XLII. Tobias Bachhuber (part 2 of 2)

XLII. Tobias Bachhuber (part 2 of 2)

"I should be glad to hear something about that person, for I have latterly begun the study of phrenology; and I hear, dear Professor, that these investigations are much combated. I do not myself feel sure about them. I have examined the head of Rollmaus, and am surprised to see how much the bump of destruction is developed behind his ear, though he is annoyed at every cup-handle the maid servants break. Nevertheless, dear Professor, I find the powers of thought shown upon your brow. The bumps are very large, by which I do not mean to say that they are unbecoming to you. But to return to the fortune-teller. She told the Inspector that he was married, and had two children, and that his wife was dead, and that he wished to take another, who would add two more. This is all correct, for he is again courting. Now, I ask you, how could this person know it?"

"Perhaps she knows the Inspector?" replied the Professor, rummaging among his papers. "I advise you not to confide in her art, and I do not recommend to you the study of phrenology. But now let us know how long you can remain with us. I am obliged to go to the Museum, and hope to find you on my return."

"I can remain a few hours," said Mrs. Rollmaus. "I have three miles to go, but the roads here are better than with us. Although now our highway is being built, and the road commissioners already go along it to the town of Rossau. Only think, dear Ilse, the stone bridge between your estate and the town is already pulled down, but they have put up a temporary one in its stead. For a few hours, then, I beg of you to be satisfied with my company."

The Professor went away; the ladies talked confidentially over the family at home, during which Mrs. Rollmaus could not entirely give up her scientific investigations; for, in the middle of the conversation, she put her fingers on Ilse's temples, and begged permission to feel the crown of her head; whereupon she said, with much delight, "There is much sincerity there, as I should have supposed." She then looked significantly at Ilse. She was loquacious and flippant, but she showed a degree of restraint which Ilse attributed to the strangeness of the place.

After Mrs. Rollmaus had admired the dwelling, criticized the pictures, and felt the texture of the furniture coverings, Ilse pointed to the sun, which was breaking through the clouds, and proposed that they should walk out into the park. Mrs. Rollmaus assented with pleasure, and Ilse had much to do to answer the questions of the excitable lady. Then they came to a part of the grounds which served as a promenade at this hour for the ladies and people of the city. "What a surprise," exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus, suddenly seizing Ilse's arm, "the princely livery." At a turn in the path, the hat of a lackey became visible; the Princess, accompanied by Lady Gottlinde and Prince Victor, came directly towards them. Amidst the respectful greetings of the promenaders, the princely party approached. Ilse stepped aside, and curtsied. The Princess stopped. "We were on the point of calling on you," she began, kindly; "my brother was obliged to leave suddenly; he will have told your father how sorry he was that he could not take any messages from you to your family." She gave a passing look at Mrs. Rollmaus, who was supporting herself with both her hands on her umbrella, bending her head forward, not to lose a syllable that fell from the lips of the princely lady. Ilse mentioned her name.

"A kind friend from the neighborhood of Rossau, who is spending a few days near here."

Mrs. Rollmaus ducked down very low, and, almost unconscious from terror, said: "It is only three miles from here, in Toadville; although, if I may, by your Highness's permission, be graciously allowed to say so, there are no more toads there than in any other respectable place."

"You are taking a walk," said the Princess, to Ilse, "will you accompany me a little way?" She beckoned Ilse to her side, placing herself between her and the lady in waiting. Prince Victor remained behind with Mrs. Rollmaus.

"So toads are not pastured on your estate?" began the Prince.

"No, my gracious ----," replied Mrs. Rollmaus, embarrassed, supporting herself on her umbrella. "I do not really know what is the right title to address you with."

"Prince Victor," replied the young gentleman, carelessly.

"I beg your pardon; but this honorable name does not satisfy me. May I beg to know the other title, similar to what, in the case of pastors, would be expressed by Very Reverend? For to offend princely persons would not be pleasant, and I am not conversant with these forms of address."

"High and honorable lady, you may call me Highness; thus we shall both have our rights."

"It shall be as you command," exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus, delighted.

"You have long known the Professor's wife?"

"From her childhood," explained Mrs. Rollmaus; "I was a friend of her deceased mother, and I can truly say that I have shared both happiness and sorrow with our dear Ilse. Prince Victor, it is impossible for your Highness to know her true heart as well as we do. Latterly, through her learned acquaintances, she has come into another atmosphere; but long before her betrothal it was clear to me that it would be a match."

"Good," said the Prince. "How long do you remain in the neighborhood?"

"Only until the end of the week; for Rollmaus prefers the country to the city, which is not to be wondered at; he has not the inclination for intellectual pursuits by which I am inspired. For this there is more opportunity in the city, although one, even in the country, can make one's observations on heads and other natural objects."

"The weather is changeable; is your carriage closed?" interrupted the Prince.

"It is a britscka, with a leather top to it," replied Mrs. Rollmaus. "I must honestly avow to you that it has been quite an unexpected pleasure to me that this visit has afforded the opportunity of seeing your Highness, for I have heard very much of you."

"I should be very grateful to you," replied the Prince, "if you would kindly tell me what you have heard. I have hitherto believed that my reputation was not by any means so bad as it might be."

"No one, however noble he may be, can escape calumny," exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus, eagerly; "they talk of tricks. I fear your Highness will take it amiss if I mention this gossip."

"Tell me something of it," replied the Prince, "whatever it may be."

"They maintain that your Highness is convivial and lives quite boisterously, and other things which it would be unpleasant for me to repeat."

"Go on," said the Prince, cheerfully.

"That your Highness makes fools of other people."

"That is grievous," replied the Prince. "Is your coachman a courageous man?"

"He is somewhat surly even with Rollmaus, who indulges him much."

"Believe me Mrs. Rollmaus," continued the Prince, "it is a sorrowful business to be a prince. Disquiet from morning to evening. Every one will have something, and no one brings anything except bills. Thus all gaiety is sacrificed, one becomes sad, and slinks about through the bushes. My favorite recreation is a little quiet conversation in the evening with my old nurse and instructress, the widowed Cliquot, and to play a little 'patience.' Then one counts the good works that one has done during the day, sighs that they are so few, and looks for one's boot-jack. We are the victims of our position. If there is anything I envy the Professor's wife, it is her servant Gabriel, a trustworthy man, whom I recommend to your favorable attention."

"I know him," replied Mrs. Rollmaus; "I must acknowledge that the autobiography which you have given me agrees with all that I have discovered from the structure of your Highness's head, so far as your hat does not deprive one of the sight of it, which indeed is very much the case."

"I would be thankful to my cranium," muttered the Prince, "if it would lead everyone to believe my words as easily as you do."

"As long as I live, it will be a pleasure as well as a souvenir to me," continued. Mrs. Rollmaus, with an ambulatory curtsy, "to have been brought by accident to this intimate intercourse with your Highness, the remembrance of which I will, if I may be allowed to say so, recall to myself by your Highness's picture, which I hope may be had in the shops. I shall place myself before it when I am in the singular number, as now my son Karl does with his grammar, and think of past hours."

Prince Victor gave Mrs. Rollmaus a look of friendly benevolence.

"I will never allow you to buy my portrait. I beg permission to send you a copy as a remembrance. It is, unfortunately, not so true as I could wish. The painter has made me too large, and I am not quite content with the costume: it looks like a clergyman's gown. Meanwhile I beg you kindly to imagine it without this superfluity. Has the Chief Inspector Rollmaus good horses? Does he raise them himself?

"Always, your Highness, he is famed for it among the neighbors."

The Prince turned with fresh interest towards the little lady.

"Perhaps one could transact some business with him. I am looking out for some strong saddle-horses. What kind of a man is he to deal with?" he asked, frankly.

"He is a very sharp tradesman," replied Mrs. Rollmaus, hesitatingly, and looking at the Prince with secret pity. "He is considered by his acquaintances as an expert in horses, and--and, if I may say so--is rather knowing."

The Prince pursed up his lips, bringing out a sound almost like a suppressed whistle.

"Then he is very unlike the highly honored lady, and I shall hardly be able to do business with him. Would it not give the Professor's wife pleasure to visit you for a few days in the village of toads?"

"It would be the greatest pleasure to us," exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus, "but the house is empty, and is not furnished, and we must manage as best we can, and the victuals, too, as a rule, are cold."

"Only in case of extreme necessity, I mean."

Meanwhile Ilse was walking by the side of the Princess through the groups of citizens making their obeisances, but her heart was not so light as that of Mrs. Rollmaus. The Princess spoke kindly to her, but upon indifferent subjects, and she turned frequently to the other side to her lady. It was clearly not her wish to enter into more conversation with Ilse than was absolutely necessary. Ilse saw clearly that it was a show of favor before the world; she felt the intention of it, and asked herself secretly why it was necessary, and her pride revolted at this graciousness, which did not come from the heart. The Princess kept Ilse for some time in the most crowded part of the promenade.

