Chapter XX…

Chapter XX

It was still night when Anton stepped over the threshold of the tavern. A thick cloud hung over the plain. A red glare on the horizon marked the district through which the travelers had to pass. The mist of night covered, with a gray veil, a dark mass on the ground. Anton went nearer, and found that it consisted of men, women, and children, cowering on the earth, pale, hungry, and emaciated. "They are from the village on the other side of the boundary," explained an old watchman, who stood wrapped in his cavalry cloak. "Their village was on fire; they had run into the forest, and during the night they had come down to the river, stretching out their hands, and crying piteously for bread. As they were mostly women and children, our captain allowed them to cross, and has had a few loaves cut up for them. They are half famished. After them came larger bodies, all crying 'Bread! bread!' and wringing their hands. We fired off a few pistol-shots over their heads, and soon scattered them."

"Ha!" said Anton, "this is a poor prospect for us and our journey. But what will become of these unfortunate creatures?"

"They are only border rascals," said the watchman, soothingly. "Half the year they smuggle and swill, the other half they starve. They are freezing a little just now."

"Could one not have a caldron full of soup made for them?" inquired Anton, compassionately, putting his hand into his pocket.

"Why soup?" replied the other, coldly; "a drink of brandy would please the whole fry better. Over there they all drink brandy, even the child at the breast; if you are inclined to spend something upon them in that way, I'll give it out, not forgetting a loyal old soldier at the same time."

"I will request the landlord to have something warm got ready for them, and you will have the goodness to see that it is all right." And again Anton's hand went into his pocket, and the watchman promised to keep his warlike heart open to compassion.

An hour later the travelers were rolling along in an open britzska. The merchant drove; Anton sat behind him, and looked eagerly out into the surrounding landscape, where, through darkness and mist, a few detached objects were just beginning to appear. When they had driven about two hundred yards, they heard a Polish call. The merchant stopped, and a single man cautiously approached. "Come up, my good friend," said the merchant; "sit here by me." The stranger politely took off his cap, and swung himself up to the driving-box. He turned out to be the chief krakuse of the day before--the man with the drooping mustache.

"Keep an eye on him," said the merchant in English to Anton; "he shall serve us as a safe-conduct, and be paid for it too; but if he touches me, lay hold of him from behind."

Anton took his despised pistols out of an old leathern pouch on one side of the carriage, and, in sight of the krakuse, arranged them ostentatiously in the pocket of his paletot. But the latter only smiled, and soon showed himself a creature of a friendly and social nature, nodding confidentially to both travelers, drinking some mouthfuls out of Anton's traveling flask, trying to keep up, over his left shoulder, a conversation with him, calling him "your grace" in broken German, and giving him to understand that he too smoked, though he did not happen to have any tobacco. At last he requested the honor of driving the gentlemen.

In this manner they passed a group of fallen houses, which lay on a flat close to a marsh, looking like giant fungi that had shot up on a malarian soil, when they suddenly found themselves surrounded by a band of insurgents. It was a general levy, such as they had seen the day before. There were flails in abundance, a few scythes, old muskets, linen smock-frocks, a strong smell of spirits, and wild, staring eyes. This troop at once seized the horses by the bridles, and quick as lightning began to unharness them. The krakuse now sprang up lion-like from his seat, and displayed, in his Polish tongue, a vast amount of eloquence, aided by much gesticulation with hands and feet. He declared that these gentlemen were great noblemen, who were traveling to the capital that they might speak with the government, and that it would cost the head of every man who presumed to pull a hair out of one of their horses' tails. This speech provoked several animated replies, during which some clenched their fists, and some took off their caps. Upon that the driver began a still more powerful oration, setting before the patriots a prospective quartering if they even ventured to look askance at the heads of the horses. This had the effect of diminishing the number of clenched fists, and increasing that of the doffed caps. At length the merchant put an end to the whole scene by suddenly flogging the horses, and thus compelling the last recusants to jump aside as fast as they could. The horses galloped off, loud interjections were heard in the distance, and a few shots passed harmlessly over the heads of the travelers, probably fired out of a general enthusiasm for fatherland rather than with any definite purpose.

So the hours passed on. They not unfrequently met bands of armed peasantry screaming and brandishing their cudgels, or else following, with bent heads and hymn-singing, a priest who bore a church banner displayed. The travelers were sometimes, indeed, stopped and threatened, but at other times saluted with the utmost reverence, especially Anton, who, sitting as he did behind, was taken for the most important personage.

At length they approached a larger village, the bands grew closer, the uproar greater, and here and there a uniform, a cockade, or a bayonet appeared among the smock-frocks. Here, too, the driver began to show symptoms of disquiet, and announced to the merchant that he could not take them any farther, and that they must report themselves to the leader in command. To this Mr. Schröter made no objection, but paid the driver and stopped the carriage.

A young man with a blue head-piece, and a red and white scarf about his waist, stepped forward, obliged the travelers to dismount, and with a great display of zeal led them to the chief. The merchant still held the reins in his hand, and whispered to Anton that he was on no account to lose sight of the carriage. Anton pretended the utmost unconcern, and pressed a coin into the hand of the friendly krakuse, who had crept behind the carriage, that he might go and get the horses a bundle of hay.

The sentry was in a house whose thatched roof had been dignified by the whitewashing of the walls. A few muskets and guns leaned up against it, watched by a youthful volunteer in blue coat and red cap. Near at hand sat the commanding officer, whose flat face was surmounted by an immense white plume, and whose person was adorned by an enormous white scarf, and a sword with elaborate hilt. This dignitary was considerably excited when he beheld the strangers; he clapped his hat more firmly on his head, stroked his unkempt beard, and began to give audience. After a few preliminary remarks, the travelers told him that they had weighty business to transact with the heads of the government. They refused, however, to give any account of its purport. This statement wounded the dignity of the authority before them. He made harsh allusions to suspicious characters and spies, and called to his guard to stand to their arms. Instantly five youths in blue caps rushed out of the house, ranged themselves in order, and were commanded to hold their guns in readiness. Involuntarily Anton sprang between them and his principal. Meanwhile the man of the giant sword, on seeing that the merchant still stood quietly by the post round which he had fastened the reins, changed his murderous intent, contenting himself with assuring him that he considered him a very dangerous character, and was much inclined to shoot him as a traitor.

The merchant shrugged his shoulders, and said, with calm politeness, "You are entirely mistaken as to the object of our journey. You can not seriously believe us to be spies, for we have just been brought to you by one of your own people, in order that we might obtain from your kindness a convoy to the capital. I must once more request you not to detain us, as our business with the government is of a pressing nature, and I shall be obliged to make you responsible for all unnecessary delay." This address led to another volley of oaths on the part of the man in authority, who snorted violent defiance against the travelers, drank off a large glass of brandy, and finally came to a decision. He called three of his men, and desired them to take their seats in the carriage, and to convey it to the capital. A bundle of fresh straw was thrown in, two youths with arms in their hands placed themselves behind the travelers, while a white-frocked peasant sat on the box, took the reins, and indifferently drove the whole cargo, suspicious characters, patriots, and all, at a gallop toward the capital.

"Our condition has changed for the worse," said Anton. "Five men in this little carriage, and the poor horses tired already."

"I told you," replied the merchant, "that our journey would have some inconveniences. Men are never more troublesome than when they play at being soldiers. In other respects, this guard over us does no harm; at least, with such an escort, we are sure to be admitted into the city."

It was evening when they reached the capital. A red glare in the sky showed them their goal while they were still far from it. As they approached, they met numerous companies of armed men moving in and out. Next came a long detention at the gates--an interchange of questions and answers--an examination of the travelers by the aid of lanterns and pine torches, angry looks, and even intelligible threats, and, finally, a long drive through the streets of the old capital. Sometimes all around them was still as death; sometimes a wild cry resounded from the crowd, all the more alarming because the words were not understood.

At length the driver turned into a square, and stopped before a handsome house. The travelers were surrounded and pushed up a broad staircase by a crowd of gay uniforms, laced coats, and clean smock frocks. Next they were thrust into a large apartment, and placed before a gentleman wearing white silk gloves, who looked into a written report, and briefly informed them that, according to the report of the commandant at the station, they were suspected of being spies, and were to undergo a court-martial. The merchant at once broke out in high displeasure: "I am sorry that your informant should have told you a great falsehood, for we have undertaken this journey on the highway and in broad daylight, for the express purpose of speaking to your governors. The horses and carriage which brought me here are both mine, and it was an uncalled-for act of politeness on the part of your commandant to furnish me with an escort. I wish to see the gentleman in command here as soon as possible; it is to him alone that I mean to impart the motive of my journey; be so good, therefore, as to hand him my passport."

The official examined the passport, and, looking at Anton, proceeded to inquire, with somewhat more consideration, "But this gentleman? He has the appearance of an officer in your army."

"I am a clerk of Mr. Schröter's," returned Anton, with a bow; "and out and out a civilian."

"Wait a while," said the young man, superciliously, going with the passport into a neighboring room.

As he remained away some time, and no one interfered with the travelers, they sat down on a bench, and tried to appear as unconcerned as possible. Anton first cast an anxious glance at his principal, who was looking down gloomily, and then gazed about him in amazement. The room in which they were was lofty, and the ceiling much ornamented, but the walls were dirty and smoke-stained; tables, chairs, and benches stood about in confusion, and seemed as if just brought in from the nearest tavern. A few writers bent over their papers, while soldiers sat or lay along the walls, asleep or talking loudly, several of them in French. A room like this, dimly lighted, was not calculated to make a cheerful impression upon Anton, who whispered to the merchant, "If revolutions in general look like this, they are ugly things."

"They always destroy, and seldom recreate," was the reply. "I am afraid that this room is an emblem of the whole town: the painted coat of arms on the ceiling, and the dirty bench on which we are sitting. When such contrasts as these are brought into juxtaposition, it is enough to make a sober-minded man cross himself in horror. The nobles and the people are bad enough, taken separately, when they each try their hands at government; but when they unite, they are sure to bring down the house that holds them."

"The nobles are the most troublesome," said Anton. "Commend me to our krakuse; he was a polite insurgent, and knew the value of a half dollar; but these gentlemen seem to have no business notions at all."

"Let us wait a little," said the principal.

A quarter of an hour had passed, when a young man, tall in stature and stately in aspect, followed by the white-gloved gentleman, politely approached the merchant, saying so loudly that even the sleepers could hardly fail to hear, "I rejoice to see you here, and have indeed been expecting it; have the goodness to follow me with your companion."

"By Jove, we are looking up!" thought Anton.

They followed their majestic guide into a small corner room, which was evidently the boudoir of the quarters, for it contained an ottoman, easy chairs, and a handsome writing-table. Different uniforms and articles of dress were carelessly thrown upon the furniture; and on the table lay, in the midst of papers, a pair of double-barreled pocket pistols, and a large seal richly set in gold.

While Anton was noticing that the whole room was very elegant, but, at the same time, very untidy, the young chief turned to the merchant and said, with somewhat more reserve and less amenity, "You have, through a misunderstanding, been exposed to some rudeness, as is indeed often unavoidable in troubled times. Your escort has confirmed your statements. I now beg you to impart to me the reason of your visit."

The merchant accordingly briefly but precisely explained the purpose of his journey, named those men in the place with whom he was connected in business, and appealed to them to ratify his statements.

"I know both those gentlemen," answered the officer, carelessly. Then looking fixedly at the merchant, he asked, after a pause, "Have you nothing further to communicate?"

The principal said he had not; but the other rapidly continued, "I quite understand that our peculiar position prevents your government from treating with us directly, and that, in the event of your being charged with a commission, you must proceed with the utmost caution."

Here the merchant hastily interrupted him. "Before you say more, I again assure you, as a man of honor, that I am come merely on my own business, and that my business is only what I have already stated. But as I conclude from your words, as well as much that I have heard on my way hither, that you take me for a delegate, I feel constrained to tell you that I never could have been charged with any commission such as you seem to expect, its very existence being an utter impossibility."

The noble looked grave, and said, after a moment's silence, "Very well; you shall not suffer on that account. The wish that you express is so singular, that it would be impossible, in the common course of things, to grant it. If we are not permitted to consider you a friend, the rules of war command us to deal with you and yours as enemies. But the men of my nation have ever possessed, in taking up arms, the rare virtue of trusting to the virtue of others, as well as of acting nobly, even when they could expect no gratitude in return. Be assured that I will, as far as in me lies, assist you to recover your property."

So said the nobleman with self-conscious dignity; and Anton was keenly alive to the true nobility of the words, though too thoroughly a man of business to give himself up to the impression they made, his budding enthusiasm being frostbitten by a very matter-of-fact thought: "He promises to help us, and yet he is not quite convinced that the property we wish to carry off is of right our own."

"I am not, alas! so absolute," continued the chief, "as to be able to gratify you at once. However, I hope in the morning to furnish you with a pass for your wagons. First of all, try to find out where your property now is, and I will send one of my officers with you as a protection. The rest to-morrow."

With these words the travelers were courteously dismissed; and as Anton went out he saw the officer wearily throw himself back into an easy-chair, and with bent head begin to play with the trigger of his pistols.

A slight youth, with a large scarf, almost a child in years, but of a most noble bearing, accompanied our friends. As they left the house, they were politely saluted by several present, and it was plain that the ante-chamber still believed in their diplomatic character.

The officer inquired whether he should accompany the gentlemen, as it was his duty not to lose sight of them.

"Is this by way of protection or surveillance?" inquired Anton, who now felt in good spirits.

"You will give me no occasion, I am sure, to exercise the latter," returned the small warrior in exquisite French.

"No," said the merchant, looking kindly at the youth; "but we shall weary you, for we have yet to get through a good deal of uninteresting and commonplace business this evening."

"I am only doing my duty," replied their escort, with some haughtiness, "in accompanying you wherever you wish."

"And in order to do ours, we must make all the haste we can," said the merchant. And so they traversed the streets of the capital. Night had set in, and the confusion and bustle seemed sadder still under her cloak. Crowds of the lowest of the populace, patrols of military, bands of fugitive peasantry jostled each other, snatching, shrieking, cursing. Many windows were illuminated, and their brilliance cast a shadowless, ghostly glare over the streets. Thick red clouds rolled above the roofs of the houses, for one of the suburbs was on fire, and the wind blew swarms of golden sparks and burning splinters over the heads of the travelers. Meanwhile the bells of the churches kept up a monotonous tolling. The strangers hurried silently along, the imperious tones of their escort always making way for them through the most unruly throng. At length they reached the house of the agent of their firm. It was shut up, and they had to knock long and loud before a window was opened, and a piteous voice heard asking who was there.

When they entered the agent ran to meet them, wringing his hands, and tearfully falling on the merchant's neck. The presence of the young insurgent prevented him from expressing his feelings. He threw open the nearest door, and in lamentable tones apologized for the exceeding disorder in which the room was. Chests and coffers were being packed up; male and female servants were running to and fro, hiding silver candlesticks here, thrusting in silver spoons there. Meanwhile the master of the house never left off wringing his hands, lamenting his misfortunes and those of the firm, welcoming, and, in the same breath, regretting the arrival of the principal, and every now and then assuring the young officer, with choking voice, that he too was a patriot, and that it was only owing to an unaccountable mistake on the part of one of the maids that the cockade had been taken off his hat. It was plain that the man and his whole family had quite lost their wits.

The merchant had much trouble before he could get him into a corner and hear some business details. It appeared that the wagons had arrived in town on the very day that the insurrection broke out. Through the foresight of one of the wagoners, they had been taken into the great court-yard of a remote inn, but as to what had become of them since then the agent knew nothing.

After some further conversation the merchant said, "We shall not claim your hospitality to-night; we shall sleep wherever our wagons are." All the persuasions of the agent were peremptorily rejected.

This worthy but weak man seemed really distressed at the new danger into which his friend was determined to run.

"I shall call you up early," said the merchant, as he left; "I propose setting out to-morrow with my wagons, but first I wish to make a few, as you know, necessary visits to our customers, and to have your company during them." The agent promised to do his best by daylight.

Again our travelers went forth into the night, accompanied by the Pole, who had scornfully listened to the half-whispered conversation. As they went along the street, the principal, angrily throwing away his cigar, said to Anton,

"Our friend will be of little use to us; he is helpless as a child. In the beginning of the disturbance, he neglected to do his duty--to collect money, and seek for reimbursement."

"And now," said Anton, sorrowfully, "no one will be inclined to pay or reimburse us."

"And yet we must bring this about to-morrow, and you shall help me to do so. By heaven, these warlike convulsions are in themselves inconvenient enough to trade without this addition, paralyzing as they do all useful activity, which is the only thing that prevents us from becoming mere animals. But if a man of business allows himself to be more crushed than is absolutely unavoidable, he does an injury to civilization--an injury for which there is no compensation."

They had now reached a part of the town where empty streets, and the silence of the grave immediately at hand, only enhanced the horrors of the distant clamor and the red glare in the sky. At length they stopped before a low building with a large gateway. Entering, they looked into the bar, a dirty room with blackened rafters, in which loud-voiced and brandy-drinking patriots clustered on bench and table. The young officer called for the landlord. A fat figure with a red face appeared.

"In the name of the government, rooms for myself and my companions," said the young man. The host sullenly took up a bundle of rusty keys and a tallow candle, and led them to an upper floor, where he opened the door of a damp room, and morosely declared that he had no other for them.

"Bring us supper and a bottle of your best wine," said the merchant; "we pay well, and at once."

This announcement occasioned a visible improvement in the mood of the fat landlord, who even made an unsuccessful attempt to be polite. The merchant next asked for the wagons and wagoners. These questions were evidently unwelcome. At first Boniface pretended to know nothing about them, declaring that there were a great many wagons coming and going in his court-yard, and that there were several wagoners too, but that he did not know them.

It was in vain that the merchant tried to make him understand the object of his coming; the landlord remained obtuse, and was about to relapse into his former moroseness, when the young Pole came forward, and informed Mr. Schröter that this was not the way of dealing with such people. He then faced the landlord, called him all manner of hard names, and declared that he would arrest and carry him off on the spot unless he at once gave the most exact information.

The landlord looked timidly at the officer, and begged to be allowed to retire and send up one of the wagoners.

Soon a lanky figure with a brown felt hat came lumbering up stairs, started at the sight of the merchant, and at last announced, with pretended cheerfulness, that there he was.

"Where are the wagons? where are the bills of lading?"

The wagons were in the court-yard. The bills were reluctantly produced from the dirty leather purse of the wagoner.

"You guarantee me that your load remains complete and undisturbed?" asked the merchant.

The felt hat ungraciously replied that he could do nothing of the kind. The horses had been unharnessed and hid in a secret stable, that they might not be confiscated by the government; as to the fate of the wagons, he could neither prevent nor ascertain it, and all responsibility ceased in troublous times like these.

"We are in a den of thieves," said the merchant to his escort; "I must request your assistance in bringing these people to reason."

Now bringing people to reason was just what the young Pole believed to be his speciality; so, with a smile, he took a pistol in one hand, and said aside to Anton, "Do as I, and have the goodness to follow me." Next he seized the wagoner by the throat, and dragged him down the stair. "Where is the landlord?" cried he, in the most formidable tone he could raise. "The dog of a landlord and a lantern!" The lantern being brought, he drove the whole pack--the strangers, the fat landlord, the captured wagoner, and all others assembled by the noise, before him into the court-yard. Arrived there, he placed himself and his prisoner in the centre of the circle, bestowed a few more injurious epithets upon the landlord, rapped the wagoner on the head with his pistol, and then courteously observed in French to the merchant, "This fellow's skull sounds remarkably hollow; what next do you require from the boobies?"

"Have the goodness to summon the wagoners."

"Good," said the Pole; "and then?"

"Then I will examine the freight of the wagons, if it be possible to do so in the dark."

"Every thing is possible," said the Pole, "if you like to take the trouble to search through the old canvas in the night. But I should be inclined to advise a bottle of Sauterne and a few hours' repose instead. In times like these, one should not lose an opportunity of refreshing one's self."

