Strange,--what is the matter with this lad, Black Mathes's son! He has
his mother's heart and his father's blood. No, he has a still larger
heart than his mother's, and blood three times as savage as his
father's. This boy will become either a saint or a terrible murderer.
Old Russ-Kath has been ill for months. The people say she lacks young
blood. Little Lazarus, hearing of it, came to me yesterday with a small
wooden bowl and his father's huge pocket-knife, and asked me to draw
some blood from his hand to send to Russ-Kath.
His face was flushed, otherwise he was quiet. I remonstrated with him
for making such a request. He darted away, and soon afterwards in the
Winkelwarden's yard he was wringing a pigeon's neck: for anger, for
love--I cannot tell which.
I went out to the dead creature. "Lazarus," I said; "now thou hast
deprived a mother of her life. Seest thou the poor, helpless young
yonder? Dost thou hear how they cry?"
The boy stood there trembling, pale as marble, struggling for breath,
and biting his underlip until the blood trickled down his chin.
Loosening his clenched fist, I poured water on his forehead and led him
back into his hut. There he fell exhausted upon the moss, and sank into
a deep sleep.
Something must be done to save the child. How would it be if I should
take him, be father and brother to him, curb and guide him according to
my strength, teach him and keep him at work, seeking in every way to
kill his passion?
But perhaps the boy has too much blood ... the people say.