"I leave the palace to-day," said the Princess, "and go for a few days or weeks into the country. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of seeing you there."

At parting Prince Victor took off his hat politely, but only said: "The air is becoming sultry."

Ilse brooded over this little incident as she returned with her companion to the Pavilion. She answered the animated questions of Mrs. Rollmaus absent-mindedly, and only gave a half-look at the promenaders, many of whom now took off their hats to her.

Gabriel had prepared some coffee in honor of Mrs. Rollmaus, and had set the table in front of the door. There the ladies sat down. Mrs. Rollmaus looked enchanted at the blooming azaleas, praised the cake of the palace, and still more the princely personages, and chatted away in her best humor, whilst Ilse looked seriously down.

"I have seen some of the princely personages, and I should now like to see the fortune-teller. It is remarkable, dear Ilse, that my valuable connection with the Professor always brings in question the power of soothsaying. It is really not from inconsiderate curiosity that I wish to question this person. It is no object to me to learn about my future. I know sufficiently how this will all be. For to a certain extent we live under natural conditions; first the children come, then they grow up, one becomes older, and if one does not die too young, one lives a little longer. That has never been inscrutable to me, and I do not know what a person could now discover for me. It would, therefore, be some misfortune that would come to pass, and I do not wish to have that prophesied. I wish it only for the sake of instruction, to find out whether such a person knows more than we others. For in our days there are doubts about the powers of soothsaying, and I myself have never had a presentiment, except once, when I had the toothache, and dreamt that I smoked a pipe, which took place and had a nauseous effect; but this cannot be called wonderful."

"Perhaps the fortune-teller knows more than others," replied Ilse, absently, "because she has somehow made herself acquainted with their history."

"I have thought of something," cried Mrs. Rollmaus; "I would ask her about the silver soup-ladle, which, in an inexplicable way, disappeared from our kitchen."

"What will the lady give me if I tell her?" asked a hollow voice.

Mrs. Rollmaus started. At the corner of the house stood a large woman behind the flower-pots; from her shoulders hung a ragged cloak, her head was covered with a dark handkerchief, from under which two flashing eyes were fixed upon the ladies. Mrs. Rollmaus seized Ilse's arm, and cried out, terrified: "There is the fortune-teller herself, dear Ilse. I beg your advice; shall I ask her?"

The woman stepped cautiously from behind the plants, placed herself in front of Ilse, and raised her handkerchief. Ilse rose and looked annoyed on the sharp features of the withered face.

"The gipsy!" she exclaimed, stepping back.

"A tinkering woman!" exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus, displeased; "the secret knowledge of such as she is, is connected with poultry-stealing, and worse things. First they steal and conceal, and then tell where the stolen property is."

The stranger paid no attention to the attack of Mrs. Rollmaus.

"You have hunted my people like the foxes in the wood; the frost has killed them; your watchmen have imprisoned them, and those that still live lie within walls, clinking their chains; I rove alone through the country. Do not think of what was done by the men that night, think only of what I predicted. Has it not come to pass? You look on the stone house opposite, and you see how slowly he comes along the gravel-path, to the room in which the naked boy hangs on the ceiling."

Ilse's countenance changed.

"I do not understand what you mean. Only one thing I see, that you are no stranger here."

"Many years have my feet glided through the snow," continued the gipsy, "since I passed through the doors of these black creatures."

She pointed to the angels holding tulip wreaths.

"Now disease has come upon me."

She stretched out her hand:

"Give to the sick woman of the high road, who once went on the same path that you are now treading."

The color rose in Ilse's cheeks, she gazed fixedly on the beggar woman, and shook her head.

"It is not money that I want from you," continued the gipsy. "Entreat the spirit of this house for me, if he should appear to you. I am weary, and seek rest for my head. Tell him that the strange woman on whom he hung this token," she pointed to her neck, "begs for his help."

Ilse stood motionless; her cheeks glowed and her eyes flashed angrily on the woman.

"What will you give to find your silver again?" asked the beggar, in an altered tone, turning to Mrs. Rollmaus.

"So you are the fortune-teller?" said Mrs. Rollmaus, angrily, "and not a penny will I give you. Any one who examined your head would find a fine organism there. I have often heard such gibberish. Away with you before the police come. One of your people prophesied to my head-maid that she would marry a landed proprietor, and I was obliged to dismiss her, though she had been very useful. She began to attack even Rollmaus himself, although he only laughed at her. Go, we will have nothing to do with you."

"Think of my request," cried the stranger to Ilse. "I shall return."

The gipsy turned away and disappeared behind the house.

"They are scamps," said Mrs. Rollmaus, deeply irritated. "Believe nothing of what they say to you. This one talks worse nonsense than the others. I really believe, dear Ilse, you take to heart what this beggar woman has said."

"She knows this house, she knew well what she says," said Ilse, faintly.

"Naturally," exclaimed Mrs. Rollmaus; "they rove about and peep through all the crevices, they have a good memory for other people's business, but do not remember their own thievish tricks. I have a great suspicion of her as regards my soup-ladle. If this is the famous fortune-teller I am so disgusted as not to care to make any further inquiries. Ah! and you also, I see."

"I know the woman," replied Ilse; "she belongs to the band who stole our children, and wounded the arm of my Felix. Now her uncanny figure comes before me like a spirit, and her dark words excite horror in me. She threatens to return, and terror seizes me lest this woman should once more come upon me unawares. I must away from here."

Ilse hastened into the house, Mrs. Rollmaus followed her, and said, kindly:

"If she comes again, she shall be sent away. The best way of dealing with these prognosticators is to imprison them with bread and water."

Ilse stood in the sitting-room looking timidly about her.

"He who hung the cross upon her was the master of this castle; and when she spoke those wild words to me at the gate of the farm yard, she did not mean my Felix."

"She meant eight shillings, and nothing more," said Mrs. Rollmaus, consolingly.

"How dare she compare my life with hers? How does she know whether the lord of this house attends to my words?"

Mrs. Rollmaus endeavored in vain to tranquilize her, by sensible observations upon the worthlessness of these female vagabonds. Ilse looked down, with her hands folded, and the consolatory speeches of her worthy friend were spoken in vain.

Strange voices were heard in the house; Gabriel opened the door, and announced the Intendant. The old man entered the room officiously and begged to be excused for the interruption.

"My most gracious master has commanded me to inquire whether a strolling woman has been begging here. She has slipped into the castle, obtained access to the Princess, and frightened her, just when her Highness was departing for the country. His Highness wishes to warn you against the stranger--she is a dangerous person."

"She was here," replied Ilse, "and talked wildly; she showed that she knew the house."

The Intendant looked disturbed, as he continued:

"A long time ago, her Highness, the deceased Princess, took compassion on a gipsy girl whose mother had died on the high road. She had the creature instructed, and, as she was amusing, and seemed to promise well, she was at last taken into the castle and employed in small services; but she has badly repaid this generous treatment. At a time of heavy affliction in the castle, this person fell back into the habits of her childhood; she took to stealing, and disappeared. To-day, one of the servants recognized the maiden in this strange woman. His Highness, the gracious Prince, who is ailing, was informed of this by his valet and was much excited by it. Search is being made through all the streets and roads for the stranger."

The old man took leave. Ilse looked gloomily after him; but she said with more composure to Mrs. Rollmaus:

"This accounts for the language of the stroller, which sounded different to that of begging people in general, and it accounts for her wish to receive the pardon of the Prince."

But now Mrs. Rollmaus in her turn became depressed and sad.

"Ah, dear Ilse! if the witch has really lived here among these distinguished people, she may know many things that have happened in this house; for people do not speak well of it, and they say that in former times princely mistresses lived here. The house is not to blame, nor are we; it is only because the Hereditary Prince has gone to your father, and you knew him at the University, that people shake their heads at it; it is idle gossip."

"What gossip?" exclaimed Ilse, in a hoarse voice, seizing the hand of Mrs. Rollmaus.

"They say that you are the cause of the Hereditary Prince coming into our country. We should all rejoice if you were to visit your father before you journey, as was intended; but I really believe, as long as the Prince is there, it would be better for you to remain here, or anywhere else. It is only for the sake of prudence," she continued, soothingly, "and you must not take it to heart."

Ilse stood silent and motionless; Mrs. Rollmaus continuing her comforting words, but Ilse scarcely seemed conscious of them.

It is not safe, Ilse, to teach young princes to use agricultural machines, and to fight duels; the tuition fee will be paid you doubly, and in new coin, as is the custom of the courts.

There was a long and uneasy silence in the room. Ilse looked wildly about; then she took a cane chair, and placed herself opposite to Mrs. Rollmaus, and her fingers flew over her work. "Do not let us talk any more of such calumnies," she said. "What is your son Karl doing? are you satisfied with his progress? and how does he get on with the pianoforte? It would be a good thing for him to understand something about music."

Mrs. Rollmaus recovered her spirits talking over the dances that her son Karl played; she chattered on, and Ilse listened silently, counting over the stitches in her colored wool-work.