"I should prefer to inspect the wagons at once," said the merchant, with a smile, "if you have no objection to it."

"I am on duty," replied the Pole, "therefore let's to work at once; there are plenty of hands here to hold lights for you. You confounded rascals," continued he, in Polish, again cuffing the wagoner and threatening the landlord, "I will carry you all off together, and have a court-martial held upon you, if you do not instantly bring all the drivers belonging to this gentleman into my presence. How many of them?" inquired he, in French, from the merchant.

"There are fourteen wagons," was the reply.

"There must be fourteen wagoners," thundered the Pole again to the people; "the devil shall fly away with you all if you do not instantly produce them." With the help of an old domestic servant, a dozen of the drivers were at length brought forward; two, however, were in no way to be recovered, and finally the landlord confessed that they had gone to join the patriots.

The young Pole did not seem to attach much value to this instance of patriotism. Turning to the merchant, he said, "Here you have the men, now see to the freight; if a single article be found wanting, I will have the whole of these fellows tried by court-martial." Then he carelessly sat down on the pole of a carriage, and looked at the points of his polished boots, which had got a good deal bemired.

A number of lanterns and torches were now brought, and after a few encouraging words from the merchant, the wagoners proceeded to roll away some empty carts, and to open out a passage to their own goods. Most of these men had been employed by him before, and knew him and Anton personally; some of them proved themselves trustworthy and obliging; and while Mr. Schröter was cross-questioning the most intelligent of their number, Anton hastened to ascertain, as well as he could, the condition of the freight, which mostly consisted of wool and tallow. Some wagons were untouched; one was entirely unloaded, and many had lost their canvas covering, and been otherwise plundered. The merchant had once more recourse to the young Pole. "It is just as we supposed," said he; "the landlord has persuaded some of the drivers that, now the revolution has set in, their obligations have ceased, and they have begun to unload the wagons. Had we been a day later, every thing would have been carried off. The landlord and a few of his associates have been the instigators, and some of the wagoners have been frightened into compliance."

At this announcement a new volley of imprecations proceeded from the lips of the small authority, and the landlord, from whose face all ruddiness had vanished, was soon on his knees before the officer, who pulled him by the hair, and treated him very roughly indeed. Meanwhile Anton and some of the men laid siege to a locked-up coach-house, broke open the door, and disclosed the bales of wool and the remainder of the stolen goods.

"Let these people reload," said the merchant; "they may well work the night through as a punishment." After some opposition, the wagoners set to, overpowered by a combination of threats and promises. The Pole drove the drunken guests out of the tavern, had the outer door closed, and all the candles and lanterns of the establishment brought into the court-yard. Next he dragged the host by the hair of his head to the upper story, and then, by the help of some patriots with great cockades, tied him to a bedpost, and gave him to understand that that was the nearest approach to a night's rest which he had to expect. "In the event of the freight being found entire, and safely removed from your premises, you shall be forgiven," said the Pole; "in the opposite case, I shall have you tried at once, and shot."

Meanwhile the uproar in the court was great indeed. Anton had the wagons reloaded and the freight properly secured. Full of his work, he scarcely looked around, and only realized at odd moments his singular entourage, and the exciting nature of the scene. It was a large square court, surrounded by low, ruinous wooden buildings, stables, and coach-houses, and having two entrances, one through the inn itself, and one through a gate opposite. It occupied a space of several acres, as is often the case with these hostelries of eastern Europe, stationed on great thoroughfares; and afforded, as do the caravanseries of Asia, shelter for large transports of goods, as well as for multitudes of the poor and needy. All sorts of wagons were now assembled in the square court in question, and it was crowded besides with ladders, poles, wheels, gigantic hampers, gray canvas coverings, bundles of hay and straw, old tar-barrels, and portable racks. Besides the stable lanterns and flaming pine torches, there was the red glare in the sky, and the lurid clouds of smoke and sparks rolling still over the heads of the travelers. This strange sort of twilight shone here at least upon a peaceful task. The wagoners worked hard, shouting loudly the while; dark forms now vanished in the shadow of the bales, now sprang on the top of them, while their animated gesticulations made them look, in the red light, like a crowd of savages holding some mysterious nocturnal orgies.

The merchant, meanwhile, walked up and down between the inn and the scene of action. It was in vain that Anton implored him to rest for a few hours. "This is no night for us to sleep in," said he, gloomily; and Anton read in his dark glance the resolve of a man who is ready to stake his all upon the accomplishment of his inflexible will.

It was nearly morning when the last giant bale was firmly secured with ropes and chains on the wagon top. Anton, who had himself been lending a hand, now slipped down, and announced to his principal that their work was done.

"At last!" replied the merchant, drawing a long breath; and then he went up to announce the fact to their friendly escort.

He, for his part, had contrived to get through the night in his own way; first, he thoroughly enjoyed the supper and wine brought him by the terrified maids, and found leisure to say a few encouraging words to the prettiest of them. Then he contemplated the dirty bed, and at last threw himself, with a French oath, upon it, looking now at the distorted countenance of the roguish host, who sat opposite him on the ground, now at the ceiling; and, while half asleep himself, complimenting the merchant, who looked in from time to time, upon his capacity of keeping awake a whole night. At length the youth fell fast asleep. At least the merchant found him in the morning outstretched on the coarse coverlet, his delicate face shaded by his long black hair, his small hands crossed, and a pleasant smile playing around his lips.

As he lay there he afforded no incorrect type of the aristocracy of his nation: noble child that he was, with the passions, and perhaps the sins of a man; while over against him crouched the coarse build of the fettered plebeian, who pretended to sleep too, but often cast a malicious glance at the recumbent form before him.

The aristocrat sprang up when the merchant approached the bed, and, throwing the window open, said, "Good-day: it is morning, I see; I have slept admirably." Next he called to a patrol passing by, briefly informed the leader how things stood, made over to him the landlord and the remainder of the supper, and desired him to stop at once, and keep guard over the house until he should return. Then he ordered the wagoners to harness the horses, and led the travelers out into the gray dawn of a comfortless-looking day.

On their way to the agent the merchant said to Anton, "We shall divide the most necessary visits between us. Tell our customers that we have no kind of intention of oppressing them; that, on the restoration of some degree of order, they may reckon upon the greatest forbearance and consideration--nay, under conditions, upon an extension of credit, but that at present we insist upon securities. We shall not effect much in this confusion; but that these gentlemen should be, at a time like this, even reminded of our firm, is worth a good deal." Then, in a lower tone, he added, "The town is doomed: we shall do little business here for some time to come; remember that, and be firm." And, turning to the Pole, he said, "I request you to allow my fellow-traveler to pay a few business calls in the company of our agent."

"If your agent will answer with his person for the gentleman's return," returned the Pole, with some reluctance, "I consent."

The light of day had exercised its gracious office of giving color to flowers and courage to the faint-hearted, even in favor of the agent. He declared himself ready to accompany Anton upon the terms proposed. Accordingly, under the protection of the great cockade upon his companion's hat, Anton hurried from house to house, pale indeed from loss of rest, but with an undaunted heart. Every where he was received with amazement not always free from confusion. "How could people think in such a time about winding up matters of business, with the noise of arms all round, and in deadly fear of a horrible future?"

Anton coolly replied, "Our firm is not accustomed to trouble itself about rumors of war when not absolutely obliged to do so. All times are suited for the fulfillment of obligations; and if this be a fit season for us to come here, it is also a fit season for you to arrange matters with me;" through which representations he succeeded here and there in obtaining definite promises, commissions, nay, even reimbursement.

After a few hours' hard work, Anton met his principal in the agent's house. When he had made his report, the merchant said, reaching out his hand to him, "If we can succeed in getting our wagons safely out of the town, we shall have done enough to enable us to bear the unavoidable losses that we must undergo. Now, then, to the commandant." He gave a few further instructions to the agent, whispering to him in parting, "In a few days our troops will enter; I take it for granted that you will not leave your house till then. We shall thus meet again."

With upraised hands the agent invoked the protection of all the saints in the calendar upon the travelers, locked and bolted the house door behind them, and hid his revolutionary cockade in the stove.

Our friends now hurried on through the tumult, led by the Pole. The streets were full again; bands of armed men passed by, the populace was in wilder excitement, and the noise greater than on the previous evening. The houses were thundered at, and an entrance insisted on. Brandy-casks were rolled on to the flags, and surrounded by drunken men and women. Every thing denoted that the authorities were not sufficiently strong to enforce street-discipline. Even in the house of the commandant there was agitation and restlessness, soldiers were hurrying to and fro, and the messages which they brought were evidently unfavorable, for there was much whispering going on in the great ante-chamber, and anxious suspense was visible on every face.

As soon as the young Pole entered he was surrounded by his friends and drawn into a corner. After some hasty questions, he seized a musket, called off a few soldiers by name, and left the room, without troubling himself any further about the travelers.

The merchant and Anton were shown into the next room, where the young commander-in-chief received them. He too looked pale and dejected, but it was with the bearing of a true nobleman that he addressed Mr. Schröter: "I have forwarded your wishes; here is a passport for you and your wagons. I pray you to infer from this that we are anxious to treat the citizens of your state with consideration, possibly even more than the duty of self-preservation would dictate."

The merchant received the important document with shining eyes. "You have shown me a remarkable degree of kindness," said he; "I feel myself deeply indebted to you, and wish that I may one day be permitted to prove my gratitude."

"Who knows?" answered the young commandant, with a melancholy smile; "he who stakes all upon a cast may lose all."

"He may lose much," replied the merchant, courteously, "but not all, if he has striven honorably."

At that moment a hollow sound was heard, a sound like the sweep of a howling wind, or the roaring of a rushing flood. The commandant stood motionless and listened. Suddenly a discordant scream of many voices resounded close by, and some shots followed. Anton, made susceptible by a night of wakefulness and long-continued excitement, started with terror, and remarked that his principal's hand, in which was the passport, shook violently. The door of the cabinet now burst open, and a few stately-looking men rushed in, with garments torn, arms in their hands, the traces of a street combat visible on their excited countenances, and at their head the young escort of the travelers.

"Mutiny!" cried the youth to his commanding officer; "they are seeking you. Save yourself. I will keep them off."

Quick as thought Anton sprang toward his principal, dragged him away, and both flew through the ante-chamber, and down the staircase to the ground floor. Here they came upon a band of soldiers who were endeavoring to garrison the house against masses of the populace. But, swift as were the movements of the travelers, those of their last night's escort were quicker still, as, with a loud shout, he rushed to head his friends in their resistance to the invaders. His black hair flew wildly around his bare head, and his eyes shone out from his beautiful and now pallid face with the unconquerable energy of a brave man.

"Back!" he cried, with a loud, clear voice, to the raging people, and sprang like a panther in among them, dealing sword-strokes round. The masses gave way; the comrades of the brave youth ranged themselves behind him. Again Anton seized his principal's arm, and dragged him off with such speed as is only possible to men under the influence of strong excitement. They had just got behind a projection of the house when they heard a shot fired, and saw with horror the young Pole fall backward bleeding, and heard his last cry, "The canaille!"

"To the wagons!" said the merchant, dashing down a narrow cross-street. They still heard in the distance shots and cries of discord; and breaking through bands of curious and terrified inhabitants, who hindered their progress, they arrived breathless, and fearing the worst, at the door of the inn.

Here, too, there was mutiny. The soldiers left in charge of the house had loosed the landlord, and speedily made their retreat as soon as news of the tumult reached them. The court-yard was now a scene of wrangling and confusion. The landlord, supported by a number of idlers collected from the street, was disputing violently with the wagoners. Some of the wagons were harnessed and ready for departure, but from others the canvas covering had been again dragged off. The case was a desperate one. The merchant tore away from Anton, who tried to detain him, and, rushing into the midst of the disputants, called out in Polish as loudly as he could, while holding the passport above his head, "Stop, I say; here is the order of the commander-in-chief authorizing the departure of our wagons. Whoever resists it will be punished. We are under the protection of the government."

"What government, you rogue of a German?" screamed the landlord, with ominous face; "the old government is done away with; the traitors have had their reward, and their spies shall be hanged as well;" and, rushing at the merchant, he brandished an old sword at his head.

Our Anton shuddered; but man being in the most critical moments liable to strange associations of idea, which play like meteors across the anguish of his spirit, it chanced that the broad back of the landlord suddenly reminded him of the back of a squat schoolfellow of his at Ostrau, a good-natured baker's son, upon whom, in many a scuffle, he had often practiced the boyish trick of tripping an adversary from behind. Quick as lightning he sprang upon the landlord, and most skillfully threw him. The falling sword swerved from its fatal aim, only striking the arm of the merchant, cutting through the coat and into the flesh. As the fat fellow lay struggling on his back like a beetle, Anton drew out his trusty pistols, and cried, with the inspiration of despair, "Back, you rascals, or I shoot him dead!"

This rapid diversion had more effect than could reasonably have been hoped; the people that the landlord had collected around him, and who, after all, were only working for his interest, fell back, while half a dozen wagoners, with bars of iron and other implements of the kind, crowded round the merchant, and now screamed as loudly as the other party had done a short time before, declaring that no harm should happen to the gentleman and his wagons. The merchant cried, "Drive these strangers out!" and, taking up the sword that the landlord had dropped, at the head of his adherents stormed the latter's abettors, and drove them through the house. The most stiff-necked of them tried to intrench themselves in the bar, but one after the other was cast out, roaring and cursing the while. The door was then locked, and the merchant hastened back to the court-yard, and found Anton still kneeling by the incorrigible landlord to prevent him from rising. The rest of the wagoners having timidly got out of the way, the merchant now summoned them all, and ordered them to put the horses to, saying to Anton, "We must leave this place. Better the street pavement than this den of thieves."

"You bleed!" cried Anton, in great distress, his eye falling on the merchant's arm.

"It must be a mere scratch; I can move the arm," was the prompt reply. "Open the gate; out with the wagons. Forward, my men! Anton, one of the wagoners will help you to bind the landlord."

"And where shall we go?" inquired Anton, in English. "Are we to take these wagons into the bloodshed of the streets?"

"We have a passport, and will leave the town," answered the merchant, doggedly.

"They will not respect our passport," cried Anton in return, while he held a pistol at the head of the obstreperous landlord.

"If the worst come to the worst, there are other inns in this part of the town; any of them will be a better refuge."

"But we have not the full complement of drivers, and some of our number are disaffected."

"I will manage the disaffected," answered the merchant, sternly; "we have the full number of horses, we only want the men. Those to whom the horses belong will remain with them. The gate is open--out with the wagons!"

The gate led to an open space covered with building-stones and débris, and surrounded by a few poor houses. The merchant hastened thither to superintend the departure. A stout youth came to Anton's assistance. They were anxious moments these. Near the house, he and his helper were struggling with the prostrate man, whose ugly wife and her two maid-servants were howling at the house door. As the first wagon rolled away, their screams became louder: the landlady called out "help" and "murder!" and the maids wailed all the louder the more fervently the young wagoner assured them that no harm would befall his worship, the landlord, if he would only lie still, and that, moreover, they would all pay their bills besides.

Just then loud knocks were heard at the house door; the women rushed in and unlocked it at once; and so great had been the hopeless excitement of the last few minutes, that it was almost with a sense of relief that Anton saw a strong body of soldiery defile into the court. He rose from the ground, and left the landlord free. But the merchant walked slowly, and with uncertain steps, like a broken-down man, to meet the enemies who, at this decisive moment, frustrated his will.

The leader of the band, one of those whom the young Pole had in the morning summoned to the inn, said to the merchant, "You are prisoners; neither you nor your wagons can leave the town."

"I have a passport," eagerly replied Mr. Schröter, feeling for his pocket-book.

"The new government forbids your journey," was the curt rejoinder.

"I must submit," said the merchant, mechanically sitting down on a wagon-pole, and clinging to the body of the vehicle.

Anton held the half-unconscious man in his arms, and said, in utmost indignation, "We have been twice robbed in this inn; we were in danger of being killed; my companion is wounded, as you see; if your government is determined to detain us and our wagons, at least protect our lives and our property. The wagons can not remain here, and if we are separated from them, it will be still more difficult to prevent their being plundered."

The soldiers now held a consultation, and at length their leader called Anton to share in it. After much discussion, it was finally arranged that the wagons should be moved to a neighboring establishment, equal to this in accommodation, but superior in character. Anton obtained leave to move to it with his companion, and there remain under surveillance till something further should be decided. Meanwhile the merchant sat leaning against the canvas covering, and taking, apparently, no interest in what was going on. Anton now rapidly told him the decision arrived at.

"We must bear it," said the principal, rising slowly and with difficulty. "Ask the landlord for our bill."

"We will pay the landlord," said the soldier in command, roughly pushing the functionary aside. "Think of yourself," added he, kindly catching hold of the wounded man's arm to support him.

"Pay for us and for the horses," repeated Mr. Schröter to Anton; "we can not remain in these people's debt."

Anton accordingly took out his pocket-book, called the drivers together, and, in their presence, made over a banknote to the landlord, saying to him, "I now pay you this sum provisionally, until you shall have made out your account. You men are witnesses." The drivers respectfully bowed, and hurried back to their wagons.

The procession now set forth. First a portion of the armed escort, then the heavy wagons, which slowly and helplessly rumbled along over the stones; some of them without drivers, but kept in line by their well-trained horses.

Mr. Schröter stood at the gate, leaning upon Anton, and counted each wagon as it passed; and as the last rolled off, he said, "Done at last," and consented to be led away.

In the very next cross-street the procession turned into the great court-yard of another inn. When the last of the wagons had at length had its horses unharnessed, and the soldiers had barred the gate from within, the merchant fell down in a swoon, and was carried into the house.

He was placed in a small room, a guard stationed at his door, and another in the court. Anton remained alone with the sufferer. Full of anxiety, he knelt by his bed, unfastened his clothes, and bathed his face with cold water. After a time Mr. Schröter revived, opened his eyes, looked gratefully at Anton, and pointed to the window.

Anton looked out, and said, joyously, "It opens upon the court-yard. I can overlook and count the wagons. I really think that here, although prisoners, we are tolerably safe. But, first of all, allow me to look to your wound: your clothes are much stained with blood."

"My weakness proceeds more from over-excitement than loss of blood," replied the merchant, raising himself up.

Anton opened the door, and begged for a surgeon. Their guard was prepared to go for one, and after an anxious hour had passed, he introduced a shabby-looking individual, who hurriedly produced a razor and a dirty pocket-handkerchief, wiping the razor on his sleeve, and bringing the handkerchief into alarming proximity with Anton's chin. It was with some difficulty that the reason of his being sent for was conveyed to him.

Anton cut away the sleeve of the coat and shirt, and himself examined the wound. It was a cut in the upper arm; not a deep one, indeed, but the arm was stiff, and Mr. Schröter suffered severely. The barber attempted to bandage it, and went off, promising to return on the morrow. The merchant fell back, exhausted with the pain of the bandaging, and Anton sat by him the remainder of the day, laying wet cloths around the arm, and watching the feverish slumber of the patient.

Soon he sank himself into a sort of half sleep, a dull apathy, which made him indifferent to all that was going on without. Thus evening wore away, and night came on. Anton occasionally dipped his fingers in cold water, and crept from the bed to the window to watch the wagons, or to the door to exchange a whisper with the guard, who showed a friendly interest in the case.

Meanwhile the fire continued its ravages, and the sound of musketry thundered at the gates. Anton looked carelessly at the burning fragments which the wind drove over the unhappy town, and heard, with a faint degree of surprise, that the noise of the firing grew louder and louder, and at last became a deafening crash; all the sounds that struck his ear from the street appearing to him as unimportant as the ringing of a little early church-bell which he had often heard from his own room in the principal's house, and which never disturbed any one out of his morning repose. The whole night through he kept mechanically wetting and applying cold-water poultices to the patient's arm, and rising whenever the latter groaned or turned; but when, toward morning, the merchant fell into a sounder sleep, Anton forgot his task, his head fell heavy upon his hands outstretched on the table, he neither saw nor heard; and amid the screams of the wounded, and the thundering of cannon which attended the taking of a stoutly-defended town, amid all the horrors of a bloody conflict, he slept like a tired boy over his school-task.

