Social' is their Bible. I am not afraid of Jean Jacques Rousseau----"

With a joyful look, Sonnenkamp interrupted her:--

"A cause is not lost, no, it is victorious, if highminded women are

enthusiastic over it."

"Thanks--thanks," continued Bella.

She seized his hand and stroked his thumb with her delicate fingers.

"So one of the pets of the school-masters has sunk his teeth in here?

Be proud of it; it is a mark of honor, more so than if it had been won

in battle. Now let nothing in the world subdue you; enjoy yourself; you

have nothing more to conceal; now stand your ground and show that you

are the only one that is not afraid of the school-masters. The

dauntless man acknowledges and conforms to the inevitable."

Bella had risen; her eye was blazing, her cheeks were glowing, and her

countenance wore a look of mysterious and terrible fascination.

So must Medusa have appeared, so must she have breathed, so must she

have trembled.

And in the midst of this deep emotion, Bella felt that it was a fine

scene: here are the sublime tones of voice at her command, here is

majesty, here is passion. She suddenly stood still like a living

picture, as soon as she became conscious of this conception, and her

eye sought for a mirror in which to behold herself.

She shook her head, and turned back as if she were coming upon the

stage out of one of the side scenes.

"Will you tell me how you have become so great and daring, so free--the

only free man?"

Sonnenkamp, the strong man, trembled within himself. He had an avowal

upon his lips, but he dared not utter it; he had a demoniacal smile

upon his face, as Bella said to him:--

"There is one thing only you must not do; speak not to me of love:

anything but the 'fable convenue;' that is nothing--for you nothing and

to me nothing. Still another thing. You will learn it now too, if you

do not know it already,--the greatest tyranny in the world is the

family. Grieve not for your family; a hero has no family, and besides,

it is only a sentimental tradition that the heroes used to play with

their children on the floor. You must be alone, think of yourself

alone; then you are strong, you are like a man born of Byron's fancy,

and such a man actually stands before me. You have made only one

mistake; a man like you, such a hero, should have no family, should not

want to have any. Be firm, do not suffer yourself to be cleft in twain

and crushed to atoms through this mistake."