The Professor returned, and shortly after the carriage drove up. Mrs. Rollmaus disappeared into the next room to pack up her cap in the band-box, and then took an eloquent leave of her dear friend, the Professor. Her last words to Ilse were:

"It may be long before we meet again; preserve your friendship for me even though I am far from you."

"What is the meaning of these solemn words of parting our neighbor has spoken?" asked the Professor, astonished.

"They mean that we are in a house, to be within the walls of which fills an honest woman with horror and dread," answered Ilse, with flashing eyes; "and they mean that I wish to go away from here, and that it is time for you to take away your wife from unwholesome surroundings."

She told him breathlessly what Mrs. Rollmaus had related, and what the beggar-woman had suggested.

"I am ensnared, Felix," she exclaimed, "by my own fault, I am sorry to say. God knows that in my conduct towards the young Prince I had no thought of bringing your wife into disrepute, but I have been imprudent, and I am suffering for it horribly, horribly! Now I understand the forebodings which have tormented me for weeks past. If you love me take me away quickly from here, the ground burns beneath my feet."

A sharp pang seized the Professor as he saw his wife struggling with agony, bitter enough to stun the strongest soul of woman, and to crush the noblest powers for years.

"It is as repugnant and humiliating to me as to you to look openly upon wickedness. I am ready to do all that I can to deliver you from this trouble. Let us calmly consider how this can be done. You cannot, in such a state of passionate feeling, decide what would be good for you, for your judgment is not unbiased enough to choose your own course. To what old house that a tenant rents or a landlord opens, do not painful recollections attach? Even he who lives a simple life in a strange neighborhood, cannot escape the attacks of idle gossip. Turn away your thoughts from that common woman. It would not become either you or me to depart like fugitives on her account. What have we done, Ilse, to lose our self-respect? There is only one wise method of dealing with the evil work of foolish and perverse accidents, to go forward firmly and to care little for it. Then the dissonance will pass away and perish of itself in the noise of daily life. Those who allow themselves to be disturbed by it, increase it by their own sorrow. Suppose that we were suddenly to leave this house, you would carry away with you the feeling of having left like one who had been conquered, and you would be incessantly pursued by the consciousness of a discordant murmur behind us which would not be silenced."

"You speak coldly and wisely," exclaimed Ilse, deeply incensed; "in spite of what you say, though, you little feel the injury your wife suffers."

"If you now had the self-possession for which I always admired you, you would not allow such unjust complaints to pass your lips," replied her husband, gloomily. "You must know that if I saw you in danger, I would this very hour take you away. Must I now waste words with you to tell you that. But even against the gossip of the weak, this residence is the best defense, for the Prince is away and you remain behind with your husband."

"I know the cause of this indifference," murmured Ilse.

"You know what binds me here," exclaimed the Professor, "and if you were to me what you ought to be, the sharer of my hopes, and if you had the same feeling for the value of the treasure which I seek, you would, like me, feel that I should not needlessly turn away. Bear with this residence, dear Ilse, however irksome it may appear to you," he continued encouragingly, "the longest period is past. I am invited to pursue my quest in the country-chateau of the Princess; there I anticipate that I shall find what will set us free."

"Do not go," exclaimed Ilse, approaching him; "do not leave me in this dreadful insecurity, in a terror that makes me shudder at myself and every strange sound that I hear in these rooms."

"Terror," exclaimed the Professor, displeased, "terror of spirits. Rarely is life among strangers so easy and comfortable as this residence is to us; there may be discord everywhere, and it is our own fault if we allow it to master us."

"Do not go," cried Ilse again. "Yes, there are spirits that pursue me, they hang day and night above my head. Do not go, Felix," she exclaimed, raising her hand; "it is not the manuscript alone that allures you, but the woman who awaits you there. This I have known ever since the first day we came to this town. I see how the magic of her superficial soul ensnares you. I have until to-day struggled against this fear, from the confidence I had in my loved husband. If you go now, Felix, when I would like to cling to you, when I seek every moment for comfort from your voice, I shall begin to doubt you and to have the fearful thought that my trouble is indifferent to you, because you have become cold to me."

"What are you thinking of, Ilse?" cried the scholar, horrified; "is it my wife that speaks thus? when have I ever concealed my feelings from you? and can you not read in my soul as in an open book? Then, was it this that lay so heavy on your mind? Just what I should not have considered possible," he said, frankly and sorrowfully.

"No, no," cried Ilse, beside herself; "I am unjust, I know it; do not attend to my words. I trust you; I cling to you. Oh! Felix, I should be driven to despair if this support breaks under me."

She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed. Her husband embraced her, and tears came into his eyes at the grief of his wife.

"Remain with me, my Felix," continued Ilse, weeping. "Do not leave me alone just now. I have still a childish, simple heart. Have patience with me. I have been ill at ease here; I do not know why. I cling to you, and I tremble lest you should be alienated from me. I know that you are mine, and I struggle with the fearful foreboding that I shall lose you here. When you go out of the house, it seems to me as if I must take an eternal farewell, and when you return, I look doubtfully at you, as if you had changed towards me in a few hours. I am unhappy, Felix, and unhappiness makes one distrustful. I have become weak and faint-hearted, and I am afraid of telling you, because I fear that you will on that account have less respect for me. Remain here, my beloved; do not go to the Princess--at least, not to-morrow."

"If not to-morrow," he said, cheerfully, "then the next day, or some other day. I cannot forego this short journey. To give it up would be a wrong that we must not take upon ourselves. The longer I delay. Ilse, the longer you will be kept within these walls. Even from your point of view, is it not prudent to do quickly what would make us free?"

Ilse released herself from his embrace.

"You speak sensibly at a moment when I had hoped for a far different tone from your heart," she said quietly. "I know, Felix, that you do not wish to give me pain, and I hope that you are true in what you now say, and conceal nothing from me. But I feel in the depths of my heart a long-accustomed pang that has often come over me in sorrowful days since I have known you. You think differently from what I do, and you feel differently in many things. The individual and his sufferings signify little to you in comparison to the great thoughts that you carry about with you. You stand on a height, in a clear atmosphere, and have no sympathy with the anguish and trouble in the valley at your feet. Clear is the air, but cold, and a chill seizes me, when I see it."

"It is the nature of a man," said the Professor, more deeply moved by the restrained grief of his wife than by her loud complaints.

"No," answered Ilse, gazing fixedly before her, "it is only the nature of a scholar."

In the night, when the scholar had been long sleeping, his wife rose by his side and gazed, in the subdued light, on the countenance of her loved husband. She got up, and held the night-lamp so that the yellow light fell on his peaceful countenance, and large tears dropped from her eyes on his head. Then she placed herself before him, wringing her hands, and striving to restrain the weeping and convulsions which shook her body.

CHAPTER XXXV.

IN THE PRINCESS'S TOWER.

When the Princess, at the urgent desire of her father, had returned to her home, the illustrious family whose name she now bore made it a condition, not only that she should pass some months of the year at the residence of her deceased husband, but that she should have a special establishment arranged for her in her father's capital. A compact to this effect was concluded, the object of which was undoubtedly to secure to the young Princess a certain degree of independence. In order to fulfil the agreement in appearance, a princely castle in the country was assigned to the Princess for a dwelling, as there was no suitable building in the capital. The castle was half a day's journey from the city, at the foot of a woody hill, surrounded by fields and villages--a pleasant summer residence. The Princess had already spent some of the months of her mourning there.

It was a warm day on which the Professor set off to go to the castle. The air had not yet become cool after the storm of the night. There were fleeting shadows and bright sunshine on the sky and earth; the thick clouds sometimes cast a grey covering over the straight road along which the learned man passed; but then again it lay before him like a golden path, leading to the longed-for goal.

Thus did dazzling light and dark shadows flit through the soul of our scholar. "The manuscript will be found; it is concealed from us," he said to himself, and his brow became clouded. "If it should not be found, many will read with astonishment how deceptive appearances were, how near the possibility. Many will with regret resign the hope which the words of the monk had inspired, yet none will feel this regret so much as I shall. A thought which has for years occupied my fancy, and directed my eyes to one object, has gained the mastery over me. The free mind of man plays with the thousand impressions of ancient and modern times: he restrains their power by the balance of his reason and strength of his will. But with me a small image of the faded characters of an old book has penetrated so deeply into my soul that the hope of obtaining it makes the blood course through my veins, and the fear of losing it paralyzes my energies. I know that my eagerness is too great; it has hardened me against the childish anguish of my wife, and I myself have not become stronger since I have trodden the uncertain path of the poacher. Every one should be on his guard lest his dreams should diminish the sovereignty of his mind. Even the dreams of the best hours, when a soul innocently devotes itself to a great feeling, may turn a man away from the straight path of duty, that lies nearest to him."