When he awoke, after the lapse of a few hours, it had long been morning. The merchant smiled kindly at him from his bed, and reached out his hand. Anton pressed it with all his heart, and hurried to the window. "They are all right," said he. He then opened the door; the guard of the previous night had vanished; and on the street he heard the beat of drums, and the regular tramp of regiments marching in.

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Chapter XXI

"We gave you up for lost," cried the newly-arrived captain to Mr. Schröter. "They manage inns wretchedly here, and all my inquiries after you proved fruitless. It was a fortunate thing that your letter found me out in this confusion."

"We have accomplished our purpose," said the merchant, "but not, as you see, without drawbacks;" and he pointed, smiling, to his wounded arm.

"First and foremost, let me hear your adventures," said the captain, sitting down by the bedside. "You have more tokens of the fight to show than I."

The merchant told his story. He dwelt warmly upon Anton's courage, to which he ascribed his safety, and ended by saying, "My wound does not prevent my traveling, and my return is imperative. I shall go with the wagons as far as the frontier."

"Early to-morrow morning one of our companies returns to the frontier; you can send your wagons under its escort; besides which, the high roads are now safe. To-morrow the mails begin to run again."

"I must still further request your assistance. I am anxious to write home by a courier this very day."

"I will take care," promised the captain, "that your return to-morrow shall meet with no impediments."

As soon as the officer had left the room, Mr. Schröter said to Anton, "I have a surprise for you, dear Wohlfart, which will, I fear, be an unwelcome one. I wish to leave you here in my place." Anton drew nearer in amazement. "There is no relying on our agent at a time like this," continued the merchant, "and I have, during the last few days, rejoiced to discover how perfectly I can depend upon you. What you have just done to save my head-piece will be unforgotten as long as I live. And now draw a writing-table here beside me; we have still some plans to arrange."

The next morning a post-chaise stood before the inn door, into which Mr. Schröter was lifted by Anton. It was then drawn up to the side of the street till he had seen the wagons pass one by one out of the gateway. Then pressing Anton's hand once more, he said, "Your stay here may last weeks, nay, months. Your work will be very disagreeable, and often fruitless. But I repeat it, do not be too anxious; I trust to your decision as to my own. And do not be afraid of incurring contingent loss, if you can only get unsafe debtors to pay up. This place is devastated and lost to us for the future. Farewell till our happy meeting at home."

Thus Anton remained alone in the strange town, in a position where great trust imposed upon him great responsibility. He went back to his room, called the landlord, and at once made arrangements for his further stay there. The town was so filled with military that he preferred to remain in the small quarters that he had already occupied, and to put up with their inconveniences, having little expectation of changing for the better.

It was indeed a devastated town which Anton now explored. A few days back, crowds of passionately-excited men had filled the streets, and every kind of daring enterprise was to be read on their wild faces. Where was now the haughty defiance, the thirst of battle, that inspired all those thousands?

The crowds of peasants, the swarming town populace, the soldiers of the patriot army, had vanished like ghosts scared by the presence of an enchanter. The few men to be seen were foreign soldiers. But their gay uniforms did not improve the aspect of the town. True, the fire was quenched, whose clouds of smoke had darkened the sky. But there stood the houses in the pale light, looking as if they had been gutted. The doors remained closed; many of the window-panes were broken; on the flags lay heaps of mud, dirty straw, and fragments of furniture. Here, a car with a broken wheel; there, a uniform, arms, the carcass of a horse. At the corner of a street stood barrels and pieces of furniture which had been thrown out of the houses, as a last barricade to impede the advancing troops; and behind them lay, carelessly strewn over with straw, the corpses of slaughtered men. Anton turned away in horror when he saw the pale faces through the straw. Newly-arrived troops were bivouacking in the square--their horses stood in couples round; in all the streets the tramp of patrols was heard; while it was only at rare intervals that a civilian was seen to pass along the flag-stones; with his hat drawn low over his face, and casting timid sidelong glances at the foreign troops. Sometimes, too, a pale-looking man was seen, led along by soldiers, and pushed onward with the bayonet if he went too slowly. The town had worn an ugly appearance during the insurrection, but it was still worse now.

When Anton returned from his first walk, with these impressions upon his mind, he found a hussar walking up and down before his door like a sentinel.

"Mr. Wohlfart!" shouted the hussar, rushing at him.

"My dear Karl," cried Anton; "this is the first pleasure I have had in this wretched town. But how came you hither?"

"You know that I am serving my time. We joined our comrades at the frontier a few hours after you had left. The landlord knew me, and told me of your departure. You may imagine the fright I was in. To-day I got leave of absence for the first time, and had the good luck to meet one of the drivers, else I should not have found you out yet. And now, Mr. Wohlfart, what of our principal, and what of your goods?"

"Come with me into my room, and you shall hear all," replied Anton.

"Stop a moment," cried Karl; "you speak to me more formally than you used to do, and I can't stand that. Please to speak just as if I was Karl in our old place yonder."

"But you are no longer so," said Anton, laughing.

"This is only a masquerade," said Karl, pointing to his uniform; "in my heart I am still a supernumerary porter of T. O. Schröter's."

"Have it your own way, Karl," replied Anton; "but come in, and hear all about it."

Karl soon fell, as might have been expected, into a violent rage with the good-for-nothing landlord. "The thievish dog! he has dared to attack our firm and our head! To-morrow I'll take a whole troop of our fellows there. I'll drive him into his own yard, and we'll all play at leap-frog over him by the hour, and at every leap we'll give a kick to that wicked head of his."

"Mr. Schröter let him go unpunished," said Anton; "don't be more cruel than he. I say, Karl, you are become a handsome youth."

"I shall do," returned Karl, much flattered. "I've got reconciled to agriculture. My uncle is a worthy man. If you picture my father to yourself about half his own size, thin instead of stout, and with a small stumpy nose instead of a large one, and a long face instead of a round, with a gray coat and no leather apron, and with a pair of great boots up to his knees, why then you have my uncle--a most capital little fellow. He is very kind to me. At first I found it dull in the country, but I got used to it in time; one is always going about the farm, and that's pleasant. It was a blow to my gray-headed uncle when I had to turn soldier, but I was delighted to get upon a horse in right down earnest, and to see something of the scuffle here. There are wretched inns in this country, Mr. Wohlfart, and this place is a horrible scene of desolation."

Thus Karl rattled on. At last he caught up his cap: "If you remain here, will you allow me often to spend a quarter of an hour with you?"

"Do as at home," said Anton; "and if I happen to be out, the landlord will have the key, and here are the cigars."

And so Anton found an old friend; but Karl was not his only military acquaintance. The captain was delighted with a countryman who had played so bold a part against the insurgents. He introduced him to the colonel who commanded the division. To him Anton had to tell his adventures, and to receive high commendation from a large circle of epaulets; and the following day the captain invited him to dinner, and introduced him to the officers of his own squadron. Anton's modest composure made a favorable impression upon them all. At home they would probably have been restricted by their views of human greatness from becoming intimate with a young merchant, but here in the camp they were themselves wiser men than in the idle days of peace, their social prejudices were fewer, and their recognition of others' deserts less impeded. Consequently, they soon came to consider the young clerk as a "deuced good fellow," fell into the habit of calling him by his Christian name, and whenever they were going to drink their coffee or to play a game of dominoes, they invariably invited him to join them. An obscure tradition of large means and mysterious relationship once more emerged from the abyss of past years, but, to do the squadron justice, it was not this which prompted their kind attentions to their countryman. Anton himself was more exalted by this good fellowship with these noble lads than he would have chosen to confess to himself or to Mr. Pix. He now enjoyed a free intercourse with men of mark, and felt as if born to many enjoyments which heretofore he had only contemplated with silent reverence from afar. Old recollections began to reassert their sway, and he felt once more drawn into the magic circle, where every thing appeared to him free, bright, and beautiful. Lieutenant von Rothsattel belonged to the number of Anton's friendly acquaintance. Our hero treated him with the tenderest consideration, and the lieutenant, who was at bottom a reckless, light-hearted, good-natured fellow, was readily pleased by Anton's cordial admiration, and repaid him with peculiar confidence.

Fortunately, however, for our hero, his business prevented him losing his independence among his new allies. The town was indeed devastated; the wild uproar was over; but all peaceful activity seemed exhausted too. The necessaries of life were dear, and work scarce. Many who once wore boots went barefoot now. He who could formerly have bought a new coat, now contented himself with having the old one mended; the shoemaker and tailor breakfasted on water-gruel instead of coffee; the shopkeeper was unable to pay his debts to the merchant, and the merchant unable to discharge his obligations to other firms. He who had to recover money from men thus depressed had a hard task indeed, as Anton soon found out. On every side he heard lamentations which were but too well founded; and frequently every species of artifice was employed to evade his claims. Every day he had to go through painful scenes, often to listen to long legal proceedings carried on in Polish, out of which he generally came with an impression of having been "done," though the agent played the part of interpreter. It was a strange commercial drama in which Anton had now to take a share. Men from every portion of Europe were here, and trade had many peculiarities, which to German eyes seemed irregular and insecure. Nevertheless, habits of duty exercise so great an influence even over weaker natures, that Anton's perseverance more than once won the day.

The greatest claim that his house had was upon a Mr. Wendel, a dry little man, who had done a great deal of business on every side. People said that he had become rich by smuggling, and was now in great danger of failing. He had received the principal himself with something of contumely, and had at first comported himself toward his young deputy like a man distracted. Anton had again spent an hour in reasoning with him, and, in spite of all the latter's twistings and turnings, had remained firm to his point. At length Wendel broke out, "Enough; I am a ruined man, but you deserve to get your money. Your house has always dealt generously by me. You shall be reimbursed. Send your agent to me again in the course of the day, and come to me early to-morrow morning."

On the morrow, when Anton, accompanied by the agent, appeared before their debtor, Wendel, after a gloomy salutation, seized hold of a great rusty key, slowly put on a faded cloak on which countless darns showed like cobwebs on an old wall, and led his creditors to a remote part of the town, stopping before a ruined monastery. They went through a long cloister. Anton looked admiringly at the exquisite moulding of the arches, from which, however, time had worn off many a fragment that encumbered the pavement. Monuments of the old inhabitants of the place were ranged along the walls, and weather-stained inscriptions announced to the inattentive living that pious Slavonic monks had once sought peace within this shelter. Here in this cloister they had paced up and down; here they had prayed and dreamed till they had to make over their poor souls to the intercession of their saints. In the centre of this building Wendel now opened a secret door, and led his companions down a winding staircase into a large vault. This had once been used as the cellar of the rich cloister, and down that same staircase the cellarer had gone--ah! how often--wandering between the casks, tasting here and tasting there; and at the ringing of the little bell above him, bowing his head and saying a short prayer, and then returning to taste again, or in comfortable mood to walk up and down. The prayer-bell of the cloister had been melted down long ago; the empty cells were in ruins, the cattle fed where once the prior sat at the head of his brethren at their stately meal. All had vanished; the cellar only remained, and the casks of fiery Hungarian wine stood as they did five hundred years before. Still the rays of light converged into a star on the beautiful arch of the roof; still the vault was kept stainlessly whitewashed, and the floor strewn with finest sand; and still it was the cellarer's custom only to approach the noble wine with a waxlight. True, they were not the identical casks out of which the old monks drew their potions, but they were now, as then, filled with the produce of the vine-clad hills of Hegyalla, with the rosy wine of Menes, with the pride of OEdenburg, and the mild juice of the careful vintage of Rust.

"A hundred and fifty casks at eighteen, four-and-twenty, and thirty ducats the cask," said the agent, beginning the inventory.

Meanwhile Wendel went from one cask to another, the waxlight in his hand. He stood a little time before each, carefully wiping off with a clean linen cloth the very slightest trace of mould. "This was my favorite walk," said he to Anton. "For twenty years I have attended every vintage as a purchaser. Those were happy days, Mr. Wohlfart, and now they are gone forever. I have often walked up and down here, looking at the sunlight that shone down upon the barrels, and thinking of those that walked here before me. To-day I am here for the last time. And what will become of the wine? It will all be exported; they will drink it in foreign parts, without knowing its merits; and some brandy distiller will take possession of this cellar, or some new brewer will keep his Bavarian beer in it. The old times are over for me too. This is the noblest wine of all," said he, going up to a particular cask. "I might have excepted it from my surrender. But what should I do with this barrel only? Drink it? I shall never drink wine more. It shall go with the rest, only I must take leave of it." He filled his glass. "Did you ever drink wine like that before?" asked he, mournfully, holding out the glass to Anton, who willingly owned he never had.

They slowly reascended the steps. Arrived at the top, the wine-merchant cast one last long look into the cellar, then turned round like one fully resolved, locked the secret door, took out the key, and laid it solemnly in Anton's hand. "There is the key of your property. Our accounts are settled. Fare you well, gentlemen." Slowly and with bent head he went through the ruined cloister, looking, in the gray light of the early morning, like the ghost of some ancient cellarer still haunting the relics of his past glory.

The agent called after him, "But our breakfast, Mr. Wendel!" The old man shook his head, and made a gesture of refusal.

Yes, indeed, the breakfast. Every transaction was drowned in wine in this town. The long sittings in drinking-houses, which even the bad times did not prevent, were no small sorrow to Anton. He saw that men worked much less, and talked and drank much more in this country than in his. Whenever he had succeeded in getting a matter arranged, he could not dispense with the succeeding breakfast. Then buyers, sellers, assistants, and hangers-on of every kind sat at a round table together in one of the taverns; began with porter, ate Caviare by the pound, and washed it down with red Bordeaux wine. Hospitality was dispensed on all sides; every familiar face must come and take a share in the banquet; and so the company went on increasing till evening closed. Meanwhile the wives, accustomed to such proceedings, would have dinner brought up and removed three successive times, and at last adjourned till the next day. At times like these Anton often thought of Fink, who, despite his reluctance, had at least taught him to get through such ordeals as these respectably.

One afternoon, while Anton was sitting watching a game at dominoes, an old lieutenant, looking off his newspaper, called to the players, "Yesterday evening one of our hussars had two fingers of his right hand smashed. The ass who was quartered with him had been playing with his carabine, which was loaded. The doctor thinks amputation unavoidable. I am sorry for the fine fellow: he was one of the most efficient of our squadron. These misfortunes always happen to the best."

"What is the man's name?" asked Herr von Bolling, going on with his game.

"It is Corporal Sturm."

Anton sprang up, making all the pieces on the table dance again, and asked where he was to be found.

The lieutenant described the situation of the Lazaretto. In a dark room, full of beds and invalid soldiers, Karl lay pale and suffering, and reached out his left hand to Anton. "It is over," he said; "it hurt me most confoundedly, but I shall be able to use the hand again. I can still guide a pen, and shall try to do every thing else, if not with the right hand, why, with the left. Only I shall never again cut a figure in gold rings."

"My poor, poor Karl," cried Anton; "it's all over with your soldiering."

"Do you know," said Karl, "I can stand that misfortune pretty well. After all, it was not a regular war; and when spring and sowing-time comes, I shall be all right again. I could get up now if the doctor were not so strict. It is not pleasant here," added he, apologetically; "many of our people are sick, and one must shift for one's self in a strange town."

"You shall not remain in this room," said Anton, "if I can help it. There is such an atmosphere of disease here that a man in health becomes quite faint; I shall ask permission to have you moved into my lodging."

"Dear Mr. Anton!" cried Karl, overjoyed.

"Hush!" said the other; "I do not yet know whether we shall get leave."

"I have one other request to make," said the soldier, at parting, "and that is, that you will write the circumstance off to Goliath, so as not to make him too uneasy. If he first heard of it from a stranger, he would go on like a madman, I know."

Anton promised to do this, and then hurried to the surgeon of the regiment, and next to his kind friend the captain.

"I will answer for his getting leave," said the latter. "And as, from the account of his wound, his dismissal from the service seems to me unavoidable, he may as well stay with you till he receives it."

Three days later, Karl, with his arm in a sling, entered Anton's room. "Here I am," said he. "Adieu my gay uniform! adieu Selim, my gallant bay! You must have patience with me, Mr. Anton, for one other week, then I shall be able to use my arm again."

"Here is an answer from your father," said Anton, "directed to me."

"To you?" inquired Karl, in amazement. "Why to you? why has he not written to me?"

"Listen." Anton took up a great sheet of folio paper, which was covered over with letters half an inch long, and read as follows: "Worshipful Mr. Wohlfart, this is a great misfortune for my poor son. Two fingers from ten--eight remain. Even though they were but small fingers, the pain was all the same. It is a great misfortune for both of us that we can no longer write to each other. Therefore I beg of you to have the goodness to tell him what follows: 'He is not to grieve overmuch. Boring can still perhaps be done, and a good deal with the hammer. And even if it be Heaven's will that this too should be impossible, still he is not to grieve overmuch. He is provided for by an iron chest. When I am dead, he will find the key in my waistcoat pocket. And so I greet him with my whole heart. As soon as he can travel, he must come to me; all the more, as I can no longer tell him in writing that I am his true and loving father, Johann Sturm.'" Anton gave the letter to the invalid.

"It is just like him," said Karl, between smiles and tears; "in his first sorrow he has imagined that he can no longer write to me, because I have hurt my hand. How he will stare when he receives my letter!"

Karl spent the next few weeks with Anton. As soon as he could move his hand, he took possession of the wardrobe of his friend, and began to render him the little services that he had undertaken long ago in the principal's house. Anton had some difficulty to prevent him from playing the superfluous part of valet.

"There you are brushing my coat again," said he one day, going into Karl's room. "You know I will not stand it."

"It was only to keep mine in countenance," said Karl, by way of excuse; "two look so much better hanging together than one. Your coffee is ready, but the coffee-pot is good for nothing, and always tastes of the spirit of wine."

When he found that, as he said, he could be of no use to Anton, he began to work on his own account. Owing to his old love of mechanics, he had collected a quantity of tools of all sorts, and whenever Anton left the house, he began such a sawing, boring, planing, and rasping, that even the deaf old artillery officer, who was quartered in the neighboring house, was under the impression that a carpenter had settled near him, and sent a broken bedstead to be repaired. As Karl was still obliged to spare his right hand, he used one tool after the other with the left, and was as pleased as a child with the progress he made. And when the surgeon forbade such exertions for a week to come, Karl began to write with his left hand, and daily exhibited to Anton samples of his skill. "Practice is all that is wanted," said he; "man has to discover what he can do. As for that, writing with the hands at all is merely a habit; if one had no hands, one would write with one's feet; and I even believe that they are not essential, and that it could be managed with the head."

"You are a foolish fellow," laughed Anton.

"I do assure you," continued Karl, "that with a long reed held in the mouth, with two threads fastened to the ears to lessen the shaking, one might get on very tolerably. There is the setting of your keyhole come off; we'll glue that on in no time."

"I wonder that it does not stick of itself," said Anton, "for a most horrible smell of glue comes from your room. The whole atmosphere is impregnated with glue."

"God forbid!" said Karl; "what I have is perfectly scentless glue--a new invention."

When this true-hearted man set out homeward, with his dismission in his pocket, Anton felt as if he himself then first exchanged the counting-house for the foreign city.

One day our Anton passed the inn where his principal had been wounded. He stood still a moment, and looked with some curiosity at the old house and at the court-yard, where white-coated soldiers were now occupied in blacking and polishing their belts. At that moment he perceived a form in a black caftan glide away like a shadow out of the bar across the entrance. It had the black curls, the small cap, the figure and bearing of his old acquaintance, Schmeie Tinkeles. Alas! but it was his face no longer. The former Tinkeles had been rather a smart fellow of his kind. He had always worn his long locks shining and curled; he had had red lips, and a slight tinge of color on his yellow cheeks. The present Schmeie was but a shadow of him of yore: he looked pale as a ghost, his nose had become pointed and prominent, and his head drooped down like the cup of a fading flower.