A golden light broke over his countenance. "But if it is found! It is only a small portion of our knowledge of ancient times that lies concealed in it. And yet it is just this discovery that would pour a flood of light upon a landscape hovering in twilight, and several decades of ancient life would become visible to our eyes with as distinct an outline as if they lay in a nearer past. The discovery would solve a hundred doubts, and excite a thousand new ones. Every later generation would rejoice in the great gain, and would seek, with revived energy, for new disclosures. Even for her, who at the castle shares so warm-heartedly in my anxieties, I wish the pleasure of this discovery. To her also it would be forever a great remembrance, that she had taken a kindly interest in the first labors of the searcher."

Higher rose the mountains and more brilliant became the coloring of their masses. The line of hills in the foreground stood forth from the misty distance; blue glimpses of the valley were visible through the openings of the dark wood. The carriage rolled through a well-preserved forest; a thick growth of firs and pines shut out the prospect for a time; when the road led again into the open country, through grassy meadows and groups of trees, the castle lay straight before the eyes of the scholar. A massive, old-fashioned tower crowned with pinnacles rose out of a low wood; the afternoon sun shone above, its rays forming long streaks in the vaporous atmosphere. The brown walls stood out in the lonely landscape, like the last pillar of a gigantic ruined castle; only by the fresh-looking stone mullions of the well-fitted windows did one perceive that it was a habitable abode. Adjoining the tower rose the small chateau, with steeply-sloped roof and pointed windows; in its moderate dimensions it formed a strange contrast to its massive companion; but in spite of the disproportion of the parts the whole formed a stately relic of the middle ages. One could well see that its walls had afforded shelter and defense to many generations.

The tendrils of the wild vine twined up to the roof of the house and round the windows of the tower, which rose in seven stories, supported by strong buttresses. Thyme and grass grew above in the crevices of the crumbling stone, but the grass which a few days ago had covered the ground had been pulled up and the court and doors festively adorned for the new occupants. Banks of flowers and plants in pots were placed around in profusion. There was only one corner in which the hasty work had not been finished, and the remains of mossy green on the ground, and a swarm of blackbirds that fluttered round the tower, showed that the building had stood uninhabited in a lonely country.

The Professor sprang from the carriage, the Marshal greeted him from the balustrade, and led him into the unpretentious guest-chamber. Shortly after he conducted him through a vaulted passage of the castle to the tower. The Princess, who had just returned from a walk, was standing, with her summer hat in her hand, at the entrance of the tower.

"Welcome to my Solitude," she said; "happy be the hour in which this old mansion opens its doors to you. Here you stand at the entrance of my realm. I have made myself at home in almost every part of the tower; it is our female fortress. When these solid oak doors are closed we ladies can found an Amazonian kingdom, and without danger fire fir-cones upon the whole male world, for this is the fruit that flourishes best here. Come, Mr. Werner, I will take you to the place where your thoughts linger more willingly than with children of the present."

A winding stone staircase connected the stories of the tower, each of which contained rooms and closets; the highest was a loft. The Princess pointed mysteriously to the staircase.

"Yonder at the top, below the rafters," said the Princess to the Professor, "the whole space is crammed with old household furniture. I could not restrain my curiosity, so yesterday I just peeped into the room; the things lie heaped up in wild confusion; we shall have much work."

The Professor examined with pleasure the well-preserved stone-work of the arched doors and the artistic work of the old-time lock-smith. Little had been done in modern times to make the walls look respectable or to repair damage; but any one who took interest in the chisel and carving tools of the old builders, might perceive everywhere with pleasure that the tower could easily be changed into a masterpiece of ancient style.

The servant opened the door into the Princess's rooms. These also were simply arranged. The broken painted glass of the small window had been repaired with panes coarsely painted; only fragments of the old pictures still adhered to the lead.

"There is still much to be done here," explained the Princess; "and we shall gradually have everything arranged within the next few years."

The clatter of the Castellan's keys were heard in the anteroom, and the Professor turned towards the door.

"One moment's patience," cried the Princess, and she flew into an adjoining room. She returned in a grey cloak with a hood, which enveloped her in its folds, only the delicate face, the large beaming eyes, and smiling mouth being visible.

"It is only in this gnome costume that I venture to approach the dusty spirits of the lumber-room."

They ascended to the highest story. While the Castellan was picking out the key from the bunch, the Professor eagerly examined the door, and remarked, "More beautiful mouldings by your old lock-smith."

"I have hopes," said the Princess.

"Everything looks that way," replied the learned man.

The heavy door creaked on its hinges, and a large room presented itself to the eyes of the searchers. A bright light shone through the narrow openings in the wall upon the mysterious apartment; atoms of dust were seen whirling about in the straight, shafts of air, while before and beyond all was confusion wrapt in semidarkness. Old furniture was piled up in hopeless confusion; gigantic wardrobes with broken doors, heavy tables with balls for feet, chairs with straight backs and leather cushions, from which the horsehair bristled out; together with fragments of old weapons, halberds, corroded greaves, and rusty helmets. Indistinct and vague, the forms appeared among each other: legs of chairs, flat pieces of wood with inlaid work, and heaps of old iron lying all around. It was a chaos of frippery, the artistic products of many centuries. Their hand touched the table at which a contemporary of Luther had sat; their foot pushed against a chest which had been broken open by Croats and Swede; or against the white lacquered chair, with moth-eaten velvet cushions, on which a court lady had once sat, in a hoop dress, with powdered hair. Now all lay together in desolate heaps, the cast-off husks of former generations, half destroyed and quite forgotten; empty chrysales, from which the butterflies had flown. All were covered with a grey shroud of dust--the last ashes of vanished life. What once had form and body, now, crushed into powder, whirled about in the air; clouds of dust opposed the entrance of those who came to disturb its possession; it hung to the hair and clothes of the living intruders, and glided slowly through the open door to the rooms, where varied colors and brilliant ornament surrounded the inmates, in order there to carry on the endless struggle of the past with the present--the quiet struggle that is daily renewed in great and small things which makes new things old, and finally dissolves the old in order that it may help to nourish the germ of youthful life.

The Professor glanced like a hawk amidst the legs of tables and chairs in the dusky background.

"Some things have lately been removed from here," he said; "there has been some sweeping among the furniture in the front."

"I yesterday endeavored to clean a little," said the Castellan, "because your Highness expressed a wish to enter here; but we have not gone far."

"Have you ever formerly examined the furniture in this room?" asked the Professor.

"No," replied the man. "I was only placed here last year by his Highness the Sovereign."

"Is there any catalogue of the things?" said the Professor.

The man said there was not.

"Do you know if there are chests or trunks here?"

"I think I have observed something of the kind," replied the Castellan.

"Fetch the workmen to move the things," ordered the Princess. "To-day every part of this attic shall be examined."

The Castellan hastened down. The Professor endeavored again to peep among the piled-up masses, but the glaring light from above dazzled his eyes. He looked at the princely child; she was standing in a costume of bright color at the door, like the fairy of the castle, who has ascended into the dwelling of the grey-bearded spirits of the house in order to accept their homage.

"It will be a long work, and your Highness will not like the dragging about of the dusty furniture."

"I will remain with you," exclaimed the Princess; "however contemptibly small may be my share in the discovery, I will not give it up."

Both were silent. The scholar moved about impatiently among the chairs. Moths fluttered in the clouds of dusty and a brown martin flew out from the nest which it had built in a corner of the window. All was still; there was no sound but a slight regular tapping, like a pendulum striking the hour, in the desolate room.

"That is the death-watch," whispered the Princess.

"The wood-worm is doing its work in the service of nature, it dissolves what is decayed, into its elements."

The sound ceased, but after a time began to tick again, then a second; they tapped and gnawed incessantly, down, down, and further down! Over the heads of the searchers the jackdaws were croaking, and further off the song of the nightingale sounded softly upon the labor of those who were unearthing the past.

The workmen came; they brought one article after another to the front of the room. Thicker rose the discoloring dust; the Princess took refuge in the anteroom, but the Professor did not leave his post. He worked hard himself, raising and arranging things in the front row. He went back for a moment to the door to take breath, the Princess received him laughing.

"You have undergone a complete transformation. You look as if you had been awaiting resurrection in this room, and I do not think I look much better."

"I see a chest," said the Professor, and hastened back. Another confused medley of chairs' legs and backs were lifted away, and the workmen laid hold of a little chest which stood in the dark. "Set it down," ordered the Castellan, who quickly passed a large brush over it. It was carried to the light and appeared to be a trunk of pine wood with an arched top; the oil color of the paint had disappeared in many places. There were iron clamps at the corners, and a rusty key that held fast the staple of the lock, but hung loosely in the wood. On the cover of the chest, which was dusty and worn, a black '2' was visible. The Professor had the chest put at the feet of the Princess. He pointed to the cipher.

"This is probably one of the chests that the official of Rossau sent to the castle Solitude," he said, with assumed composure, but his voice trembled.

The Princess knelt down and endeavored to raise the cover, the lock broke away from the wood, and the chest opened.

Above lay a thick book, bound in parchment. Quickly the Professor pounced upon it, like a lion on his prey, but he laid it down again immediately. It was an old missal, written on parchment, the cover damaged and torn, the layers of parchment hung loosely in the book. He put his hand again in the chest, a torn hunting net filled the remaining space; beside that some damaged cross-bows, a bundle of arrows, and small iron-work. He raised himself, his cheeks were pale, his eyes glowed.

"This is No. 2, where is No. 1," he exclaimed. He hurried back into the room, the Princess followed. "Forward, men," he cried out, "fetch the other trunk."

The men continued their work.

"There is something here," said one of the workmen; the Professor hastened to the spot, raised and drew it out, it was only an empty chest.

The work went on. The Marshal also had been brought here by curiosity; he eagerly viewed the old furniture, and caused those pieces to be placed together, which, according to his idea, might be mended and used in the castle. The staircase was filled with household goods, and one of the servants' rooms was opened that the old things might be deposited in it. An hour had passed, the room became more empty, the sun was sinking, its rays reflected the image of the opening in the wall on the opposite side; the other chest was not to be found.

"Remove everything," said the Professor, "even to the last piece of wood."

A heap of old lances, broken glasses and pottery were fetched out of the corner, also broken legs of tables, split pieces of veneered wood, and in the corner a great pewter tankard:--the space was clear. On the floor lay gnawed pieces on which the death-watch had already done its work.

The Professor entered the door again.

"This room is cleared," he said, with forced composure, to the Castellan. "Open the next room."

"I do not believe that you will find anything in it," replied the weary man. "You will only find old shelves and stoves there that formerly stood in the castle."

"Let us go in," said the Professor.

The Castellan opened the door hesitatingly; a second room, still larger and less inviting, came to view; sooty earthen pans, bricks, and slabs of slate, lay mountain-high at the entrance, and over these were wooden tools that probably had been used in the last repairs of the castle.

"I am glad to see this," said the Marshal; "such a load on the upper story is wrong. This lumber must be taken out of the tower."

The Professor had ascended a hill of slate slabs, and was seeking in the darkness for another trunk, but the chaos was too great.

"I will have it cleared out immediately," said the Marshal, consolingly, "but it may take a long time; we shall hardly get through to-day."

The Professor looked imploringly at the Princess.

"Get more people," she commanded.

"Even with that it will soon be dark," replied the Marshal, prudently. "We shall see how far we can get. At all events the Professor may betimes to-morrow find the entrance prepared."

"Meanwhile let us shake the dust from our clothes," said the Princess, "and come into my library; it lies just under us, you can there overlook the work of the people who are clearing away. The chest shall be conveyed into my library. I will take it with me, and shall expect you."

Two men carried No. 2 into the library, and the Professor went unwilling to his room to dress.

The Princess walked about the room where the old chest had been placed, awaiting the return of the scholar. With a heavy heart she looked forward to meeting him; she concealed in her soul a wish and a commission. The Sovereign had taken leave of her this time with more kindness than he had done for years; before her departure, he had led her into a side room and spoken to her about Werner.

"You know that one cannot leave too much to honest Bergau; I should be glad if you will also do your best to keep the learned man with us. I have got accustomed to him in this short time and would unwillingly miss his enlivening society. But I do not think of myself alone. I am becoming old, and such a man would be of the greatest value to your brother for his whole life--a man in full vigor, who is always collected and calm in the midst of our distracting doings: I therefore wish this intimacy to be preserved and increased for you both: for you also, Sidonie. I have seen with especial satisfaction how enthusiastically you enter into the studies of our learned men. Your mind will not be sufficiently interested with the twittering of the well-mannered birds who surround us; some assistance from a talented person will open to you a nobler conception of the world. Endeavor to gain this man: every kind of burdensome duty shall be spared to him; what now makes his position uncertain shall be removed as soon as he is installed with us. I do not insist upon your speaking to him, I only wish it; and I wish you to believe that in this also I am thinking of your future."

Without doubt this was the case.

The Princess had listened to the words of her father with the quiet criticism that was customary between such near relations. But the words of the Sovereign on this occasion met with such an echo in her soul, that she expressed her willingness to speak to Mr. Werner.

"If you undertake this," the Sovereign said, in conclusion, "you must not do it by halves. Employ all the mild influence that you can exercise over him, obtain his square word and promise for whatever he is inclined to accede to."

The Princess now thought over these words with disquietude. Ah! she would gladly have conveyed to the heart of this much valued man the wishes of her own, but she felt annoyed and perplexed that her secret feelings should be made subservient to the will of another.

The Professor entered the library of the Princess; he gave a glance at the casts and books which were lying about, just unpacked and unarranged, and began:

"When one's hopes have been so much raised, it is difficult to bear suspense. One cannot help laughing over the mocking accident which brings us in contact with a monk whose work is of no value, and withholds from us that of the other which is of immeasurable importance."

The Princess pointed with her hand to the door: outside were heard the steps of people carrying something.

"Only have a little patience; if there is nothing more to-day there may be to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" exclaimed the Professor; "a whole night lies between. Meanwhile the worm gnaws incessantly, and all the powers of destruction are at work. Numberless are the possibilities that separate us from our hope: that acquisition alone is certain which we have in our hands."

He examined the chest.

"It is much smaller than I imagined. By what accident did the missal lie in it? It is not even certain whence it came, and it is still very doubtful what may lie concealed in the other chest."

The Princess raised the top.

"Let us meanwhile pay attention to the little we have found."

She took up the parchment volume, and put it in the hands of the learned man. Some leaves slipped out; the Professor caught hold of them; his eyes contracted, he jumped up and hastened to the window.

"These leaves do not belong to it," he said, reading them. At last he exclaimed: "A piece of the manuscript is found."

He held out the leaves to the Princess; his hand trembled, and the agitation of his countenance was such that he was obliged to turn away. He hastened to the table and searched the missal, opening it leaf by leaf, from beginning to end. The Princess held the leaves in her hand in eager expectation, and approached him. As he looked up he saw two large eyes fixed on him with tender sympathy. Again he seized the two leaves, "What I have here, he cried, is both valuable and discouraging; one could almost weep that it is not more; it is a fragment out of the sixth book of the annals of Tacitus, that we already possess in another manuscript. These are two leaves of a parchment volume, but between them many are lost. The writing is well preserved--better than I should have expected. It is written by a German, in the characters of the twelfth century."

"He looked quickly over the contents in the light of the setting sun. The Princess glanced over his shoulder curiously at the thick letters of the monk's hand.

"It is correct," he proceeded, more calmly, "the discovery is of the greatest interest. It will be instructive to compare this manuscript with the only one extant." He looked at it again. "If it is a copy," he murmured, "perhaps both indicate a common source. Thus the manuscript that we are seeking must be torn; these leaves have fallen out, and perhaps during the packing up have been shoved into a wrong book. There is much still that is mysterious; but the main fact appears to me certain, that we have here a remnant of the manuscript of Rossau, and this discovery ought to be a guarantee that the remainder is at hand. But how much of it?" he continued, gloomily, "and in what condition will it be?"

He again listened anxiously to the steps of the men who were clearing away in the loft. He rushed out of the room up the stairs, but returned in a few minutes.

"The work goes on slowly," he said; "as yet there is nothing to be seen."

"I do not know whether to wish that it should go on quickly," exclaimed the Princess, cheerfully; but her eyes gave the lie to her smiling mouth. "You must know that I am very selfish in helping you to find the manuscript. As long as you are searching you belong to us. When you have obtained the treasure, you will withdraw yourself into your invisible world, and the retrospect alone will remain to us. I have a mind to close the remaining rooms of the house, and only to open one to you each year, until you have become quite at home with us."

"That would be cruel not to me alone," replied the Professor.

The Princess stepped up to him. "I do not speak mere empty words," she said, in a changed tone. "My father wishes you to make your home with us. Bergau is commissioned to enter into business arrangements, but they are not of the nature to determine your decision. Yet when I express the same wish, that you should remain with us, I do it from my own heart."

"This demand upon me is very unexpected," answered the learned man, with astonishment. "My custom is to weigh such proposals calmly, and from different points of view. I therefore beg your Highness not to require an answer."

"I cannot let you off," exclaimed the Princess. "I should like to gain you in my own way. You shall choose your office and occupation here as freely as is compatible with our different relations: you shall have every kind of distinction, and every wish that it is in the power of the Sovereign to satisfy shall be fulfilled."

"I am a teacher in the University," replied the Professor. "I teach with pleasure, and not without success. My whole nature and the course of my education fit me for this vocation. The rights and duties which enclose my life have a firm hold on me. I have pupils, and I am engrossed with the work in which I wish them to partake."

"You will never find pupils that will be more truly devoted, or cling more warmly to you, than my brother and myself."

"I am not a tutor who can for any length of time oversee the duties of a prince; I am accustomed to the rigid method of the professor, and to quiet labor among my books."