Anton cried out in amazement, "Tinkeles, is it really you?" and went up to him. Tinkeles collapsed as if struck by a thunderbolt, and stared with wide-opened eyes at Anton, an image of horror and alarm.

"God of justice!" were the only words that escaped his white lips.

"What is the matter with you, Tinkeles? you look a most miserable sinner. What are you doing in this place, and what in the world leads you to this house, of all others?"

"I can not help being here," answered the trader, still half unconscious. "I can not help our principal being so unfortunate. His blood has flowed on account of the goods which Mausche Fischel sent off, having been paid for them. I am innocent, Mr. Wohlfart, on my eternal salvation. I did not know that the landlord was such a worthless being, and that he would lift his hand against the gentleman who stood before him there without hat, without cap on--without cap on," he whined out still more loudly; "bareheaded. You may believe that it was with me as though a sword had fallen upon my own body when I saw the landlord use such violence to a man who stood before him like a nobleman as he is, and has been all his life long."

"Hear me, Schmeie," said Anton, looking wondering at the Galician, who still harped upon the same string, trying to regain his composure by dint of speaking. "Hear me, my lad; you were in this town when our wagons were plundered--you saw from some hiding-place or other our quarrel with the landlord--you know this man's character, and yet you remain here; and now I will just tell you, in so many words, what you have half confessed to me--you knew of the unloading of the wagons, and, more, you had an interest in the carriers remaining behind; and in short, you and the landlord are in the same boat. After what you have now said, I shall not let you go till I know all. You shall either come with me to my room, and there freely confess, or I will take you to the soldiers, and have you examined by them."

Tinkeles was annihilated. "God of my fathers, it is fearful--it is fearful!" whined he, and his teeth chattered.

Anton felt compassion for his great terror, and said, "Come with me, Tinkeles, and I promise you that if you make a candid confession nothing shall be done to you."

"What shall I confess to the gentleman?" groaned Tinkeles; "I, who have nothing to confess."

"If you will not come at once, I call the soldiers," said Anton, roughly.

"No soldiers," implored Tinkeles, shuddering again. "I will come with you, and will tell you what I know, if you will promise to betray me to no one, not to your principal, not to Mausche Fischel, and not either to the wicked man, the landlord, and not to any soldiers."

"Come," said Anton, pointing down the street. And so he led away the reluctant Tinkeles like a prisoner, and never took his eyes off him, fearing that he would follow the suggestions of his evil conscience, and run off down some side street. The Galician, however, had not courage to do this, but crept along by Anton, looked toward him every now and then, sighing deeply, and gurgled out unintelligible words. Arrived at Anton's lodging, he began of his own accord: "It has been a weight on my heart--I have not been able to sleep--I have not been able to eat or drink; and whenever I ran here or there on business, it has lain on my soul just as a stone does in a glass--when one tries to drink, the stone falls against the teeth, and the water spills. Alas! what have I not spilled!"

"Go on," said Anton, again mollified by the candid confession.

"I came here on account of the wagons," continued Tinkeles, looking timidly at Anton. "Mausche has dealt with your firm for ten years, and always uprightly, and you have made a good sum of money out of him, and so he thought that the time was come when he might do a business of his own, and settle his account with you. And when the uproar began, he came to me and said, 'Schmeie,' said he, 'you are not afraid,' said he. 'Let them shoot away, and go you among them and see that you keep the wagons for me. Perhaps you can sell them, perhaps you can bring them back; at all events, it is better that we should have them than any one else.' And so I came and waited till the wagons arrived, and I spoke with the landlord, saying that, since the goods could not reach you, it was better they should fall into our hands. But that the landlord should prove such a man of blood, that I did not wish, and did not know; and since I saw how he cut your master's arm, I have had no peace, and I have ever seen before me the bloody shirt, and the fine cloth of his great-coat, which was cut in two."

Anton listened to this confession with an interest that outweighed the aversion he felt for these--not uncommon--manoeuvres of Galician traders. He contented himself with saying to the delinquent, "Your rascality has cost Mr. Schröter a wounded arm; and, had we not appeared upon the scene, you would have stolen from us twenty thousand dollars."

"Not twenty thousand," cried Schmeie; "wool is very low, and there's nothing to be made of tallow. Less than twenty thousand."

"Indeed!" said Anton, disdainfully; "and now, what am I to do with you?"

"Do nothing with me," implored Schmeie, laying his hand on Anton's coat. "Let the whole matter go to sleep. You have the goods, be satisfied with that. It was a good business that which Mausche Fischel was not able to undertake because you hindered him."

"You still regret it," said Anton, indignantly.

"I am glad that you have the property," replied the Jew, "because you shed your blood about it; and therefore do nothing with me; I will see whether I can't please you in other matters. If you have any thing for me to do in this place, it will be a satisfaction to me to help you."

Anton coldly replied, "Although I have promised not to bring your thievishness to judgment, yet we can never deal with you again. You are a worthless man, Tinkeles, and have dealt unfairly with our house. Henceforth we are strangers."

"Why do you call me worthless?" complained Tinkeles. "You have known me as an upright man for years past; how can you call me worthless because I wanted to do a little stroke of business, and was unfortunate and could not do it? Is that worthless?"

"Enough," said Anton; "you may go." Tinkeles remained standing, and asked whether Anton required any new imperial ducats. "I want nothing from you," was the reply. "Go."

The Jew went slowly to the door, and then turning round, observed, "There is an excellent bargain to be made with oats; if you will undertake it with me, I will go shares with you; there is much money to be made by it."

"I have no dealings with you, Tinkeles. In Heaven's name, go away."

The Jew crept out, once more scratching at the door, but not venturing in. A few minutes later, Anton saw him cross the street, looking much dejected.

From that time Anton was regularly besieged by the repentant Tinkeles. Not a day passed without the Galician forcing an entrance, and seeking a reconciliation after his fashion. Sometimes they met in the streets, sometimes Anton was disturbed when writing by his unsteady knock; he had always something to offer, or some tidings to impart, through which he hoped to find favor. His power of invention was quite touching. He offered to buy or sell any thing or every thing, to transact any kind of business, to spy or carry messages; and when he found out that Anton was a good deal with the military, and that a certain young lieutenant, in particular, went often with him to the "Restauration," Tinkeles began to offer whatever he conceived might prove attractive to an officer. True, Anton remained firm in his resolve of not dealing with him, but at last he had no longer the heart to treat the poor devil roughly; and Tinkeles found out from many a suppressed smile, or short question put, that Anton's intercession for him with the principal was not quite hopeless. And for this he served with the perseverance of his ancestor Jacob.

One morning young Rothsattel came clattering into Anton's room. "I have been on the sick-list. I had a bad catarrh, and was obliged to remain in my comfortless quarters," said he, throwing himself on the sofa. "Can you help me to while away time this evening? We are to have a game at whist. I have invited our doctor and a few of our men. Will you come?" Pleased and a little flattered, Anton accepted. "Very well," continued the young gentleman; "then you must give me the power of losing my money to you. That wretched vingt-et-un has emptied my pockets. Lend me twenty ducats for eight days."

"With pleasure," said Anton; and he eagerly produced his purse.

Just as the lieutenant carelessly pocketed it, a horse's hoofs were heard in the street, and he rushed to the window. "By Jove, that is a lovely thing--pure Polish blood--the horse-dealer has stolen it from one of the rebels, and now wants to tempt an honest soldier with it."

"How do you know that the horse is to be sold?" asked Anton, sealing a letter at the writing-table.

"Don't you see that the creature is led about by a rogue to attract notice?"

At that moment there was a light knock at the door, and Schmeie Tinkeles first inserted his curly head, and then his black caftan, and gurgled submissively, "I wished to ask their honors whether they would look at a horse that is worth as many louis-d'or as it cost dollars. If you would just step to the window, Mr. Wohlfart, you would see it--seeing is not buying."

"Is this one of your mercantile friends, Wohlfart?" asked the lieutenant, laughing.

"He is so no longer; he is fallen into disgrace," replied Anton, in the same tone. "This time his visit is intended for you, Herr von Rothsattel. Take care, or he will tempt you to buy the horse."

The dealer listened attentively to the dialogue, and looked with much curiosity at the lieutenant.

"If the gracious baron will buy the horse," said he, coming forward, and staring at the young officer, "it will be a beautiful saddle-horse for him on his estate."

"What the deuce do you know about my estate?" said the lieutenant; "I have none."

"Do you know this gentleman?" asked Anton.

"How should I not know him, if it be he who has the great estate in your country, in which he has built a factory, where he makes sugar out of fodder."

"He means your father," explained Anton. "Tinkeles has connections in our province, and often stays months there."

"What do I hear?" cried the Galician; "the father of this worshipful officer! Your pardon, Mr. Wohlfart; so you are acquainted with the baron, who is the father of this gentleman!" A smile hovered over the lieutenant's mustache.

"I have, at all events, seen this gentleman's father," replied Anton, annoyed with the pertinacious questioning of the trader, and with himself for blushing.

"And forgive me if I ask whether you know this gentleman intimately, and whether he is what one calls your good friend?"

"What are you driving at, Tinkeles?" said Anton, sharply, and blushed still deeper, not knowing exactly how to answer the question.

"Yes, Jew, he is my good friend," said the lieutenant, clapping Anton on the shoulder. "He is my cashier; he has just lent me twenty ducats, and he won't give me any money to buy your horse. So go to the devil."

The trader listened attentively to every word spoken, and looked at the young men with curiosity, but, as Anton remarked, with a degree of sympathy foreign to his nature. "So," he repeated, mechanically, "he has lent you twenty ducats; he would lend you more if you asked him; I know--I know. So you do not want the horse, Mr. Wohlfart? My services to you, Mr. Wohlfart;" and, so saying, he vanished, and soon the quick trot of a horse was heard.

"What a fellow that is!" cried the lieutenant, looking out after him.

"He is not generally so easy to get rid of," said Anton, perplexed at the strange conduct of the Jew. "Perhaps your uniform expedited his departure."

"I hope it was of some use to you, then. Good-by till the evening," said the lieutenant, taking his leave.

That afternoon the light knocking was heard again, and Tinkeles reappeared. He looked cautiously around the room, and approached Anton. "Allow me to ask," said he, with a confidential wink, "is it really true that you lent him twenty ducats, and would lend him more if he wished?"

Anton assented to both these propositions. "And now," said he, "tell me plainly what is running in your head, for I see you have something to disclose."

Tinkeles made a sly face, and winked harder. "Even though he be your good friend, beware of lending him money. If you know what you are about, you will lend him no more money."

"And why not?" inquired Anton. "Your good advice is useless, unless I know on what it is founded."

"And if I tell you what I know, will you intercede for me with Mr. Schröter, so that he may not think about the wagons when he sees me in his counting-house?"

"I will tell him that you have behaved well in other respects. It will be for him to decide what he will do."

"You will intercede for me," said Tinkeles; "that's enough. Things are going ill with Von Rothsattel, the father of this young man--very ill. Misfortune's black hand is raised over him. He is a lost man. There is no saving him."

"How do you know this?" cried Anton, horrified. "But it is impossible," he added, more calmly; "it is a lie, a mere idle rumor."

"Believe my words," said the Jew, impressively. "His father is in the hands of one who walks about in secret, like the angel of destruction. He goes and lays his noose around the necks of the men he has singled out without any one seeing him. He tightens the noose, and they fall around like ninepins. Why should you lend your money to those who have the noose around their neck?"

"Who is this demon who has the baron in his power?" cried Anton, in uncontrollable excitement.

"What signifies the name?" coolly replied the Galician. "Even if I knew it I would not tell it, and if I told it it could do you no good, nor the baron either, for you know him not, and he knows him not."

"Is it Ehrenthal?" inquired Anton.

"I can not tell the name," rejoined the trader, shrugging his shoulders; "but it is not Hirsch Ehrenthal."

"If I am to believe your words, and if you wish to do me a service," continued Anton, more composedly, "you must give me exact information. I must know this man's name--must know all that you have heard of him and of the baron."

"I have heard nothing," replied the trader, doggedly, "if you wish to examine me as they do in the courts of law. A word that is spoken flies through the air like a scent; one perceives it, another does not. I can not tell you the words I have heard, and I will not tell them for much money. What I say is meant for your ear alone. To you I say that two men have sat together, not one, but many evenings--not one, but many years; and they have whispered in the balcony of our inn, under which the water runs; and the water whispered below them, and they whispered above the water. I lay in the room on my bed of straw, so that they believed I was asleep; and I have often heard the name of Rothsattel from the lips of both, and the name of his estate too; and I know that misfortune hovers over him, but further I know not; and now I have said all, and will go. The good advice I have this day given you will make up for the day when you fought for the wool and the hides; and you will remember the promise you have made me."

Anton was lost in thought. He knew from Bernhard that Ehrenthal was in many ways intimately connected with the baron, and this link between the landed proprietor and the ill-spoken-of speculator had often seemed to him unaccountable. But Tinkeles' story was too incredible, for he had never himself heard any unfavorable account of the baron's circumstances. "I can not," said he, after a long pause, "be satisfied with what you have told me. You will think the matter over, and perhaps you will remember the name, and some of the words you heard."

"Perhaps I may," said the Galician, with a peculiar expression, which Anton in his perplexity quite lost. "And now we have squared our accounts. I have occasioned you anxiety and danger, but, on the other hand, I have done you a service--a great service," he repeated, complacently. "Would you take louis-d'or instead of bank-notes?" asked he, suddenly falling into a business tone; "if so, I can let you have them."

"You know that I have no money transactions," replied Anton, absently.

"Perhaps you can give Vienna bills drawn upon safe houses."

"I have no bills to give," said Anton, with some irritation.

"Very well," said the Jew; "a question does no harm;" and he turned to go, stopping, however, when he reached the door. "I was obliged to give two florins to Seligmann, who led the horse, and waited half a day upon the gentleman's pleasure. It was a mere advance that I made for you; will you not give me my two florins back?"

"Heavens be praised!" cried Anton, laughing in spite of himself; "now we have the old Tinkeles once more. No, Schmeie, you won't get your two florins."

"And you will not take louis-d'or in exchange for Vienna notes?"

"I will not."

"Adieu!" said Tinkeles; "and now, when we meet again, we are good friends." He lifted the latch. "If you want to know the name of the man who can make Von Rothsattel as small as the grass in the streets which every one treads upon, inquire for Hirsch Ehrenthal's book-keeper, of the name of Itzig. Veitel Itzig is the name." With these words he made his exit so rapidly that, although Anton tried, he could not overtake him.

He determined at once to inform the baron's son of what he had heard, though he feared that it would occasion his tender nature great distress. "But it must be done this very evening," thought he. "I will go early, or remain till the others have left."

Fate, however, did not favor this intention. Early as Anton went, he found five or six young cavalry officers already arrived at young Rothsattel's rooms before him. Eugene lay in his dressing-gown on the sofa, the squadron encamping round him. The doctor succeeded Anton. "How are you?" said he to the patient.

"Well enough," replied Eugene. "I don't want your powders."

"A little fever," continued the doctor. "Pulse full, and so on. It is too hot here. I propose that we open the window."

"By Jove, doctor, you shall do no such thing," cried a young gentleman, who had made himself a sort of couch of two chairs; "you know that I can't stand a draught except when on duty."

"Leave it alone," cried Eugene; "we are homoeopathists here; we will drive out heat by heat. What shall we drink?"

"A mild punch would be best for the patient," said the doctor.

"Bring the pine-apple, my good Anton; it is somewhere there, with the rest of the apparatus."

"Ha!" cried the doctor, as Anton produced the fruit, and the servant came in with a basket of wine; "a sweet Colossus, a remarkable specimen indeed! With your leave, I'll make the punch. The proportions must have some reference to the state of the patient."

So saying, the doctor put his hand into his pocket, and brought out a black case, in which he looked for a knife to cut the fruit.

The young hussars broke out at once into a volley of oaths.

"My good sirs," cried the doctor, little moved by the storm he had raised, "has any one of you got a knife? Not one, I know. There is nothing to be found in your pockets but looking-glasses and brushes; and which of you understands the making of a bowl that a man of the world can drink? You can, indeed, empty one, but make it you can not."

"I will try what I can do, doctor," said Bolling, from a corner.

"Ah! Herr von Bolling, are you here too?" replied the doctor, with a bow.

Bolling took the pine-apple, and carefully held it out of reach of the medical arm. "Come here, Anton," said he, "and take care that that monster of a doctor does not approach our punch with his dissecting-knife."

While these two were brewing, the doctor took out two packs of cards, and solemnly laid them on the table.

"None of your cards!" cried Eugene; "to-day, at least, let us be together without sinning."

"You can't," said the doctor, mockingly; "you'll be the first to touch them. I thought of nothing but a quiet game at whist, a game for pious hermits. Time, however, will show what you will make of these packs; there they lie by the candlesticks."

"Don't listen to the tempter," cried one of the lieutenants, laughing.

"Whoever touches the cards first shall forfeit a breakfast to the party," said another.

"Here is the punch," said Bolling, setting down the bowl. "Taste it, oh man of blood!"

"Raw!" pronounced the oracle; "it would be drinkable to-morrow evening."

While these gentlemen were disputing about the merits of the beverage, Eugene took up one of the packs of cards, and mechanically cut them. The doctor exclaimed, "Caught, I declare! He himself is the one to pay the forfeit." All laughed, and crowded round the table. "The bank, doctor," cried the officers, throwing him the cards. Soon other packs came out of other pockets; and the doctor laying a little heap of paper and silver on the table, the game began. The stakes were not high, and light jests accompanied the loss and gain of the players. Even Anton took a card and staked away without much thought. He found it difficult, though, to take any cordial part in the entertainment, and looked with sincere sympathy at young Rothsattel bending, in his ignorance, over the cards. He himself won a few dollars, but remarked with pain that Eugene was invariably unlucky. As, however, he was a party concerned in this, he made no remark; but the doctor himself said to his patient, after having again swept away the ducats the former had put down, "You are getting hot; you are feverish; if you are prudent, you will play no more. I have never yet had a fever-patient who did not lose at Pharao."

"That won't do, doctor," replied Eugene, sharply, and staked again.

"You are unlucky, Eugene," cried the good-humored Bolling. "You go on too fast."

His deal over, the doctor took up the cards and placed them in his pocket. "The bank has won immensely," said he; "but I leave off; I have made enough."

Again a storm arose among the officers. "I will hold the bank," cried Eugene; "give me your cash, Wohlfart."

The doctor protested, but at length gave in, thinking, "Perhaps he'll have a run of luck as banker; one must not refuse a man a chance of compensation."

Anton took some bank-notes out of his pocket, and laid them down before Eugene, but he himself played no more. He sat there sadly, and looked at his friend, who, heated by wine and fever, stared fixedly at the cards of the players. Deal succeeded deal, and Eugene lost all he had before him. The officers glanced at each other in amazement.

"I too propose that we leave off," said Bolling; "we will give you your revenge another time."

"I will have it to-day," cried Eugene, springing up and shutting the door. "Not one of you shall stir. Keep your places and play; here is money." He threw a bundle of matches on the table. "Every match stands for a dollar; no stake under. I will pay to-morrow." The game went on; Eugene continued to lose; the matches were scattered in all directions, as by some secret spell. Eugene got another bundle, exclaiming wildly, "We'll reckon when we separate."

Bolling rose and stamped with his chair.

"Whoever leaves the room is a scoundrel!" cried Eugene.

"You are a fool!" said the other, angrily. "It is a shame to take all a comrade's money as we are doing to-day. I have never seen such a thing. If it be Satan's contriving, I will not help him further." He rose and sat apart. Anton joined him. Both looked on in silence at the desperate way in which gold was flung about.

"I too have had enough of it," said the doctor, showing a thick bundle of matches in his hand. "This is a singular evening; since I have known cards, such a case as this has never come within my experience."

Once more Eugene sprang to the side-table where the matches lay, but Bolling seized the whole box and flung them into the street. "Better that they burn our boots than your purse," cried he. Then throwing the cards on the floor, "The game shall cease, I say."

"I will not be dictated to thus," retorted Eugene, in a rage.

Bolling buckled on his sword and laid his hand on the belt. "I will talk to you to-morrow. And now make your reckoning, gentlemen," said he; "we are going to break up."

The counters were thrown on the table, the doctor counting. Eugene gloomily took out his pocket-book, and entered into it the amount of his debt to each. The company retired without any courteous greetings.

On the way the doctor said, "He owes eight hundred dollars."

Bolling shrugged his shoulders. "I hope he can raise the money; but I do wish you had kept your cards in your pocket. If the story gets about, Rothsattel will have cause to regret it. We shall all do our best to hush it up, and I request you, Mr. Wohlfart, to do the same."

Anton returned to his lodgings in the utmost excitement. The whole evening he had sat upon thorns, and silently reproached the spendthrift. He regretted having lent him money, and yet felt it would have been impossible to refuse.

The following morning, just as he was setting out to pay Eugene a visit, the door opened, and Eugene himself entered, out of tune, dejected, unsteady.

"A horrid piece of ill luck yesterday," cried he. "I am in great straits; I must get hold of eight hundred dollars, and have not in all this luckless town a friend to whom I can turn except you. Exert your faculties, Anton, and contrive to get me the money."

"It is no easy matter for me to do so," replied Anton, gravely. "The sum is no inconsiderable one, and the money which I have here at my disposal is not my own."

"You will contrive it, though," continued Eugene, persevering; "if you do not help me out of this scrape, I know not where to turn. Our colonel is not to be trifled with. I risk the loss of all if the matter be not soon settled and hushed up." And in his distress he took Anton's hand and pressed it.

Anton looked at the troubled face of Lenore's brother, and replied with an inward struggle: "I have a little sum belonging to me invested in the funds of our house, and have now got money to transmit thither; it would be possible to tell the cashier to take my money and to keep back the sum you require."

"You are my deliverer," cried Eugene, suddenly relieved; "in a month, at latest, I will repay you the eight hundred dollars," added he, inclined at the speedy prospect of money to hope the best.

Anton went to his desk and counted out the sum. It was the larger part of what still remained of his inheritance.

When Eugene had with warmest thanks pocketed the money, Anton began: "And now, Herr von Rothsattel, I wish to communicate something which weighed upon my heart all yesterday evening. I beg that you will not consider me intrusive if I tell you what you ought to know, and yet what a stranger has hardly a right to say."

"If you are going to sermonize me, the moment is ill chosen," replied the lieutenant, sulkily. "I know perfectly that I have done a stupid thing, and am in for a lecture from my papa. I do not wish to hear from another what I must listen to from him."

"You trust very little to my good feeling," cried Anton, indignantly; "I yesterday heard from a very singular source that your father has got into difficulties through the intrigues of an unprincipled speculator. I even heard the name of the man who is plotting his ruin."

The lieutenant looked in amazement at Anton's earnest face, and at last said, "The devil! you frighten me. But no, it is impossible. Papa has never told me any thing about his affairs being out of order."

"Perhaps he himself does not know the schemes, or the worthlessness of the men who mean to use his credit for their own ends."

"The Baron of Rothsattel is not the man to be made a tool of by any one."

"That I agree to," said Anton, readily; "and yet I must beg you to reflect that his late extensive undertakings may have brought him into contact with cunning and unprincipled traders. He who gave me this information evidently did it with a good purpose. He announced his belief, which is, I fear, widely shared by a number of inferior men of business, that your father is in grave danger of losing severely. I now request that you will go with me to the man; perhaps we shall succeed in eliciting more from him. He is the very Jew you saw with me yesterday."

The lieutenant looked down in deep dejection, and, without saying a word, took up his cap and accompanied Anton to the inn at which Tinkeles was staying.

"It will be better that you should ask for him," said Anton on the way. So the officer entered and asked every servant that he met, and then the landlord. Schmeie had left in the middle of the previous day. They hurried from the inn to the government offices, and there found that Tinkeles had taken out his passport for the Turkish frontier. His departure made his warning appear the more important. The longer they discussed the matter, the more excited the lieutenant became, and the less he knew what to do. At last he broke out: "My father is perhaps now distressed for money, and how am I to tell him of my debt? It is a dreadful case. Wohlfart, you are a good fellow for lending me the money, though this wandering Jew's report was in your head. You must be still more accommodating, and lend me the sum for a longer time."

"Until you yourself express a wish to repay it."

"That is kind," cried the lieutenant; "and now do one thing more: write to my father. You know best what this confounded man has told you, and it would be a great bore to me to have to tell a thing of the kind to papa."

"But your father may well consider the interference of a stranger unwarrantable impertinence," rejoined Anton, oppressed by the idea of having to write to Lenore's father.

"My father already knows you," said Eugene, persuasively; "I remember my sister talking to me about you. Just say that I entreated you to write. It would really be better that you should do so."

Anton consented. He sat down at once, and informed the baron of the warning given by the wool-dealer. And thus he, while far away, came into new relations with the family of the baron, which were destined to have important consequences for him and them alike.

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Chapter XXII

Happy the foot that can roam over a wide expanse of property--happy the head which knows how to subject the forces of ever-fresh nature to an intelligent human will. All that makes man strong, healthy, worthy, is given in portion to the agriculturist: his life is a ceaseless battle and a ceaseless victory. The pure air of heaven steels the muscles of his body, and the primeval order of nature forces his thoughts too into a regular orbit. Other species of industry may become obsolete; his is enduring as the earth: other tastes may prison men in narrow walls, in the depths of the earth, or between the planks of a ship; his glance has only two boundaries--the blue sky above, the firm earth below. His is almost the rapture of creation; for whatever his edict demands from organic or inorganic nature, springs up beneath his hand. Even the townsman's heart is refreshed by the green blade and the golden ear, the quietly pasturing cow and the frisking colt, the shade of the woods and the perfume of the fields; but far stronger, higher, nobler is the enjoyment of the man who, walking over his own land, can say, "All this is mine; all this is a blessing upon my energy and insight." For he does not merely supinely enjoy the picture before him: some definite wish accompanies every glance, some resolve every impression. Every thing has a meaning for him, and he a purpose regarding it. Daily labor is his delight, and it is a delight that quickens each faculty. So lives the man who is himself the industrious cultivator of his own soil.

And three times happy the proprietor of land where a battle with nature has been carried on for long years. The plowshare sinks deep into the well-cleaned ground, the ears hang heavy on the well-grown corn, and the turnip swells to colossal size. Then comes the time when a new form of industry is added to the old. Strange shapes of machinery are seen near the farm-buildings, giant caldrons, mighty wheels, and huge pipes, while the grinding and turning of the engines goes on ceaselessly by day and night. A noble industry, this! It springs from the energies of the soil, and increases them a hundred-fold. When the fruits of his own ground are devoted to the factory, the ancient plow without, the new steam-engine within, unite in perfect harmony to make their owner richer, stronger, and wiser. His life is linked by many ties to men of other callings, and strangers rejoice to hold out their hands to him, and unite their efforts with his. The circle of his interests goes on widening, and his influence over others increasing.

Near to the dwelling of a man like this a new race of laborers build cottages of every degree, all comes right to him, and can be turned to profit. The value of the land rises yearly, and the tempting prospect of great returns impels even the obstinate peasantry out of the old accustomed track. The wretched path becomes a good road, the marshy ditch a canal. Wagons pass along from field to field, red-tiled roofs rise in once desolate stations; the postman, who formerly came in twice a week, appears daily now, his bag heavy with letters and newspapers, and as he stops at some new house to bring the young wife, lately settled there, a letter from her home, he gratefully accepts the glass of milk she offers him in her delight, and tells her how long the way used to be from village to village in the summer heat. Soon new wants arise--the childish hangers on to all progress. The needle of the tailor has many a new stuff to pierce, the small shopkeeper sets up his store between the cottages, the village schoolmaster complains of the multitude of his scholars; a second school is built, an adult class established; the teacher keeps the first germ of the lending library in a cupboard in his own room, and the bookseller in the next town sends him books for sale; and thus the life of the prosperous agriculturist is a blessing to the district, nay, to the whole country.

But woe to the landed proprietor when the ground he treads has fallen into the power of strangers. He is lost if his crops fail to satisfy their claims, and the genii of nature give their smiles to him only who confronts them freely and securely--they revolt when they discern weakness, precipitation, and half measures. No undertaking any longer prospers. The yellow blossoms of the turnip and the blue flowers of the flax wither without fruit. Rust and gangrene appear among the cattle, the shriveled potato sickens and dies; all these, long accustomed to obey skill, now cruelly avenge neglect. Then the daily walk through the fields becomes a daily curse; the very lark that springs from the corn reminds him that it is all sold as it stands; the yoke of oxen carrying the clover to the barn suggests that the whole yield of the dairy belongs to a creditor. Gloomy, morose, despairing, the man returns home. It is natural that he should become a stranger to his farm, should seek to escape from painful thoughts in change of scene, and his absence precipitates his downfall. The one thing that might yet save him, a complete surrender of himself to his avocations, is become intolerable.

Woe, threefold woe, to the landed proprietor who has precipitately invoked the black art of steam to settle on his land, in order to educe from it energies which it does not possess! The heaviest curse that mortal man can know has fallen upon him. He not only becomes weaker himself, but he deteriorates all those whom he takes into his service. All that still remains to him is torn to fragments by the rotation of the wheels he has madly introduced; his oxen and his horses are worn out by the heavy demands the factory makes upon them; his worthy farm-servants are transformed into a dirty, hungry proletariat. Where once the necessary work at least was obediently performed, contention, cheating, and opposition prevail. He himself is swept away in a vortex of complicated business, claims surge in upon him wave upon wave, and he, in his desperate struggle, drowning man that he is, has no choice but to cling to whatever comes within his grasp, and then, wearied by his fruitless efforts, to sink into the abyss.

Once the baron's lands had borne better crops than those of his neighbors, his herds were acknowledged to be thoroughly healthy, bad years, which crushed others, had passed comparatively lightly over him. Now, all this was reversed as by some evil spell. A contagious disease broke out among the cattle; the wheat grew tall indeed, but when it came to be threshed the grain was light. Every where the outgoings exceeded the incomings. Once upon a time he could have borne this calmly, now it made him positively ill. He began to hate the sight of his farm, and left it entirely to the bailiff. All his hopes centred in the factory, and if he ever visited his fields, it was only to look after the beet-root.

The new buildings rose behind the trees of the park. The voices of many busy laborers sounded shrill around it. The first crop of beet was brought in and heaped up ready for the mill. On the following day the regular factory was to begin, and yet the coppersmith was still hammering there, mechanics were working away at the great engine, and busy women carrying off chips and fragments of mortar, and scouring the scenes of their future labor. The baron stood before the building, listening impatiently to the beating of the hammer which had been so dilatory in completing its task. The morrow was to be to him the beginning of a new era. He stood now at the door of his treasure-house. He might now cast all his old cares away. During the next year he should be able to pay off what he owed, and then he would begin to put by. But, while he thus speculated, his eye fell upon his over-worked horses, and the anxious face of his old bailiff, and a vague fear crept, like a loathly insect, over the fluttering leaves of his hopes; for he had staked all on this cast; he had so mortgaged his land that at this moment he hardly knew how much of it was his own; and all this to raise still higher the social dignity of his family tree!

The baron himself was much altered during the last few years. A wrinkled brow, two fretful lines around the mouth, and gray hair on the temples: these were the results of his eternal thought about capital, his family, and the future aggrandizement of the property. His voice, which once sounded strong and full, had become sharp and thin, and every gesture betrayed irritation and impatience.

The baron had, indeed, had heavy cares of late. He had thoroughly learned the misery of extensive building operations combined with a scarcity of money. Ehrenthal was now become a regular visitor at the castle. Every week his horses consumed the baron's good hay; every week he brought out his pocket-book, and reckoned up the account or paid off bills. His hand, which at first so readily and reverentially sought his purse, did so now tardily and reluctantly; his bent neck had become stiff, his submissive smile had changed into a dry greeting; he walked with a scrutinizing air through the farm, and, instead of fervent praises, found many a fault. The humble agent had grown into the creditor, and the baron had to bear, with still increasing aversion, the pretensions of a man with whom he could no longer dispense. And not Ehrenthal alone, but many a strange figure besides knocked at the baron's study, and had private dealings with him there. The broad shape of the uncouth Pinkus appeared every quarter, and each time that his heavy foot ascended the castle stairs discord and dissatisfaction followed.

Every week, as we said, Ehrenthal had visited the estate: now came the most anxious time of all, and no eye beheld him. They said in the town that he was gone off upon a journey, and the baron was listening restlessly to the noise of every carriage that passed, wondering whether it brought the tardy, the hated, yet the indispensable visitor.

Lenore now joined her father, a radiant beauty, full in form and tall in stature, but somewhat shadowed by life's cares, as her thoughtful eyes and the anxious glance she cast at the baron plainly proved. "The post is come in," said she, reaching him a packet of letters and newspapers; "I dare say there is no letter from Eugene again."

"He has many other things to do," replied her father; but he himself looked eagerly for the handwriting of his son. Then he saw a direction in a strange hand, and on the letter the postmark of the very town in which Eugene was quartered. It was Anton's letter. The baron tore it open. When he had seen from its respectful tenor how well it was meant, and had read the name of Itzig in it, he put it up in his pocket. The secret terror which had so often shot through his heart fell upon him again, and then followed the unwelcome thought that his embarrassments were the subject of conversation even in foreign towns. Ill-timed warnings were the last thing that he wanted; they only humbled. He stood long in gloomy silence by his daughter. But, as the letter contained tidings of Eugene, he forced himself at length to speak. "A Mr. Wohlfart has written to me. He is now traveling in his mercantile capacity on the other side of the frontier, and has made Eugene's acquaintance."

"He!" cried Lenore.

"He seems to be an estimable kind of man," said the baron, with an effort. "He speaks affectionately of Eugene."

"Yes," cried Lenore, in delight; "one learns to know what conscientiousness and stability mean when one associates with him. What a strange coincidence! The sister and the brother. What has he written to you about, father!"

"Matters of business, kindly meant, no doubt, but not of any present use to me. The foolish boys have heard some idle rumor, and have unnecessarily troubled themselves about my affairs." And, so saying, he gloomily walked toward his factory.

Much perturbed, Lenore followed him. At length he opened the newspaper, and carelessly turned it over till his eye fell upon a certain advertisement. His face flushed deeply, the paper fell out of his hand, and, catching hold of one of the wagons, he leaned his head upon it. Lenore, much shocked, took up the paper, and saw the name of the Polish estate on which she knew that her father had a large mortgage. A day was specified for the sale of that estate by auction on behalf of a concourse of creditors.

The intelligence fell like a thunderbolt upon the baron. Since he had burdened his own property, the sum that he had invested in Poland was his last hope of well-doing. He had often doubted whether he was not foolish to leave his money in the hands of strangers abroad, and to pay so high an interest to strangers at home; but he had always had a horror of being led to invest this round sum in his undertakings, considering it in the light of his wife's jointure and his daughter's portion. Now it, too, was endangered, the last security had vanished. Every thing around him reeled. Ehrenthal had deceived him. It was he who had carried on the correspondence with the lawyer of the Polish count. He had punctually paid him the interest when it was last due. There was no doubt that he had known the precarious nature of this foreign investment, and had kept back the knowledge from his client.

"Father," cried Lenore, raising him as she spoke, "speak with Ehrenthal; go to your solicitor; he may be able to suggest some remedy."

"You are right, my child," said the baron, with a toneless voice; "it is possible that the danger may not yet be imminent. Tell them to put the horses to; I will go to town at once. Conceal what you have read from your mother, and you, dear Lenore, come with me."

When the carriage drove up, the baron was still in the very same place where he had first read the fatal tidings. During the journey he sat silently in a corner of the carriage. Arrived in town, he took his daughter to his lodgings, which he had not yet given up, for fear of leading his wife or his acquaintance to suspect that his means were impaired. He himself drove to Ehrenthal's. He entered the office in angry mood, and, after a dry salutation, held out the newspaper to the trader. Ehrenthal rose slowly, and said, nodding his head, "I know it; Löwenberg has written to me about it."

"You have deceived me, Mr. Ehrenthal," cried the baron, striving hard for composure.

"To what purpose?" replied Ehrenthal. "Why should I hide from you what the newspapers must needs reveal? This may happen in the case of any estate, any mortgage; what great misfortune is there in this?"

"The property is deeply involved, it seems: you must long have known this; you have deceived me."

"What are you saying there about deceit?" cried Ehrenthal, indignantly; "have a care that no stranger hear your words. I have left my money standing with you; what interest can I have in lowering you and increasing your difficulties? I myself am only too deeply involved in them," and he pointed to the place occupied in most men by a heart. "Had I known that your factory would devour my good money, one thousand after another, even as the lean kine of Egypt devoured the fat, I should have taken more time to consider, and would not have paid you a single dollar. A herd of elephants will I feed with my substance, but never more a factory. How then can you say that I have deceived you?" continued he, in increasing dudgeon.

"You have known the state of matters," cried the baron, "and have disguised the count's position from me."

"Was it I who sold you the mortgage?" inquired the offended Ehrenthal. "I have paid you the interest half-yearly--that is my offense; I have paid you much money besides--that is my deceit." He then continued more conciliatingly: "Look at the matter calmly, baron: another creditor has offered to purchase the estate; the lawyers have not apprised us of it, or they have sent the advertisement to a wrong address. What of that? You will now be paid your capital, and then you can pay off the mortgages on your own land. I hear that this estate in Poland is a very valuable one, so you have nothing to fear for your capital."

The baron had only to depart with this uncertain hope. As he dejectedly entered his carriage, he called out to the coachman, "To the Councilor Horn;" but on the way thither he gave counter orders, and returned to his lodgings. A coolness had sprung up between him and his former legal adviser; he shrunk from disclosing to him his never-ceasing embarrassments, and had been offended by Horn's well-meant warnings. He had often, therefore, applied for advice to other lawyers.

Itzig, in the tenderness of his heart, had rushed out of the office as soon as he beheld the baron's horses, but now he put in his head again.

"How was he?" he inquired from Ehrenthal.

"How should he be?" answered Ehrenthal, ungraciously; "he was in a great taking, and I had good cause to be angry. I have buried my gold in his property, and I have as many cares about that property as I have hairs on my head--all because I followed your advice."

"If you think that the ancestral inheritance of the baron is to come swimming toward you like a fish with the stream, and that you have only to reach out your hand and take it, I am sorry for you," replied Itzig, spitefully.

"What am I doing with the factory?" cried Ehrenthal. "The land would have been worth twice as much to me without the chimney."

"When once you have got the chimney you can sell the bricks," was Itzig's ironical rejoinder. "I wanted to tell you that I expect a visit to-morrow from an acquaintance out of my own district; I can not, therefore, come to the office."

"You have this last year gone after your own affairs so often," rudely replied Ehrenthal, "that I don't care how long you remain away."

"Do you know what you have just said?" Veitel broke out. "You have said, 'Itzig, I need you no longer; you may go;' but I shall go when it suits me, not when it suits you."

"You are a bold man," cried Ehrenthal. "I forbid you to speak thus to me. Who are you, young Itzig?"

"I am one who knows your whole business, who can ruin you if he will, and one who means kindly toward you, better than you do toward yourself; and, therefore, when I come to the office the day after to-morrow, you will say, 'Good morning, Itzig.' Do you understand me now, Mr. Ehrenthal?" and, seizing his cap, he hurried into the street, where his suppressed wrath broke out into a flame, and, gesticulating wildly, he muttered threatening words. And so did Ehrenthal alone in the office.

The baron returned to his daughter, threw himself heavily down on the sofa, and scarcely heard her loving words. There was nothing to detain him in town but the dread of communicating this intelligence to his wife. He alternately brooded over plans for getting over the possible loss, and painted its consequences in the blackest colors.