"This last part of your occupation, at least, will not be lost to the world by your remaining here. This is just the place where you would find leisure, perhaps more than among your students."

"This new life would bring me new duties," replied the Professor, "which I should feel called upon to fulfill. It would occasion me also distractions to which I am not accustomed. You invite a man whom you regard as firm. True, in his own circle of life, that character he possesses; but you have no surety that in another sphere of life he will continue to be so. Do not believe that under changed circumstances I shall retain the repose and calmness of effort that the mind of a worker needs; and my dissatisfaction at inner disturbances would certainly make itself felt upon those about me. But even if I could hope for all regarding my home and my private relations that would make life satisfactory to me, I must still take into consideration where I can personally be most useful; and I am not at present convinced that this would be the case here."

The Princess looked down sadly. The steps of the men who were to free the manuscript from the piles of rubbish still continued to sound above.

"Yet," continued the Professor, "if we were to be fortunate enough to find the manuscript, many days, perhaps many years of my life would be taken up by a new task, which would be so great that I might find my University occupations a burden. Then I should have a right to ask myself, in what surroundings I should best be able to advance this work. In this case, I should also have a right to leave the University for a long time. But if I do not find it, it will be painful to me to part from here, for my soul will long hover restlessly about this place."

"I will not let you off so easily," cried the Princess. "I hear only the words, duty and manuscript. Is the liking that we show to you, then, of no value to you? Forget, now, that I am a woman, and consider me as a warm-hearted boy, who looks up to you devotedly, and is not quite unworthy of your interest."

The Professor looked at the student who stood before him and did not wish to be considered a woman. The Princess had never looked so attractive. He gazed on the blushing cheeks, on the eyes which were fastened so expressively on his countenance, and on the rosy lips which trembled with inward emotion. "My pupils generally look different from that," he said, softly, "and they are accustomed to criticize their teacher more stringently."

"Be content for once," said the Princess, "with finding pure admiration in a susceptible soul. I have before said how much I value your acquaintance. I am no empress who governs a kingdom, and do not wish to employ your powers in my interest. But I should consider it the highest happiness to be in intimate relations with your mind, to listen to the noble words you utter. I feel a longing to look upon life with the clear eyes of a man. You have easily, as if in play, solved riddles that have tormented me, and answered questions with which I have struggled for years. Mr. Werner, you have taken a kind interest in me; if you go from here, I shall find myself alone in those pursuits with which I should most prefer being occupied. If I were a man I should seek you as my teacher; but I am fettered here, and, I beckon you to me."

The learned man listened, entranced, to the soft voice that spoke so persuasively.

"I do not beg for myself alone," continued the Princess, "my brother also needs a friend. It will be his task to take charge of the welfare of many. What you could do for his mind would be for the benefit of others. When I look away from the present, and dream of the future of our princely house and of this country, I feel proud that we, brother and sister, have a presage of what will be demanded in our time from princes, and I feel an ambition that we should both, before all others, show ourselves worthy of this high calling. I hope to see a new life developed in my home, and my brother and myself surrounded by the best minds of our nation. Thus we should live sensibly and earnestly together, as our times require; it should be no pleasure-loving Court after the old style, but a hearty intercourse between the Sovereign and the mind of the nation. That will make us freer and better in ourselves, and will be an advantage to the whole people; it will also be a bright remembrance for future times. When I think of such a future, then, Mr. Werner, I see you as the dear companion of our life, and the thought makes me proud and happy."

The sun was setting, and its last rays fell glowing upon the Princess and the head of the scholar. Sweetly sounded the song of the nightingale among the elder-bushes; the Professor stood silent opposite the beautiful woman who painted life to him in such rosy colors; his heart beat and his strength failed him. He saw before him two eloquent eyes, and the sound of the entreating words, "Remain with us," rang with entrancing magic once more in his ear.

Something rustled near the Princess; the leaves of the manuscript which she had taken fell to the ground. The Professor bent down to pick them up, and as he raised himself again began, in a feeble tone:

"Your Highness takes a bright look into the future; my eye is accustomed only to read single lines in the history of past ages. Here lies my first task; my dreams hover about these leaves. I am only a man of the study, and I should become less were I to endeavor to become more. I know that I deprive myself of much, and in this hour, when a vision of a brilliant life shines before me so invitingly, I feel this more deeply than ever. But my greatest happiness must be, from within quiet walls, to impress upon the souls of others what will there blossom and bear fruit. My greatest reward must also be that in hours of triumph, when filled with the consciousness of power, some pupil of mine will give a fleeting thought to the far-distant teacher, who has been but one among the thousands that have formed him, but one among the many sowers in the limitless fields of science."

Thus spoke the scholar. But while speaking, with a severe struggle for composure, what was true and honorable, he did not think only of the truth, nor only of the treasure which he was seeking, but of the greater one which he had left in order to pursue his quest with the beautiful fairy of the tower. He heard the beseeching words, "Do not go, Felix," and they were a timely warning. "When I return to her, will she be contented with me?" thought the innocent man. He was spared the necessity of asking the question.

The rolling of a carriage was heard below, and the steps of the servant who was coming to announce an arrival.

"Is your will so inflexible, your intention so firm!" exclaimed the Princess, passionately. "But I am also obstinate; I shall continue my entreaties. War between us two, Mr. Werner! Farewell, till evening."

She hastened down the steps. The evening light disappeared behind dark clouds; the mist hovered over the meadows and hung on the tops of the trees; and the daws flew croaking round the walls of the tower. The door of the room above creaked on its hinges, and the Castellan rattled his keys, while the scholar looked lovingly at the leaves which he held in his hand.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

ILSE'S FLIGHT.

Ilse was awakened by her husband's parting kiss; she sat at her bed-side and listened to the sound of the rolling wheels.

"This has been a fearful night," she said; "after tears and anguish there came bad dreams. I was hanging over a precipice; from the depth below, concealed by fogy arose the noise of a waterfall. Felix standing above, held me by a handkerchief; his strength was giving way; I felt that, but I had no anxiety about it in my dream. I wished that Felix would let me go, and not sink with me. Pass away in peace, my dream, to thy portals of ivory; thou wast a good dream, and I have no cause to be ashamed of thee.

"He is on his journey, and I am alone. No, my Felix, you are with me, even when I do not hear your voice. Yesterday I was angry with you; I am sorry for it. I bear you within me, just as you have taught me, that the soul of man passes into and rests in others. That part of Felix which I preserve within me I will keep honorably, and quietly cherish in this hateful house."

She opened the curtains.

"It will be a gloomy day again; the finches are already sitting at the window, crying for the dilatory woman who has slept beyond the breakfast hour of her little ones. Outside all is in bloom, and the large leaves of the Schubart-plant blow about joyously in the moist air. But this rain will be more than my father likes; the seed will suffer. The good God cannot please us all at the same time; we are indeed covetous.

"At home they gossip about me; my neighbor did not say the worst that she knew. I have not been used to this. When I became the wife of my Felix I thought myself raised above all the meanness of the world, but I now feel its sting in my soul."

She passed her hand over her eyes.

"No tears to-day?" she cried springing up. "When my thoughts course wildly through my brain I will prove to myself that I have something of the scholar's character in me, and will calmly look into my own heart and quiet its beatings by prudent reflection. When he first came to our house, and the noble spirit of his conversation aroused me, his image pursued me into my room. I took a book, but I did not know what I read; I took up my accounts, but I could not put two and two together; I observed that all was confusion within me. Yet it was wrong to think thus about a man who was still a stranger to me. Then in my anguish I went into the nursery, tidied all my brother's and sister's things, and saw whether the boy's clothes needed mending. I was then a regular home body. Ah, I am so still; I hope it will help me now. I will put all my things together for I feel as if I should take a journey to-day, and that it will be well to have all prepared."

She opened the closet, drew out her trunk, and packed it.

"But where to?" she asked herself. "Far away? How long it is since I had wings like a swallow, and could gaily fly with my thoughts into foreign parts! And now the wings of the poor little swallow are broken. I sit alone on my branch; I would gladly conceal myself in the leaves, and I dread the fluttering and the chattering of my neighbors."

She supported her weary head with her hands.

"Where should I go to?" she sighed; "not to my father; nor could I now look with pleasure on mountains and old monuments. How can one have a heart for the forms of nature and the achievements of past nations when one's own life is racked and disturbed?

"My Felix said that one should always consider oneself the child of the whole human race, and be elevated by the high thought that millions of the dead and living are united to us in an indissoluble unity. But who of those who were and are about me will relieve my tormented soul of the pangs that constantly trouble me? Who will deliver me from dissatisfaction with myself and from fear about the future? Ah me! It may be a teaching to inspire man in hours of exaltation, when calmly contemplating all about him, but for him who is writhing in torment and affliction, the teaching is too high, too high!"