Meanwhile Lenore sat silent at the window, looking down upon the noisy streets, with their rolling carriages and the stream of passers-by; and while she wondered if any of these had ever felt the secret anxiety, fear, and dejection which the last few years had brought her young heart, one of the throng would now and then look up to the plate-glass windows of the stately dwelling, and, his eye resting admiringly on the beautiful girl, he perhaps envied the happy destiny of the nobly born, who could thus look calmly down on those whose lot it was to toil for daily bread.

The streets grew dim, the lamps threw their dull rays into the room, Lenore watched the play of light and shade on the wall, and her sadness increased as the darkness deepened. Meanwhile two men were standing in eager conversation at the house door; the bell sounded, a heavy step was heard in the ante-room, and the servants announced Mr. Pinkus. At that name the baron rose, called for candles, and went to the next room.

The innkeeper entered, bobbing his great head, but seemed in no hurry to speak.

"What brings you here so late?" asked the baron, leaning on the table like one prepared for every thing.

"Your honor knows that the bill of exchange for the ten thousand dollars falls due to me to-morrow."

"Could you not wait till I paid you your full ten per cent. for an extension of the loan?" asked the baron, contemptuously.

"I am come," said Pinkus, "to explain that I am suddenly in want of money, and must request you to let me have the principal."

The baron retreated a step. This was the second blow, and it was mortal. His face turned pale yellow, but he began with a hoarse voice to say, "How can you make such a demand, after all that has passed between us? how often have you assured me that this bill of exchange was a mere form!"

"It has been so hitherto," said Pinkus; "now it comes into force. I have ten thousand dollars to pay to-morrow to a creditor of mine."

"Make arrangements with him, then," returned the baron; "I am prepared for a higher rate of interest, but not to pay off the principal."

"Then, baron, I am sorry to tell you that you will be proceeded against."

The baron silently turned away.

"At what hour may I return to-morrow for my money?" inquired Pinkus.

"At about this hour," replied a voice, weak and hollow as that of an old man. Pinkus bobbed again and went away.

The baron tottered back to his sitting-room, where he sank down on the sofa as if paralyzed. Lenore knelt by him, calling him by every tender name, and imploring him to speak. But he neither saw nor heard, and his heart and head beat violently. The fair, many-colored bubble that he had blown had burst now; he knew the fearful truth--he was a ruined man.

They sat till late in the evening, when his daughter persuaded him to take a glass of wine and to return home. They drove away rapidly. As the trees along the road-side flew past him, and the fresh air blew in his face, the baron's spirit revived.

A night and day were still his, and during their course he must needs find help. This was not his first difficulty, and he hoped it would not be his last. He had incurred this debt of, originally, seven thousand dollars odd, because the fellow who now dunned him had brought him the money some years ago, and entreated, almost forced him to take it at first at a very low rate of interest. For a few weeks he had let it lie idle; then he had appropriated it, and step by step his creditor had increased his demands up to a bill of exchange and a usurious rate of interest. And now the vagabond grew insolent. Was he like the rat who foresees the sinking of the ship, and tries to escape from it? The baron laughed so as to make Lenore shudder; why, he was not the man to fall resistless into the hands of his adversary; the next day would bring help. Ehrenthal could never leave him in the lurch.

It was night when they reached home, and the baron hurried to his own room and went to bed, knowing well, however, that sleep would not visit him that night. He heard every hour strike, and every hour his pulse beat more stormily and his anguish increased. He saw no hope of deliverance but in Ehrenthal; yet his horror of appearing before that man as a suppliant forced drops of sweat from his brow. It was morning before he lost the consciousness of his misery.

Shrill sounds awoke him. The factory laborers, with the village band, had prepared him a serenade.

At another time he would have been pleased with this mark of good feeling; now, he only heard the discord it produced, and it annoyed him.

He hastily dressed himself and hurried into the court. The house was hung with garlands, the laborers were all ranged in order before the door, and received him with loud acclamations. He had to tell them in return how much he rejoiced to see this day, and that he expected great results, and while he spoke he felt his words a lie, and his spirit broken. He drove off without seeing his wife or daughter, and knocked at the door of Ehrenthal's office before it was open. The usurer was summoned down from his breakfast.

Anxious to know the reason of so unusual an occurrence as this early visit, Ehrenthal did not give himself time to change his dressing-gown. The baron stated the case as coolly as he could.

Ehrenthal fell into the greatest passion. "This Pinkus," he went on repeating, "he has presumed to lend you money on a bill of exchange. How could he have so large a sum? The man has not got ten thousand dollars; he is an insignificant man, without capital."

The baron confessed that the sum was not so large originally, but this only increased Ehrenthal's excitement.

"From seven to ten," he cried, running wildly up and down till his dressing-gown flapped round him like the wings of an owl. "So he has made nearly three thousand dollars! I have always had a bad opinion of that man; now I know what he is. He is a rascal--a double dealer. He never advanced the seven thousand either; his whole shop is not worth so much."

This strong moral indignation on the part of Ehrenthal threw a ray of joy into the baron's soul. "I, too, have reason to consider Pinkus a dangerous man," said he.

But this agreement in opinion proved unlucky, diverting, as it did, Ehrenthal's anger against the baron instead. "Why do I speak of Pinkus?" he screamed; "he has acted as a man of his stamp will act. But you--you, who are a nobleman, how could you deal so with me? You have carried on money transactions with another man behind my back, and you have, in a short time, let him win three thousand dollars on a bill of exchange--a bill of exchange," continued he; "do you know what that means?"

"I wish that the debt had not been necessary," said the baron; "but as it falls due to-day, and the man will not wait, the question is how we are to pay him."

"What do you mean by we?" cried Ehrenthal, hastily. "You must contrive to pay; you must see where you can get money for the man you have helped to pocket three thousand dollars; you did not consult me when you gave the bill; you need not consult me as to how you are to pay it."

In the baron's soul a contest between wrath and wretchedness was going on. "Moderate your language, Mr. Ehrenthal," cried he.

"Why should I be moderate?" screamed he. "You have not been moderate, nor Pinkus either, and neither will I."

"I will call again," said the baron, "when you have regained that degree of decorum which, under all circumstances, I must beg you to observe toward me."

"If you want money from me, don't call again, baron," cried Ehrenthal. "I have no money for you; I would rather throw my dollars in the street than pay you one other."

The baron silently retired. His wretchedness was great; he had to bear the insults of the plebeian. Next, he went round to all his acquaintances, and endured the torment of asking on all sides for money, and on all sides having it refused. He returned to his lodgings, and was considering whether it were best to try Ehrenthal again, or to attempt to postpone the payment of the bill by offering usurious interest, when, to his surprise, a strange figure, that he had only seen once or twice before, entered his apartments, with a haggard face, surrounded by red hair, two sly eyes, and a grotesque expression about the mouth, such as one sees on laughing-masks at Carnival time.

Veitel bowed low, and began: "Most gracious baron, have the condescension to forgive my coming to you on matters of business. I have a commission from Mr. Pinkus, empowering me to receive the money for the bill of exchange. I would most humbly inquire whether you will be so gracious as to pay it me?"

The sad seriousness of the hour was for a moment lost upon the baron when he saw the lank figure twisting and turning before him, making faces and attempting to be polite. "Who are you?" inquired he, with all the dignity of his race.

"Veitel Itzig is my name, gracious sir, if you will permit me to announce it to you."

The baron started on hearing the name of Itzig. That was the man of whom he had been warned--the invisible, the merciless.

"I was till now book-keeper at Ehrenthal's," modestly continued Itzig; "but Ehrenthal was too haughty for me. I have come into a small sum of money, and I have invested it in Mr. Pinkus's business. I am on the point of establishing myself."

"You can not have the money at present," said the baron, more composedly. This helpless creature could hardly be a dangerous enemy.

"It is an honor to me," said Veitel, "to be told by the gracious baron that he will pay me later in the afternoon; I have plenty of time." He drew out a silver watch. "I can wait till evening; and that I may not inconvenience the baron by coming at an hour that might not suit him, or when he chanced to be out, I will take the liberty to place myself on his steps. I will stand there," said he, as if deprecating the baron's refusal to let him sit. "I will wait till five o'clock. The baron need not inconvenience himself on my account." And Veitel bowed himself out, and retired from the room backward like a crab. The baron recalled him, and he stood still in that bent and ridiculous attitude. At that moment he looked the weakest and oddest of men. The warning letter must have confounded the poor book-keeper with his master. At all events, it was easier to deal with this man than with any other.

"Can you tell me of any way in which I may satisfy your claim without paying down the sum this day?"

Veitel's eyes flashed like those of a bird of prey, but he shook his head and shrugged his shoulders long in pretended reflection. "Gracious baron," said he, at length, "there is one way--only one way. You have a mortgage of twenty thousand on your property, which mortgage belongs to yourself, and is kept in Ehrenthal's office. I will persuade Pinkus to leave you the ten thousand, and will add another ten if you make over that mortgage to my friend."

The baron listened. "Perhaps you do not know," rejoined he, with much severity, "that I have already made over that deed of mortgage to Ehrenthal."

"Forgive me, gracious sir, you have not; there has been no legal surrender of it made."

"But my written promise has been given," said the baron.

Veitel shrugged again. "If you promised Ehrenthal a mortgage, why should it be this very one of all others? But what need of a mortgage to Ehrenthal at all? This year you will receive your capital from the Polish estate, and then you can pay him off in hard cash. Till then, just leave the mortgage quietly in his hands; no one need know that you have surrendered it to us. If you will have the kindness to come with me to a lawyer, and assign the deed to my friend, I will give you two thousand dollars for it at once, and on the day that you place the deed in our hands I will pay down the rest of the money."

The baron had forced himself to listen to this proposal with a smile. At last he replied briefly, "Devise some other plan; I can not consent to this."

"There is no other," said Itzig; "but it is only midday, and I can wait till five."

He again began a series of low bows, and moved to the door.

"Reflect, gracious sir," said he, earnestly, "that you do not merely want the ten thousand dollars. You will, in the course of the next few months, require as much more for your factory and the getting your money out of the Polish investment. If you surrender the mortgage to us, you will have the whole sum you need; but pray do not mention the matter to Ehrenthal: he is a hard man, and would injure me throughout life."

"Have no fear," said the baron, with a gesture of dismissal.

Veitel withdrew.

The baron paced up and down. The proposal just made revolted him. True, it would rescue him from this and other impending difficulties, but, of course, it was out of the question. The man who proposed it was so absurd a being, that it was of no use even to be angry with him. But the baron's word was pledged, and the matter could not be thought of further.

And yet how trifling the risk! The documents would remain at Ehrenthal's till the Polish count had paid him, then he would clear his own debts to Ehrenthal, and release his documents. No one need ever know of it; and if the worst should befall, he had but to give Ehrenthal another mortgage on his property, and the money-broker would be equally satisfied. The baron kept banishing the thought, and yet it ceaselessly returned. It struck one, it struck two: he rang for his servant, and ordered the carriage round, carelessly asking if the stranger were still there. The coachman drove up; the stranger was on the steps; the baron went down without looking at him, got into the carriage, and when he was asked by the footman, hat off, whither the coachman was to drive, it first occurred to him that he did not know. At length he said, "To Ehrenthal's."

Meanwhile Ehrenthal had been spending a troubled morning. He began to suspect that some other, too, was speculating against the baron. He sent for Pinkus, overwhelmed him with reproaches, and tried in every sort of way to discover whence he had got his capital; but Pinkus had been well schooled: he was bold, rude, and silent. Then Ehrenthal sent for Itzig. Itzig was nowhere to be found.

Consequently, Ehrenthal was in a very bad temper when the baron returned, and he told him dryly that the day had come when his payments must cease. A painful scene ensued; the baron left the office in bitter mood, and determined to pay a last visit to an early comrade, who was known to be a rich man.

It was past four when he returned hopeless to his lodgings. A thin figure was leaning against the steps, and bowed low to the baron as he hurried past. His strength was exhausted; he sat on the sofa as he had done the day before, and blindly stared before him. He knew there was no rescue but that which waited on the steps below. Prostrate, powerless, he heard the clock strike the quarter to five; his pulses beat like hammers, and each throb brought the moment nearer that was to decide his fate. The last stroke of the hour was over. The ante-room bell rang; the baron rose. Itzig opened the door, holding the two papers in his hand.

"I can not pay," the baron cried, in a hoarse voice.

Itzig bowed again and offered him the other paper: "Here is the sketch of a contract."

The baron took up his hat, and said, without looking at him, "Come to an attorney."

It was evening when the baron returned to the castle of his forefathers. The pale moonlight shone on the turrets, the lake was black as ink, and colorless as they was the face of the man who leaned back in the carriage, with close compressed lips, like one who, after a long struggle, had come to an irrevocable decision. He looked apathetically on the water and on the cool moonshine on the roof, and yet he was glad that the sun did not shine, and that he did not see his father's house in its golden light. He tried to think of the future he had insured; he pondered over all the advantages to accrue from his factory; he looked forward to the time when his son would dwell here, rich, secure, free from the cares that had involved his father with vulgar traders, and prematurely blanched his hair. He thought of all this, but his favorite thoughts had become indifferent to him. He entered the house, felt for his full pocket-book before he gave his hand to his wife, and nodded significantly to Lenore. He spoke cheerfully to the ladies, and even contrived to joke about his busy day; but he felt that something had come between him and his dearest ones--even they seemed estranged. If they leaned over him or took his hand, his impulse was to withdraw from the caress. And when his wife looked lovingly at him, there was a something in her eyes, where once he was wont to turn for comfort in every extremity, that he could no longer bear to meet.

He went to his factory, where he was again received with huzza after huzza by the workmen, and with merry tunes by the village band. They played the very air to which he had often marched with his regiment by the side of his old general, whom he loved as a father. He thought of the scarred face of the old warrior, and thought too of a court of honor that he and his brother officers had once held upon an unhappy youth who had lightly given and broken his word of honor. He went into his bed-room, and rejoiced that it had become dark, and that he could no longer see his castle, his factory, or his wife's searching glance. And again he heard hour after hour strike, and at the stroke of each the thought was forced in upon him, "There is now another of that regiment who has, when gray-haired, done the very deed that led a youth to blow out his brains: here lies the man, and can not sleep because he has broken his word of honor."

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Chapter XXIII

The spring storms were sweeping over the plains when Anton was recalled. The winter had been a laborious and anxious season. He had often traveled in frost and snow through devastated districts far into the east and south. Every where he had seen mournful sights, burnt castles, disturbed trade, insecurity, famine, brutality, and burning party hate.

"When will he come?" asked Sabine.

"In a few hours, by the next train," replied her brother.

Sabine sprang up and seized her bunch of keys. "And the maids are not yet ready; I must look after things myself. Let him spend the evening with us, Traugott; we women must see something of him."

Her brother laughed. "Take care that you do not spoil him."

"No fear of that," said the cousin; "when he once gets back into the office, there he will remain, and we shall never see him except at dinner."

Meanwhile Sabine was searching among the treasures, loading the servants with packets of every kind, and impatiently watching till the clerks left their apartments for the counting-house. At last she herself crept into Anton's room. She gave one more searching glance at the sofa-cushion she had worked, and arranged in an alabaster vase all the flowers that the gardener had succeeded in forcing. While so engaged, her eye fell upon the drawing that Anton had done on his first arrival, and on the rich carpet which Fink had had laid down. Where was Fink now? She felt on this day as if she had been parted from him many, many years, and the recollection of him resembled the sad, perplexed feeling that succeeds an unhappy dream. But she could openly tell the noble-hearted man to whom this room now belonged how much she had learned to value him, and she rejoiced that the hour was at hand when she could thank him for all that he had done for her brother.

"But Sabine!" cried the cousin, in amazement, for she too had found her way into the room.

"What is the matter?" said Sabine, looking up.

"Why, these are the embroidered curtains which you have had put up. They do not belong to this part of the house."

"Let them be," returned Sabine, with a smile.

"And the coverlet, and these towels--why, they are your best set. Good heavens! The coverlet with lace, and the rose-colored lining!"

"Never mind, cousin," said Sabine, blushing. "He whom we expect deserves the best that our old chests contain."

But the cousin went on shaking her head. "If I had not seen this, I should never have believed it. To give these for daily use! I can not make you out, Sabine. My only comfort is that he will never remark it. That I should live to see this day!" And, clasping her hands, she left the room in much excitement.

Sabine hurried after her. "She will go and tease Traugott about it," said she; "I must persuade her that things could not have been otherwise arranged."

Meanwhile the traveler felt like a son returning to his home after a long absence. At the nearest station to the capital his heart began to beat with delight; the old house, his colleagues, the business, his desk, his principal, and Sabine, all floated pleasantly before his mind's eye. At last the drosky stopped before the open door, and Father Sturm, calling out his name with a voice that sounded all over the street, ran and lifted him out of the carriage like a child. Then up came Mr. Pix, and shook his hand long, not remarking that his black brush, during the up-and-down movement, was making all sorts of hieroglyphics on his young friend's coat. Next Anton went into the counting-house, where the lights were already burning, and heartily cried out "Good-evening." His colleagues rose like one man, and with loud expressions of pleasure crowded about him. Mr. Schröter hurried out of his own room, and his grave face beamed with satisfaction. These were happy moments, indeed, and Anton was more moved than became such a traveled man. And on his way from the counting-house to his room, old Pluto sprang out impetuously, immoderately wagging his matted tail, so that Anton could hardly escape from his caresses. Arrived at his own door, a servant met him with a smile, and respectfully opened it. Anton gazed in wonder at the way in which it was decorated.

"Our young lady herself arranged it as you see," imparted the servant. Anton bent over the alabaster vase, and closely examined every flower as though he had never seen such before. Then he took up the cushion, felt it, stroked it, and, full of admiration, put it back in its place. He now returned to the office, to give Mr. Schröter the latest intelligence as to his proceedings. The merchant took him into his own little room, and they talked long and confidentially.

It was a serious conversation. Much was lost, much still endangered, and it would require years of industry to make good what was forfeited, and replace old connections by new. "To your judgment and energy," said Mr. Schröter, "I already owe much. I hope you will continue to assist me in regaining lost ground. And now there is still some one else who wants to thank you. I hope you will be my guest this evening."

Anton next went to his long-closed desk, and took out pens and paper. But much could not be made of writing to-day. One of his colleagues after the other left his own place and came to Anton's stool. Mr. Baumann often walked across, just to clap him on the back, and then cheerfully returned to his own corner; Mr. Specht kept knocking away at the railings which divided him from Anton, and showered down questions upon him. Mr. Liebold left the blotting-paper several moments on the last page of the great ledger, and came over for a chat. Even Mr. Purzel moved, with the sacred chalk in his hand, out of his partition; and, finally, Mr. Pix came into the room to confide to Anton that, for some months back, he had played no solo partie, and that Specht, meanwhile, had fallen into a state closely resembling insanity.

Later in the evening Anton entered the principal's apartments. Sabine stood before him. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were moist as she bent down over the hand that had saved her brother's life.

"Lady!" cried Anton, shocked, and drew his hand away.

"I thank you, oh! I thank you, Wohlfart," cried Sabine, holding his hands in both hers. And so she stood silent, transfigured by an emotion she knew not how to repress. While Anton contemplated the fair girl, who, with blushing cheeks, looked so gratefully at him, he realized the change that Polish sword-cut had made in his position. The partition wall had fallen which, till now, had divided the clerk from the principal's family. And he also felt his heart swelling with honest pride the while, that he was not all unworthy of a woman's trust.

He now told her, in reply to her questions, the particulars of their struggle for the wagons, and the other incidents of that adventurous time. Sabine hung upon his words; and when her eyes met the full, clear light of his, they involuntarily drooped beneath it. She had never before remarked how singularly handsome he was. Now it burst upon her. A manly, open face, curling chestnut hair, beautiful dark blue eyes, a mouth that told of energy and decision, and a color that went and came with every change of feeling. He seemed to be, at the same time, a stranger, and yet a dear and trusted friend.

The cousin entered next, the embroidered curtains having caused an excitement in her mind, which now displayed itself in a silk gown and new cap. Her greetings were loud and fluent; and when she remarked that Mr. Wohlfart's whiskers were very becoming to him, Sabine looked assent.