She took from the shelf her little Bible, which had been given her by the good Pastor on her departure from her father's house, and drew it out of its cover. "I have long neglected to read you, dear book, for when I open your pages I feel as if I had two lives; the old Ilse revives who once trusted in your words; and then again I see myself, like my husband, criticizing many passages, and asking myself whether what I find in you is according to my reason. I have lost my childish faith, and what I have gained instead gives me no certainty. When I fold my hands in prayer, as I did when I was a child, I know that I dare pray for nothing but strength to overcome, by my own exertion, what now casts down my spirit."

The gardener entered the room, as he did every morning, with a basket of flowers which the lord of the castle sent her. Ilse rose and pointed to the table.

"Set it down," she said, coldly, without touching the basket.

She had, at other times, frequently expressed to the man her pleasure in the beautiful flowers he had cultivated. It had always given him pain that the illustrious personages of the castle never noticed his rare plants, and he had been so pleased with the warm interest taken by the strange lady that he brought the flowers every morning himself, and pointed out to her the new favorites of the conservatory; he had cut for her the best he had.

"The others do not notice them," he would say; "and she remembers the Latin names too."

He now placed the basket of flowers down with a feeling of mortification.

"There are some new specimens of the calceolaria," he began, reproachfully; "they are of my own raising: you will not see others of this kind."

Ilse felt the disappointment of the gardener. She approached the table, and said:

"They are indeed very beautiful; but flowers, dear sir, require a light heart, and that I have not now. I have ill repaid your kindness to-day; but you must not be angry with me."

"If you would only look at the grey-spotted ones," exclaimed the gardener, with the enthusiasm of an artist; "these are my pride, and are not to be had anywhere else in the world."

Ilse admired them.

"I had taken great pains for many years," continued the gardener. "I had done all I could to obtain good seed, but only common ones came; after I had almost lost courage, the new kinds blossomed all in one year. It was not my art," he added, honestly: "it is a secret of nature; she has given me good fortune, and relieved me from my cares all at once."

"But you took pains and did your best," answered Ilse; "when one does thus, one may trust to the good spirit of life."

The gardener went away appeased; Ilse looked at the flowers.

"Even he who sent you has become to me an object of dread. Yet he was the only one here who showed me uniform kindness and treated me with respect. Felix is right: there is no reason for us to be disturbed on his account. Who knows whether he is much to blame for the disagreeable reports about this house. I must not be unjust towards him; but when I look at his flowers, it seems as if an adder lay within them, for I do not know whether his soul is pure or impure. I do not understand his ways, and that makes me uncertain and fearful."

She pushed the basket away, and turned from it.

The maid who waited upon her came into the room, with a troubled countenance, and begged permission to go away for the day, as her mother was very ill in a neighboring village. Ilse asked kindly about the woman, and gave the girl the desired permission, with good wishes and advice. The maid went slowly out of the room; Ilse looked sorrowfully after her.

"Her heart, too, is heavy. It is well that Felix is not at home, for I can now be alone with my sorrow. It will be a quiet day, and this will be welcome after yesterday's storm."

Again there was a knocking at the door; the Castellan brought the letters that the postman had given him for the Pavilion. There were letters from her brothers and sisters who kept up a regular correspondence with their distant Ilse. A ray of joy passed over her serious face.

"This is a pleasant morning greeting," she said. "I will to-day answer my little band in detail. Who knows whether I may have time for it next week."

She hastened to the writing-table, read, laughed, and wrote. Her uneasiness had passed away; she chatted like a lively child in the language and thoughts of the nursery. Hours flew in this occupation. Gabriel brought up and carried away the dinner. When in the afternoon he found her still bending over the letters, he lingered by her and hesitated whether he should speak to her; but as Ilse was so deeply engrossed in her work, he nodded and closed the door.

Finally, Ilse wrote to her father. Again her thoughts became sad, anguish rose from the depth of her heart, and lay like a burning weight on her bosom. She left her writing-table, and paced hastily about the room. When she came to the window, she saw the lord of the castle coming slowly along the gravel path towards the Pavilion.

Ilse stepped back quickly. She was not unaccustomed to the short visits of the Sovereign; but to-day she felt fearful, the blood rushed to her heart, she pressed her hands over her bosom, and struggled for composure.

The door flew open.

"I come to inquire," began his Highness, "how you bear your solitude. My house also has become empty, my children are gone from me, and it is lonely in the great building."

"I have employed my leisure in intercourse with distant friends," answered Ilse.

She would not on this occasion mention the children to the Sovereign.

"Are the little ones who play about in your home amongst these friends?" he asked laughing. "Have the children again expressed their wishes to you?"

He took a chair and invited Ilse to be seated. His demeanor made her more composed; his manner was that of a discreet and well-intentioned person.

"Yes, your Highness," replied Ilse; "but this time my younger sister, Luise, was the most active correspondent."

"Does she promise to become like you?" asked the Sovereign, kindly.

"She is now twelve years old," replied Ilse, with reserve; "she is sentimental upon every subject and every blade of grass excites her fancy. It appears as if she were to be the poetess of the play-room. I do not know how these fantastical ideas have come into our family. In her letter she tells me a long story, as if it had happened to herself, and yet it is only a tale which she has read somewhere. For since I have left my home, more story-books have reached it than were there in my youth."

"Probably it is only childish vanity," said the Sovereign, kindly, "that leads her to substitute an invention for truth."

"That is it exactly," answered Ilse, more cheerfully. "She pretends that she lost her way in the wood, and that when she was sitting sorrowfully among the toad-stools, the little animals whom she was in the habit of feeding in our court-yard,--the white mouse in the cage, the cats, and the shepherd's dog,--placed themselves about her and ran before her till she found her way out of the wood. The cat together with the mouse, your Highness; that was silly! This story she related boldly as if it were the truth, and expected me to think it touching. That was too much--but I have given her my opinion of it."

The Sovereign laughed, laughed from his heart. It was a rare sound that echoed through the walls of the dark room, and the god of love above looked down with surprise on the joyous man.

"May I ask how you criticized this poetic state of mind?" asked the Sovereign. "There is a poetical idea in the tale, that the kindness shown to others will always be repaid when required. But it is unfortunately only an poetic idea; gratitude is seldom met with in real life."

"One ought not, in life, to trust solely to the help of others," replied Ilse, firmly; "and one ought not to show kindness to others in order that it may be repaid. There is indeed a strange pleasure felt when some chord which one has struck brings back its echo to one's heart; but one should not trust to it. A child that has lost its way should make good use of its five senses in order to find its way home by itself. But, certainly, one ought not to put forth poetical ideas as if they were real incidents. I was obliged to scold her; for, your Highness, girls in these days must have right ideas taught them, or they will soon lose themselves in dreams."

The Sovereign laughed again.

Where are the wise and good animals, Lady Ilse, that will give you friendly counsel in your time of need?

"You are too strict," continued the Sovereign. "The witch fancy deceives the judgment of even us grown-up people; one is fearful without reason, and one hopes and trusts without justification. The person who could ever command a true, impartial judgment of his own position, would have a freedom that would make life hardly endurable."

"Fancy confuses us," answered Ilse, looking round, "but it warns us also."

"What is warmth of feeling, and devotion to others?" continued the Sovereign, sorrowfully. "Nothing but subtle self-deceit. If I now am flattered by the joyful feeling that I have succeeded in sharing the wealth of your heart, that too is only a deception; but it is a dream which I carefully cherish, for it does me good. With a happiness which I have long been deprived of, I listen to the honest tones of your voice, and the thought is painful to me that I shall ever be without the sweet enjoyment they afford. It is of greater value to me than you imagine."

"Your Highness speaks to me as to a true friend," replied Ilse, drawing herself up; "and when I take to heart the kindly tone in which you now express your sympathy, I have to believe your honesty and sincere intentions. But this same fancy, which you blame and praise, disturbs also the confidence which I would gladly have in your Highness. I will no longer be silent about it, for it pains me after such kind words, to foster any unfounded feeling against you." She rose hastily. "It disturbs my peace of mind to feel that I dwell in a house which the feet of other women avoid."

The Sovereign looked astonished at the woman who, with such firmness, controlled her inward excitement.

"The fortune-teller," he murmured.

"Your Highness knows well what fancy does," continued Ilse, sorrowfully. "It has tormented my soul, and made it difficult for me in this place to believe in the esteem of which your Highness assures me."

"What have they been telling you?" asked the Sovereign, in a sharp tone.

"What your Highness ought not to desire to hear from my lips," replied Ilse, proudly. "It is possible that the master of a Court considers such things with indifference. I say that to myself. But it is a misfortune to me to have been here: it is a stain on a spotless robe, and I fix my eyes wildly upon it; I wash it away with my hand, and yet it always lies before me, for it is a shadow that falls from without."

The Sovereign looked gloomily before him.