"There you have the hero of the counting-house," cried the merchant, joining them. "Now show that you know how to reward knightly valor better than with fair words. Let him have the best that cellar and kitchen afford. Come along, my faithful fellow-traveler. The Rhine wine expects that, after all your heavy Polish potations, you will do it honor."

The lamp-lighted room looked the picture of comfort as the four sat down to dinner. The merchant raised his glass. "Welcome to your country! Welcome home!" cried Sabine. Anton replied, in a low tone, "I have a country, I have a home in which I am happy; I owe both to your kindness. Many an evening, when sitting in some wretched inn, far away among savage strangers, whose language I imperfectly understood, I have thought of this table, and of the delight it would be to me to see this room and your face once more; for it is the bitterest thing on earth to be alone in hours of relaxation and repose without a friend, without any thing that one loves."

As he bade them good-night, the principal said, "Wohlfart, I wish to bind you still more closely to this firm. Jordan is leaving us next quarter to become a partner in his uncle's business; I can not appoint a better man than you to fill his place."

When Anton returned to his room, he felt what mortal man is seldom allowed to feel here below, unpunished by a reverse--that he was perfectly happy, without a regret and without a wish. He sat on the sofa, looked at the flowers and at the cushion, and again saw in fancy Sabine bending over his hand. He had sat there long enjoying this vision, when his eye fell upon a letter on the table, the postmark "New York," the direction in Fink's hand.

Fink, when he first left, had written more than once to Anton, but only a few lines at a time, telling nothing of his occupation, nor his plans for the future. Then a long interval passed away, during which Anton had had no tidings from his friend, and only knew that he spent a good deal of his time in traveling in the Western States of the Union as manager of the business of which his uncle had been the head, and in the interest of several other companies in which the deceased had had shares. But it was with horror that he now read the following letter:

"It must out at last, though I would gladly have kept it from you, poor boy! I have joined thieves and murderers. If you want any thing of the kind done, apply to me. I envy a fellow who becomes a villain by choice; he has at least the pleasure of driving a good bargain with Satan, and can select the particular sort of good-for-nothingness which suits his tastes; but my lot is less satisfactory. I have been, through the pressure of rascalities invented by others, driven into a way of life which is as much like highway robbery as one hair is to another.

"Like a rock in an avalanche, I, pressed on all sides, have got frozen into the midst of the most frightful speculations ever devised by a usurer's brain. My departed uncle was good enough to make me heir to his favorite branch of business--land speculations.

"I put off involving myself with its details as long as I could, and left the charge of that part of my inheritance to Westlock. As this was cowardly, I found an excuse for it in the quantity of work the money-matters of the deceased afforded me. At last there was no help for it; I had to undertake the responsibility. And if before I had had a pretty good guess at the elasticity of whatever it was that served my uncle instead of a conscience, it now became beyond a doubt that the purpose of his will and testament was to punish my juvenile offenses against him by making me a companion of old weather-beaten villains, whose cunning was such that Satan himself would have had to put his tail into his pocket, and become chimney-sweep in order to escape them.

"This letter is written from a new town in Tennessee, a cheerful place--no better, though, for being built on speculation with my money: a few wooden cottages, half of them taverns, filled to the roof with a dirty and outcast emigrant rabble, half of whom are lying ill with putrid fever.

"Those who are still moving about are a hollow-eyed, anxious-looking set, all candidates for death. Daily, when the poor wretches look at the rising sun, or are unreasonable enough to feel a want of something to eat and drink--daily, from morn to eve, their favorite occupation is to curse the land-shark who took their money from them for transport, land, and improvements, and brought them into this district, which is under water two months in the year, and for the ten others more like a tough kind of pap than any thing else. Now the men who have pointed out to them this dirty way into heaven are no other than my agents and colleagues, so that I, Fritz Fink, am the lucky man upon whom every imprecation there is in German and Irish falls all the day long. I send off all who are able to walk about, and have to feed the inhabitants of my hospital with Indian corn and Peruvian bark. As I write this, three naked little Paddies are creeping about my floor, their mother having so far forgotten her duty as to leave them behind her, and I enjoy the privilege of washing and combing the frog-like little abominations. A pleasant occupation for my father's son! I don't know how long I shall have to stick here; probably till the very last of the set is dead.

"Meanwhile I have fallen out with my partners in New York. I have had the privilege of rousing universal dissatisfaction; the shareholders of the Great Western Landed Company Association have met, made speeches, and passed resolutions against me. I should not much care for that if I saw a way of getting clear of the whole affair. But the deceased has managed so cleverly that I am tied down like a nigger in a slave-ship. Immense sums have been embarked in this atrocious speculation. If I make known its nature, I am sure that they will find a way of making me pay the whole sum at which my late uncle put down his name; and how to do that without ruining not myself alone, but probably also the firm of Fink and Becker, I can't yet see.

"Meantime I don't want to hear your opinion as to what I ought to do. It can be of no use to me, for I know it already. Indeed, I wish for no letter at all from you, you simple old-fashioned Tony, who believe that to act uprightly is as easy a thing as to eat a slice of bread and butter; for, as soon as I have done all I can, buried some, fed others, and offended my colleagues as much as possible, I shall go for a few months to the far southwest, to some noble prairie, where one may find alligators, and horned owls, and something more aristocratic than there is here. If the prairie afford pen and ink, I shall write to you again. If this letter be the last you ever get from me, devote a tear to my memory, and say, in your benevolent way, 'I am sorry for him: he was not without his good points.'"

Then came a precise description of Fink's affairs, and of the statutes of the association.

Having read this unsatisfactory letter, Anton sat down at once and spent the night in writing to his friend.

Even in the common light of the next day our hero retained his feelings of the night before. Whether he worked at his desk or jested with his friends, he felt conscious how deeply his life was footed in the walls of the old house. The rest saw it too. Besides other marks of favor, Anton often spent the evenings with the principal and the ladies. These were happy hours to Sabine. She rejoiced to find, as they discussed the events of the day, a book read, or some matter of feeling and experience, how much agreement there was between her views and Anton's. His culture, his judgment surprised her; she suddenly saw him invested with glowing colors, just as the traveler gazes in amazement at some fair landscape, which heavy clouds have long hidden from his view.

His colleagues, too, took his peculiar position very pleasantly. They had heard from the principal's own lips that Anton had saved his life, and that enabled even Mr. Pix to look upon the frequent invitations he received without note or comment. Anton, too, did his part toward keeping up the good feeling of the counting-house. He often asked them all to his room, and Jordan complained, with a smile, that his parties were now quite forgotten. His favorite companion was Baumann, who had had an increase of missionary zeal during the last half year, and only been kept back by finding that an experienced calculator could ill be spared at the present crisis. Specht, too, was a special candidate for his favor, Anton's travels and adventures having invested him with a romantic halo in the former's fantastic mind.

Unfortunately, Specht's own position in the good-will of his colleagues had been materially shaken during Anton's absence. He had long been the butt of all their witticisms, but now Anton was very sorry to see that he was universally disliked. Even the quartette had given him up--at least there was decided enmity between him and both basses. Whenever Specht ventured upon an assertion that was not quite incontrovertible, Pix would shrug his shoulders and ejaculate "Pumpkins." Indeed, almost all that Specht said was met by a whisper of "pumpkins" from one or other; and whenever he caught the word, he fell into a towering passion, broke off the discourse, and withdrew.

One evening Anton visited the tabooed clerk in his own room. Before he reached the door, he heard Specht's shrill voice singing the celebrated song, "Here I sit on the green grass, with violets around;" and looking in, he saw the minstrel, in poetical attitude, so enjoying his own melody, that he stood without for a few moments, not to disturb the inspiration. Specht's room was by no means large, and his invention had been exercised for years in giving it a special and distinguished character. Indeed, he had succeeded by means of pictures, plaster of Paris casts, small ornaments of different kinds, useless pieces of furniture, and a great coat of arms over the bed, in making it unlike any other apartment ever seen. But the most remarkable thing about it was in the very centre of the room. There hung an immense ring suspended to a beam in the ceiling. On each side were large flower-pots filled with earth, and from these countless threads were fastened to the ring. Under the ring was a garden-table made of twisted boughs, and a few chairs of the same nature.

Anton stood still in amazement, and at last called out, "What the deuce have you such a network as this in your room for?"

Specht sprang up and said, "It is an arbor."

"An arbor! I see nothing green about it."

"That will come," said Specht, pointing out his great flower-pots.

On a closer inspection, Anton detected a few weak shoots of ivy, which looked dusty and faded, like the twilighted dream-visions which the waking man allows to cling round his spirit for a few moments before he sweeps them away forever.

"But, Specht, this ivy will never grow," said Anton.

"There are other things," importantly announced Specht, showing Anton a few wan-looking growths that just peered above the top of the pots, and resembled nothing so much as the unfortunate attempts to germinate which the potato will make in a cellar when spring-time comes.

"And what are these shoots?"

"Kidney-beans and pumpkins. The whole will form an arbor. In a few weeks the tendrils will run up the threads. Only think, Wohlfart, how well it will look--the green tendrils, the flowers, and the great leaves! I shall cut off most of the pumpkins, but a few of them shall remain. Just picture to yourself the fresh green and the yellow blossoms! What a place it will be to sit with friends over a glass of wine or to sing a quartette in!"

"But, Specht," inquired Anton, laughing, "can you really suppose that the plants will grow in your attic?"

"Why not?" cried Specht, much offended. "They will do as well here as elsewhere. They have sun; I take care that they have air too, and I water them with bullock's blood. They have all they want."

"But they look desperately sick."

"Just as at first they will, of course; the air is still cold, and we have had little sun as yet. They will soon shoot up. When we have no garden, we must do the best we can." He looked complacently around his room, "As to the decorations of a room, you see I can cope with any one--of course, in proportion to my means. However, I have spent a good deal upon it; and so, though not large, it is thoroughly comfortable."

"Yes," rejoined Anton, "except for a certain class of restless men who like freedom to move about. You can have no visitors here but those who are content to sit down the moment they enter."

"To sit quiet is one of the first rules of good society," rejoined Specht. "Unfortunately, men are often heartless and worthless. Do you not find, Wohlfart, that in our counting-house there are many very unfeeling?"

"Often a little blunt," replied Anton, "but kind-hearted at bottom."

"That is not my experience," sighed Specht. "I am now quite alone, and must seek my comfort out of doors. When I can, I go to the theatre, or to the circus, or to see a dwarf or a giant if they happen to come round, and of course I go to the concerts."

"But even there you are solitary."

"Yes; and then it is expensive, and I am not, as you know, very well off, nor shall I, I fear, ever be much better. I ought to have been rich," said he, importantly, "but a cousin and trustee of mine brought me to this, else I should have driven my carriage and four. I dare say I should not have been at all happier. If only Pix were not so rude! It is dreadful, Anton, to be daily liable to this. When you were away, I challenged him," said he, pointing to an old rapier on the wall; "but he behaved very ill. I told him I was sorry to be obliged to do it, and offered him a choice of arms and place. He rudely wrote back that he would fight on the ground floor where he was always stationed, and that as to arms I might use any I liked, but that his weapon would be his great brush, with which he was ready to sign his name on both my cheeks. You will allow that I could not consent to that." Anton allowed it.

"And now he sets all the others against me. My position is unbearable. I can not be with them without getting insulted. But I know how to revenge myself. When the pumpkins blow, I will invite all the rest and leave out Pix. I will serve him as he once did you, Wohlfart, and revenge the wrongs of each."

"Very good," said Anton. "But suppose that, as I owe some civility to our colleagues, we unite in giving a party in your room?"

"That is indeed kind of you, Wohlfart," cried Specht, joyously.

"And we will not wait till the pumpkins have grown up; we will bring in a little green in the mean while."

"Very good; fir-trees, perhaps."

"Leave it to me," continued Anton; "and, after all, we won't exclude Pix, but invite him with the rest. That is a much better revenge, and worthy of your good heart."

"You think so?" inquired Specht, doubtfully.

"I am sure of it. I propose next Sunday evening; and will send out the invitations in our joint names."

"In writing," cried Specht, in ecstasy, "on pink paper."

"The very thing."

The clerks were not a little amazed the following morning at receiving smart-looking notes, laid by Mr. Specht himself, early in the morning, upon the desk of each, inviting them to see the pumpkins flower in his apartment. However, as Anton's name was at the bottom of the page, there was nothing for it but to accept. Meanwhile Anton took Sabine into his confidence, and begged from her ivy and flowers. Specht himself worked hard the remainder of the week, and on the day of the festival, with the help of the servant, he contrived to entwine the threads with green leaves, to procure a number of colored lamps, and to intermix with the leaves some triangular inventions of yellow paper, which were marvelously like the flowers of the pumpkin.

Thus the room really did present the aspect Mr. Specht had long seen in his day-dreams. The colleagues were exceedingly amazed. Mr. Pix was the last to enter, and could not suppress an exclamation of surprise when he saw the unlucky arbor positively overgrown and covered with yellow flowers, shining in the colored lamp-light. The great flower-pots were filled with gay nosegays, a red lamp hung down from the centre, and on the rustic table was placed a large pumpkin. Anton would make the quartette sit in the arbor, and grouped the others around the room, the bed having been arranged with bolsters and cushions so as to look like a second sofa.

When they were all settled, Specht approached the great pumpkin, and solemnly exclaimed, "You have long plagued me about pumpkins; here is my revenge." He took hold of the short stalk, and lifted away the other half. It was hollow. A bowl of punch stood within. The clerks laughed, and cried "Bravo!" while Specht filled the glasses.

Nevertheless, at first, there was a certain degree of estrangement visible between the host and his guests. True, the obnoxious word was never mentioned, but his propositions seldom found favor. When Anton went round dispensing a bundle of Turkish pipes, which he had bought while abroad for his colleagues, Specht proposed that they should all sit cross-legged on the sofas and on the floors, in true Turkish fashion. This proposal fell through. Also, when he next asserted that, as our commerce with the East increased, the Circassian maidens sold by their parents to Turkish families would soon come over and play the part of waitresses in Bavarian beer-shops, he evidently failed to carry conviction to any of the party. But the gentle influences of the pumpkin-bowl gradually told upon the severe intellects of the counting-house.

First of all, the musical members of the firm were reconciled. Anton proposed the health of the quartette. The quartette returned thanks in some embarrassment, having been dissolved for about a month. It came out, however, from certain dark hints given by the first bass, that Specht had been unreasonable in his demands upon them. He had wished to make use of the quartette to serenade the charming Zillibi, the prima donna of the circus; and when the basses declined, Specht had flown into a violent passion, and sworn he would never sing with them till they consented.

"If he had been content to serenade her in the evening," said Balbus, "we might, perhaps, have given in for the sake of peace, but he maintained that it must be at four o'clock in the morning, as it was then that the riding-master rose to feed his horses. That was too much. Meanwhile the lady ran off with a Bajazzo."

"That is not true," cried Specht; "the Bajazzo carried her off by force."

"At all events, it has been a fortunate incident for us," said Anton, "as it releases these gentlemen from the observance of their vows. I see no reason, therefore, why they should any longer deprive us of the enjoyment their musical talents are so calculated to afford. From what I hear, my dear Specht, you were a little hasty; so make such an apology to these gentlemen as becomes a man of honor, and then I shall propose the instant re-establishment of the quartette."

Specht rose accordingly, and said, "Adopting the advice of my friend Wohlfart, I now beg to apologize to you all, and am, moreover, ready to give you satisfaction in any way that you prefer." Whereupon he tossed off his glass, and vehemently shook hands with the basses.

After that the music-books were brought out, and the four voices sounded remarkably well out of the arbor. A reconciliation with Pix still remained to be effected. Specht looked at him all evening mistrustfully, as he sat on the sofa-bed, stroking old Pluto, who had come with him to the party. Specht now poured out another glass for Pix, and laid it down beside him. Pix quaffed it in silence; Specht refilled it, and began in a free-and-easy tone--"Now, Pix, what do you think of the pumpkins?"

"It is a crazy idea," said Pix.

Specht turned away much hurt, but he soon returned to the charge. "You will grant, Pix, that men may hold different opinions on many subjects, and yet need not be enemies."

"I grant that."

"Why, then, are you my enemy? Why do you think meanly of me? It is hard to live on bad terms with one's colleagues. I will not conceal that I esteem you, and that your conduct pains me. You have refused me satisfaction, and yet you are angry with me."

"Don't heat yourself," said Pix; "I have refused you no satisfaction, and I am not angry with you."

"Will you prove this to these gentlemen?" cried Specht, much pleased; "will you hob-nob with me?"

"Come, now," said Pix, good-humoredly, "I have no wish to quarrel; I only say this pumpkin notion was a crazy one."

"But it is my notion still," cried Specht, withdrawing his glass; "I water them with bullock's blood, and in a few weeks they will be green."

"No," said Pix; "that is over forever, as you will see yourself to-morrow morning. And now come here and hob-nob with me, and pumpkins shall never be spoken of between us any more."

Specht hob-nobbed with all his heart, and became exceedingly cheerful. The weight that had long oppressed him had fallen off. He sang, he shook all his colleagues by the hand, and dealt more largely than ever in bold assertions.

As Anton went down stairs with the others, he remarked that Pluto was carrying something yellow in his mouth, and gnawing it eagerly.

"It is Specht's pumpkin," said Pix; "the dog has taken it for a piece of beef, and bitten it to pieces."

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Chapter XXIV

Anton stood by the sick-bed of his friend Bernhard, and looked with sincere sympathy at his wasted form. The young student's face was more furrowed than ever, his complexion was transparent as wax, his long hair hung in disorder around his damp brow, and his eyes shone with feverish excitement.

"All the time you have been away," said he, sadly, "I have been longing for you; now that you are returned, I shall be better."

"I will often come if our conversation does not excite you too much," replied Anton.

"No," said Bernhard, "I will merely listen, and you shall tell me about your travels."

Anton began his recital: "I have seen of late what we have both of us often wished to see--foreign scenes and a life of adventures. I have found pleasant companionship in other countries, but the result of my experience is that there is no greater happiness than that of living quietly among one's own people. I have met with much that would have delighted you, because it was poetical and soul-stirring, but disappointment was largely mingled with it all."

"It is the same all over the earth," said Bernhard. "When a mighty feeling shakes the heart, and seeks to impel onward, the world stains and tarnishes it, and fair things die, and lofty aims become ridiculous. So it is no better with others than with us."

"That is our old bone of contention," said Anton, cheerily; "are you not converted, you skeptic?"

Bernhard looked down embarrassed. "Perhaps I am, Wohlfart."

"Oh ho!" cried Anton; "and what has brought this change about? Was it some experience of your own? It must have been, I am sure."

"Whatever it was," said Bernhard, with a smile that irradiated his face, "I believe that with us, too, beauty and loveliness are to be found; that with us, too, life can give birth to great passions, holy joys, and bitter griefs; and I believe," continued he, mournfully, "that even with us many sink under the burden of a terrible destiny."

Anton listened anxiously to these words, and remarked that the large eyes of the invalid shone with a sudden inspiration.

"No doubt," said he, "it is as you say, but the fairest and most ennobling thing this life can boast is the triumph of the mind over all external influences. I honor the man who lets neither his passions nor his destiny overpower him, but who, even if he have erred, can tear himself away and regain his liberty."

"But how if it be too late, and if the force of circumstances be stronger than he?"

"I am not willing to believe in such force of circumstances," replied Anton. "I imagine that, however sore pressed a man may be, if he sets himself to work in earnest, he may hew his way out. True, he will bear the scars of such an encounter, but, like a soldier's, there will be honor in them. Or, even if he does not overcome, he can at least fight valiantly, and if conquered at last, he deserves the sympathy of all; but he who yields himself up without resistance, the wind blows such away from the face of the earth."

"No spell will change down into stone, sings the poet," said Bernhard, taking a feather from his pillow and brushing it away. "I have a question to ask you, Wohlfart," said he, after a pause. "Fancy that I am a Christian, and that you are my father-confessor, from whom no secrets must be kept back." Then looking anxiously at the door of the next room, he whispered, "What do you think of my father's business?"

Anton started in amazement, while Bernhard watched him in painful suspense. "I understand little about these matters," continued he; "alas! too little, perhaps. I do not want to know whether he passes for poor or rich; but I ask you, as my friend, what do strangers think of the way in which he makes his money? It is dreadful, and perhaps sinful, that I, his son, should put such a question as this, but an irresistible impulse urges me on. Be honest with me, Wohlfart." He rose in his bed, and, putting his arm round Anton's neck, said in his ear, "Does my father rank with men of your class as an upright man?"

Anton was silent. He could not say what he really thought, and he could not tell a lie. Meanwhile the invalid sank back upon his pillows, and a low groan quivered through the room.

"My dear Bernhard," replied Anton, at length, "before I answer to a son such a question as this, I must know his motive for asking it."

"I ask," said Bernhard, solemnly, "because I am exceedingly uneasy about the good of others, and your answers may spare much misery to many."

"Then," said Anton, "I will answer you. I know of no particular dealing of your father's which is dishonorable in the mercantile sense of the word. I only know that he is numbered among that large class of business men who are not particular in inquiring whether their own profit is purchased at the price of another's loss. Mr. Ehrenthal passes for a clear, keen-sighted man, to whom the good opinion of solid merchants is more indifferent than to a hundred others. He would probably do much that men of higher principle would avoid, but I do not doubt that he would also shrink from what certain other speculators around venture upon."

Again there came a trembling sigh from the invalid, and a painful silence ensued. At last he lifted himself up again, and, placing his lips so near Anton's ear that his burning breath played upon his friend's cheek, he said, "I know that you are acquainted with the Baron Rothsattel. The young lady herself told me so."

"It is as she has said," replied Anton, with difficulty concealing his excitement.

"Do you know any thing of the connection between my father and the baron?"

"But little; only what you have yourself occasionally told me, that your father had money on the baron's estate. But when I was abroad, I heard that a great danger threatened the baron, and I was even authorized to warn him against an intriguer." Bernhard watched Anton's lips in agony. Anton shook his head. "And yet," said he, "it was one who is no stranger in your house. It was your book-keeper Itzig."

"He is a villain," cried Bernhard, eagerly, clenching his thin hand. "He is a man of low nature. From the first day that he entered our house, I felt a loathing of him as of an unclean beast."

"It appears to me," continued Anton, "that Itzig, of whom I knew something in earlier years, is plotting against the baron behind your father's back. The warning I received was so obscure, I hardly knew what to make of it; however, I could but inform the baron of what had been told me."

"That Itzig rules my father," whispered Bernhard. "He is a demon in our family. If my father acts selfishly toward the baron, that man is answerable for it."

Anton soothingly assented. "I must know how matters stand between the baron and my father," continued the invalid. "I must know what is to be done to help that family out of their difficulties. I can help," he went on to say, and again a ray of joy lit up his pale face. "My father loves me. He loves me much. In my present weak state, I have found out how his heart clings to me--when he comes in the evening to my bed, and strokes my forehead; when he sits where you do, Wohlfart, and mournfully looks at me for hours together! Wohlfart, after all, he is my father!" He clasped his hands, and hid his face in the pillows. "You must help me, my friend; you must tell me how to save the baron. I charge you to do this. I myself will speak to my father. I dreaded the hour before, but, after what you have told me, I fear now either that he does not know all, or," added he, in a low murmur, "that he will not tell me all. You yourself must go to the baron."

"You must not forget, Bernhard," replied Anton, "that, even with the best will in the world, it is not permitted us to force ourselves thus into the affairs of others. However good our intentions may be, still I am a stranger to the baron. My interference may seem, both to him and to your father, sheer presumption. I do not say that the step is a useless, but it is a most uncertain one. It would be better that you should first find out the nature of your father's proceedings."

"Go, though, to the baron," implored Bernhard, "and if he remain silent, ask the young lady. I have seen her," continued he; "I have kept it back from you as men will keep their dearest secret; now you shall hear it. I have been more than once on the Rothsattel estate. I know how fair she is, how proud her bearing, how noble her every gesture. When she walks over the grass, she seems the queen of nature; an azure glory shines around her head; wherever she looks, all things bow down before her; her teeth like pearls, her bosom a bed of lilies," whispered he, and sank down on his pillows with folded hands and flashing eyes.

"He too!" cried Anton to himself. "My poor Bernhard, you are delirious!"

Bernhard shook his head. "Since that day," said he, "I know that life is not commonplace, but it is terrible! Will you now consent to speak to the baron and his daughter?"

"I will," said Anton, rising to go. "But I repeat to you that, in doing this, I am taking an important step, which may easily lead to fresh involvements for us both."

"One in my state fears no involvements," said Bernhard; "and as for you," and he cast a searching glance at Anton, "you will be what you have spoken of to me this day, a man who can cut his way through difficulties, and whose business it is, even though wounded, to fight with fate. Me, Anton Wohlfart, me the whirlwind will sweep away."

"Faint-heart," cried Anton, tenderly, "it is your disease that speaks thus. Courage will return with health."

"You hope so?" inquired the invalid, doubtingly. "I do so too, at times; but often I grow faint-hearted, as you say. Yes, I will live, and I will live no longer as of yore. I will try hard to grow stronger. I will not dream so much as I do now, will not fret and excite myself in solitude. I will make trial of the life of a brave and wise man, who gives back every blow that he receives," cried he, with flushed cheeks, and holding out his hand to his friend. Anton bent over him, and left the room.

That evening Ehrenthal went to his son's bedside, as he always did, after having closed the office door and hidden the key in his own room.

"What did the doctor say to you to-day, my Bernhard?"

Bernhard had turned his face to the wall, but he now suddenly flung himself round, and said impetuously, "Father, I have something to speak to you about. Lock the door, that no one may disturb us."

Ehrenthal, in amazement, ran to both doors, locked and bolted them obediently, and then hurried back to his son's bedside.

"What is it that vexes you, my Bernhard?" inquired he, stretching out his hand to feel his son's brow.

Bernhard drew back his head, and his father's hand sank on the bedclothes.

"Sit down there," said the invalid, darkly, "and answer my questions as sincerely as if you were speaking to yourself."

The old man sat down. "Ask, my son, and I will answer you."

"You have told me that you have lent much money to Baron Rothsattel; that you will lend him no more, and that the nobleman will not be able to retain his estate."

"It is as I have said," replied his father, as cautiously as if undergoing a legal examination.

"And what is to become of the baron and of his family?"

Ehrenthal shrugged his shoulders. "He will forfeit his property; and when the day comes that the estate has to be sold, I shall, on account of my money invested therein, bid for it, and I hope I shall be the purchaser. I have a large mortgage on it, which is safe, and a small mortgage besides, which is not worth much."

"Father," cried Bernhard, with a piercing voice, which made Ehrenthal start, "you wish to turn this man's misfortunes to your own profit; you wish to seat yourself in his place. Yes, you drove to the baron's estate, and took me with you, and perhaps you were then planning how to turn his embarrassment to advantage. It is horrible! horrible!" He threw himself back on the pillows and wrung his hands.

Ehrenthal moved restlessly on his seat: "Speak not of matters that you do not understand. Business is for the day; when I come to you in the evenings, then you are not to trouble yourself about my occupations. I will not have you lift up your hands, and cry 'Horrible!'"

"Father!" exclaimed Bernhard, "if you would not see me die with shame and sorrow, you will give up your plan."

"Give up!" cried Ehrenthal, indignantly. "How can I give up my gold? How can I give up the estate about which I have taken thought night and day? How can I give up the greatest stroke of business I have yet carried on? You are a disobedient child, and do grieve me for nothing. What fault of mine was it that I gave the baron my money? He would have it so. What fault is it of mine that I buy the property? I but redeem my money."

"Cursed be every dollar that you have laid out thus! Cursed be the day that this unblessed purpose entered your mind!" continued Bernhard, and he raised his hand threateningly against his father.

"What is this!" cried Ehrenthal, springing up; "what evil thoughts have taken hold of my son's heart, that he should thus speak to his father? What I have done, have I not done it for thee, not for myself--not for my old days? I always thought of thee, and of how thou shouldst be a different man to thy father. I should have the labor and the anxiety, and thou shouldst go from the castle to the garden, book in hand, and back to the castle again, and move to and fro as thou wouldst. The bailiff should take off his cap, and the servants their hats, and they should all say, 'That is our young master, he who walks yonder.'"

"Yes," cried Bernhard, "this is your love: you want to make me partaker in an unrighteous deed. You are mistaken, father. Never will I go out of the castle into the garden, book in hand; rather will I, a poor beggar, beg my bread on the public road, than set my foot on an estate that has been gained by sin."

"Bernhard," cried the old man, wringing his hands in his turn, "thou castest a stone on thy father's heart, and its weight sinks him to the earth."

"And you ruin your son," cried Bernhard, in uncontrolled passion. "See to it for whom you are lying and cheating; for, as sure as there is a heaven above us, it shall never be said that you have done it for your unhappy son."

"My son," wailed the father, "do not smite my heart with your curses. Ever since you were a little lad, carrying your satchel to school, you have been all my pride. I have always allowed you to do your own pleasure. I have bought you books. I have given you more money than you required. I have watched your eyes to read your wishes there. While I was toiling hard all day below, I used to think, 'Because of my pains, my son will rejoice.'" He took the corner of his dressing-gown to wipe his eyes, and tried to recover his composure. And so he sat, a broken-down man, face to face with his son.

Bernhard looked silently at his father's bent head. At last he reached out his hand. "My father!" he gently said.

Ehrenthal instantly seized the proffered hand between his, and holding it fast for fear it should be again withdrawn, he came nearer, kissed and stroked it. "Now thou art my own kind son once more," said he, with emotion; "now thou wilt not speak such wicked words again, or quarrel with me about this baron."

Bernhard snatched his hand away.

"I will not press him; I will have patience about the interest," said Ehrenthal, beseechingly, trying to recover his son's hand.

"Ah! it is useless to speak to him!" cried Bernhard, in deepest distress; "he does not even understand my words."

"I will understand every thing," gasped out Ehrenthal, "if you will only give me back your hand."

"Will you relinquish your plan about the estate?" asked Bernhard.

"Speak not of the estate," besought the old man.

"In vain!" murmured Bernhard, turning away and hiding his face in his hands.

Ehrenthal sat by him annihilated and sighing deeply. "Hear me, my son," said he, at length; "I will see if I can not get him another estate that he can buy with his remaining means. Do you hear me, my son Bernhard?"

"Go!" cried Bernhard, without anger, but with the energy of intense grief. "Go, and leave me alone!"

Ehrenthal rose and left the room, walking up and down vehemently in the next, wringing his hands, and talking to himself. Then he opened the door, approaching Bernhard's bed, and asked, in a piteous voice, "Wilt thou not give me thy hand, my son?" But Bernhard lay silent, with averted face.

It was with a beating heart that Anton, two days later, gave his name to the baron's servant.

"Wohlfart!" cried the baron, and the recollection of the letter returned disagreeably to him; "bring him in." He met Anton's low bow rather coolly. "I am obliged to you," said he, "for a letter lately received, and you must excuse my having, on account of much business on hand, left it unanswered."

"If," began Anton, "I now take the liberty of calling with reference to the same subject, I implore you not to look upon it as intrusive. I come here charged with a message from a friend of mine who feels the most devoted respect for you and your family. He is the son of Ehrenthal the merchant. He himself is prevented from waiting upon you by illness, and therefore implores you, through me, to make use of the influence he possesses with his father. In the event of your thinking it probable that he may be of use, may I request you to communicate your wishes to him?"

The baron listened eagerly. Now, when every thing forsook him upon which he had himself relied, strangers began to interfere with his fate--this Itzig, for instance, and Wohlfart, and now Ehrenthal's son. "I know but little of the young man," said he, with reserve; "I must request you, first of all, to explain to me how I happen to have the honor of exciting such an unusual amount of interest in his mind."

Anton replied with some warmth "Bernhard Ehrenthal has a noble heart, and his life is stainless. Having grown up among his books, he understands little or nothing of his father's business matters, but he is under the impression that the latter is led on by wicked advisers to act the part of an enemy toward you. He has influence over his father--his fine sense of rectitude is much disturbed--and he ardently wishes to hold back a parent from proceedings which he himself considers dishonorable."

Here was help. It was a breath of fresh air piercing through the choking atmosphere of a sick-room; but the fresh air made the patient uncomfortable. These honorable men, so ready to condemn all that did not approve itself to their own sense of honor, had become distressing to the baron. At all events, he would not expose himself to this Wohlfart--the very essence, no doubt, of scrupulous conscientiousness. And, accordingly, he replied with affected cordiality, "My relations to the father of your friend are precisely such as might be facilitated by the kindly intervention of one mutually interested in us both. Whether young Ehrenthal, however, be the proper person, I can not decide. Meanwhile, tell him that I am grateful for his sympathy, and that I purpose calling upon him at his own time to consult him on the subject." Upon which announcement Anton rose, the baron accompanying him to the door, and, wonderful to say, making him a low bow.

It was the result of no accident that, as Anton passed through the ante-chamber, Lenore should enter it. "Mr. Wohlfart!" she cried, with delight, and hurried to him. "Dear young lady!" cried he; and they met as old friends.

They forgot their interval of separation; they were as of old, partners in the dance. Both said how much they had altered since then, and while they said so, all the intervening years dropped off unperceived from each.

"You wear upright collars again," cried Lenore, with a slightly reproachful voice. Anton instantly turned them down.

"Have you got the hood you then wore? It was lined with red silk, and it became you exquisitely."

"My present hood is lined with blue," said Lenore, laughing. "And only think, the little Countess Lara is to be married next week! She and I were talking of you not long ago; and Eugene, too, has written to us about you. How enchanting, that you should have become acquainted with my brother! Come this way, Mr. Wohlfart; I must hear how the time has passed with you." She led him into the drawing-room, and made him sit by her on the sofa, looking at him with those smiling eyes, whose light used formerly to make him so happy. Much in him had changed since then; perhaps another maiden occupied his imagination now; but when he looked upon the mistress of his early youth, the wild, high-spirited girl matured into the noble and graceful woman, all the feelings of the past revived, and he breathed with rapture the perfumed air of the elegant saloon.

"Now that I see you," said Lenore, "it seems to me as if our dancing-lessons had only been yesterday. That was a pleasant time for me too. Since then I have had much sorrow," added she, drooping her head.

Anton lamented this with a fervor which made her look up brightly again.

"What has brought you to my father?" inquired she, at length, in an altered tone.

Anton spoke of Bernhard, of his long sickness, and deep regard for her family, not concealing that she herself was the chief cause of it, which made her look down, and fold the corners of her handkerchief together. "If you can find a way of recommending your father to use Bernhard's influence, do so. I can not get rid of a fear that there is a conspiracy carrying on against him in Ehrenthal's office. Perhaps you will find means of letting Bernhard or me know how we can best be useful."

Lenore looked mournfully in Anton's face, and moved nearer to him. "You are to me like an old friend, and I can trust my sorrows to you. My father conceals the cause of his anxiety from my mother and me, but he is sadly changed the last few years. This factory requires much money, and he is often without any, I am sure. My mother and I pray daily that peace may be restored to us--a happy time like that when I first became acquainted with you. As soon as I can discover any thing, I will write to you," said she, with firm resolve; "and when Eugene comes home on leave, he will seek you out."

Thus Anton left the baron's house, excited by his meeting with his fair friend, and full of anxiety to serve the whole family. At the house door he stumbled upon Ehrenthal, who, in return for his distant bow, called after him to come very soon again to see his son Bernhard.

Ehrenthal had spent a miserable day. He had never, in the whole course of his life, sighed or shaken his head so much before. It was in vain that his wife, Sidonia, asked her daughter, "What ails the man, that he sighs so deeply?" It was in vain that Itzig sought to cheer his master's spirits by drawing glowing pictures of the future. All the dissatisfaction in Ehrenthal's breast exploded against his book-keeper. "It was you who advised me to take these steps against the baron," he screamed at him on the morning after his scene with Bernhard. "Do you know what you are? You are a good for nothing fellow." Itzig shrugged his shoulders, and returned an ironical reply, which made Ehrenthal glad to bury his head in the newspaper. Longer than two days he could not endure the sight of the sorrow of his son, who got visibly worse, and only answered his father in monosyllables. "I must make a sacrifice," said Ehrenthal to himself. "I must give back sleep to his eyes, and put an end to his groaning. I will remember my son; and I will get the baron the Rosmin property, or I will save the money that he has invested in it, without any profit for myself. I shall lose in that way, for I might have arranged with Löwenberg so as to gain more than a thousand dollars. I think this will please my Bernhard." And putting his hat firmly on his head, as if to crush down all rebellious thoughts, he entered the dwelling of his debtor.

The baron received his unexpected visitor with breathless terror. "The warner is scarcely gone when the enemy arrives," thought he. "He is come to require the legal surrender of the mortgage."

But what was his relief when Ehrenthal of his own accord politely requested that he might go to Rosmin on the baron's behalf, and take the necessary steps. "I will employ as my coadjutor a safe man--the Commissary Walter--so that you may see that all is done legally. You will give me authority to bid for the property, and to raise it thus to such a sum as shall insure your mortgage being covered by the purchase-money that some other will pay."

"I know that this will be necessary," said the baron; "but, for God's sake, Ehrenthal, what will be done if the property remains upon our hands!"

Ehrenthal shrugged his shoulders. "You know that I did not persuade you into the mortgage; indeed, I may say, if I remember aright, that I even dissuaded you from it. If you had taken my advice then, you would probably never have bought that mortgage."

"The thing is done, however," returned the baron, irascibly.

"First of all, baron, I must beg you to admit that I am innocent of this matter."

"That is immaterial now."

"It is immaterial to you," said Ehrenthal, "but not to me, and to my honor as a man of business."

"What do you mean by that?" cried the baron, in a tone that made Ehrenthal start. "Do you dare to insinuate that any thing can be immaterial to me about which even your honor is sensitive?"

"Why are you so irritable, baron? I say nothing against your honor God forbid that I should."

"You spoke of it, though," said the unhappy man.

"How can you thus misunderstand an old acquaintance? I only wish for your declaration that I am innocent of the purchase of this mortgage."

"Be it so," cried the baron, stamping.

"Then it is all right. And should a misfortune befall us, and you be obliged to purchase the property, we will see what can be done. It is a bad time to lend money; but still I will advance you a sum in return for a mortgage on the property."

He then proceeded to make arrangements for his departure as the baron's representative, and left him a prey to conflicting emotions.

Was he saved? was he lost? A fear came over him that this mortgage would decide his fate. He resolved to go to Rosmin himself, and not leave matters to Ehrenthal. But then came the painful thought that he must needs repose unlimited trust in this man, lest the man learn to mistrust him, and so he drifted here and there in a sea of dangers. The waves rose and threatened his very life.

That evening Ehrenthal entered his son's sick-room, and placed the newly-executed document on his bed. "Canst thou give me thy hand now?" said he to his son, who looked gloomily before him. "I am to travel for the baron. I am to buy him a new estate. We have settled it all together. Here is his signature authorizing me to act for him. I am to advance him capital; if he is wise, he may again become a man of substance."

Bernhard looked sorrowfully at his father, and shook his head. "That is not enough, my poor father," said he.

"But I am reconciled to the baron, and he has himself confessed that I am not to blame for his misfortunes. Is not that enough, my son?"

"No," said the invalid; "so long as you keep that wicked man Itzig in your office, no joy can shine in on my life."

"He shall go," said Ehrenthal, readily; "he shall go this next quarter, if my son Bernhard wishes it."

"And will you give up the idea of buying the baron's estate for yourself?"

"When it comes to be sold, I will think of what you have said," replied his father. "And now speak no more about the estate; when you are my strong, healthy son again, we will return to the subject."

So saying, he seized the hand which Bernhard delayed giving, held it fast in both his, and sat silently beside him.

If ever in the course of his life Ehrenthal had known satisfaction, it was now, in having brought about this reconciliation with his son.

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