"I shall not use the subterfuges that you put into the mouth of a master of a Court, for I feel at this moment, deeply and passionately like you, that an injury has been done your honor. I have only one excuse," he continued, with passion: "you came here as stranger to us, and I little thought what a treasure lay concealed near me. Since that, in our slight intercourse, you have awakened in me a feeling to which I yield irresistibly. It is seldom permitted me by fate to say undisguisedly what I feel. I disdain to use the impassioned language of a youth, for I do not wish to disquiet you. But do not think that I feel less strongly towards you because I know how to conceal my emotion."

Ilse stood in the middle of the room, and a burning color rose to her cheeks.

"I beg your Highness not to say another word, for it is not right that I should listen to you."

The Sovereign laughed bitterly.

"I have already wounded you, and you quickly make it plain that I labored under an illusion when I hoped for your affection. And yet I am so completely your slave, that I beg of you not to refuse your sympathy to a passion which glows so warmly within me, that it has at this moment entirely deprived me of my self-control."

Ilse gasped:

"I must away from here."

"Renounce that idea," cried the Sovereign, beside himself. "I cannot be deprived of your presence or of the sound of your voice. However slightly it may gladden me, it is the happiness of my days--the one great feeling in a life without pleasure or love. The knowledge that you are near me maintains me in my struggle against thoughts that stupefy me in gloomy hours. Like the devout pilgrim who listens to the bell of the hermitage, I listen to the slightest chord that vibrates from your life into mine. Consent to accept the devotion of a lonely man," he continued, more tranquilly. "I vow never more to wound your delicate feelings. I vow to be contented with that share of your life which you will freely give me."

"I repent of every word that I have spoken to your Highness, and I repent of every hour in which I have thought with reverence of you," exclaimed Ilse, with kindling anger. "I was a poor trusting child," she continued, excitedly. "I bowed submissively to my Sovereign before I saw him as he is; now that I know him, he excites abhorrence in me, and I gather up my garment and say. Monster, begone from me!"

The Sovereign fell back in his chair.

"It is an old curse that echoes in my ears from these walls; it is not your own heart that drives me from you. From your lips should only come words of love and compassion. I am not a tempter, I am myself a wanderer in the wilderness, with nothing about me but desert sand and towering rocks. I hear the laughter of children; I see the fair-haired group passing by me; I see two eyes fixed on me with kindly greeting, and a hand, with the filled cup, which beckons to the weary one; and, like a vision of mist, it has all disappeared. I remain alone, and I sink to my destruction."

He closed his hands over his eyes. Ilse did not reply. She stood, turned from him, looking through the window at the clouds which flitted across the heaven.

All was quiet in the room. Nothing moved, and no one spoke. At last the Sovereign rose slowly: he approached Ilse. There was a glassy look in his eye, and he moved with effort.

"If I have wounded you by what I have said in a moment of overwhelming passion, forget it. I have proved to you that I am not yet free from the weakness that hopes to gain a heart which would beat in unison with mine. Remember only that I am an erring one who sought comfort from you. It was an humiliating request: if you cannot respond to it, do not be angry with the wretched one who asks."

He gazed on her with a long, protracted look of burning passion, deadly, wounded pride, and something more, that inspired her with terror, but she looked him firmly and rigidly in the face. He raised a warning finger, and left the room.

She listened to his tread as he went away, marked every step as he descended, and when he closed the house-door, pulled the bell.

Gabriel, who was standing in the anteroom, entered quickly.

"I wish to go away from here," exclaimed Ilse.

"Whereto, Mrs. Werner?" asked the frightened servant.

"Where to?" echoed in Ilse's ears.

"To my husband," she said; but, as if listening to her own words, she shuddered. He also was in a house of the Sovereign. He was with the daughter of the wicked man. He himself was not safe there--his wife would not be safe with him. Where to? The question whirled in her head. The son of the cruel man was with her father, so she must not go home; her neighbour had said so. She sank her head as if stunned. A feeling of helplessness lay like a dead weight upon her; but she raised herself again, and approached Gabriel. "I will leave this city to-day--at once."

The servant wrung his hands.

"I knew it would come to this," he exclaimed.

"You knew it," asked Ilse, gloomily; "and neither I nor my husband did? Was it seen to every passerby, and yet a secret to him and me?"

"I noticed that there was something about this place that seemed uncanny," answered Gabriel, "and that no one trusted the distinguished gentleman who just now left. How could I tell you what seemed only my foolish fancy?"

"It is not well to pay too little attention to people's talk," replied Ilse; "I wish to go to some place where I can find a woman, Gabriel. Get a carriage for me immediately, and accompany me to Mrs. Rollmaus. We will leave everything here, and you must return to the house, that you may be on the spot when my husband comes back."

"Where shall I get a carriage?" asked Gabriel, hesitatingly.

"From the city, and not from the castle stable."

Gabriel stood and reflected. At last he said, abruptly:

"I shall go; be careful to prevent the lackey from learning that you are preparing for a journey."

"No one shall know it," said Ilse.

Gabriel hastened away, and Ilse locked the door and flew into the next room. There she collected all that was indispensable for the journey. She closed all the cupboards and wardrobes, and put the keys in a bunch. "When Felix comes, he shall not say I ran away unthinkingly." She went to his writing-table, and sealed up the letters in a packet. "So that no curious eye can look upon you," she said. When she packed up the letters of the children and her own answers, a shudder came over her, and she concealed the bundle rapidly beneath other papers. She was ready, and Gabriel had not yet returned. He seemed to linger long. With firm steps she went through the rooms. "You have grown more strange to me the longer I have dwelt here. What has become of the brilliant impression of the first evening? It was a cold splendor, hostile to my life. I would gladly root up every recollection of it from my soul." She placed herself on the spot where, in the night, she had looked on her sleeping husband. "That was my last sorrowful look at his dear face; when shall I see it again? I go from you, Felix; who would have thought it when we stood together before the altar? I leave you behind among wicked men; you also in danger, and I go away alone, to seek safety for myself far from you. Who would have said some days ago that I should have marked him a liar to his face? I go, Felix, in order to save myself for you. Think of that, and do not be angry with me. I would not have gone for less cause." She sank down on a cushion, and wrung her hands with tearless sorrow. She lay for a long time in this condition. At last there was a knocking at the outer door. She jumped up and opened it, but she drew back terrified when she beheld the pale countenance of her faithful servant.

"I have not ordered a carriage," said Gabriel, "for it would be of no use."

"What do you mean?" asked Ilse, angrily.

"Any carriage that went from here would not take Mrs. Werner where she wishes, but only where another wishes."

"Then we will go ourselves, and take a vehicle in the city."

"Wherever we go," replied Gabriel, "we shall be observed, and if I attempt to call a carriage it will be taken from us."

"You are frightened yourself, Gabriel, and see danger where none exists," replied Ilse, annoyed.

"If we could only get an honest man to take you to Mrs. Rollmaus," continued Gabriel; "but it is doubtful whether you could get there. Do you see that man below by the castle? He goes slowly as if he were taking a walk, but he never turns his eyes from this house. That is one of our spies, and he is not the only one."

"Who has told you that?" asked Ilse.

"I have a good friend here who belongs to the castle," replied Gabriel, hesitating. "Do not be angry, Mrs. Werner, that I asked him, for he knows all their tricks. It is possible, he said, that we may succeed; for one cannot assume that all the people of the city are robbers or deceivers, but it is uncertain and dangerous."

Ilse seized her hat and cloak.

"I am going, Gabriel," she said, quietly. "Will you accompany me?"

"Dear Mrs. Werner, wherever you wish," answered Gabriel. "But first listen to my proposal. My acquaintance thinks that the safest way would be, if the Crown Inspector should fetch you himself in the evening. The evenings are dark, and you may then perhaps be able to leave the house without the lackey or any one else remarking it."

"A prisoner!" exclaimed Ilse. "Who is your acquaintance?" she asked, looking sharply at Gabriel.

"He is true as gold," Gabriel assured her, "and I will willingly tell you later, but I beg you not to ask me to-day, for he has desired, for his own safety, that no one should be told."

"I trust in your faithfulness," replied Ilse, coldly; "but you yourself may be deceived; I will not follow the advice of a stranger."

"He has offered me a horse," said Gabriel, "it is outside the city. If you will give me a line to the Crown Inspector, I will ride there and bring the carriage in good time."

Ilse looked gloomily at the servant.

"Many hours must pass away, and I will not remain here alone. I will go on foot along the high road to my friends."

"Look, Mrs. Werner, at the sky; a storm is coming."

"I do not care for it," exclaimed Ilse; "it is not the first time I shall have gone through the rain. If you do not choose to accompany me, you may wait here for my husband, and tell him that I have gone away to my home, and when I am with good people I will write to him."

Gabriel wrung his hands; Ilse put on her cloak.

Suddenly loud altercation was heard on the floor below. Gabriel hastily opened the door; the bass voice of a stranger was scolding the lackey vehemently:

"But I tell you I am not the man who will allow the door to be shut in his face; she is at home, I say."

Ilse threw off her hat and cloak, sprang down the stairs, and called out.

"Mr. Hummel!"

"Your most obedient servant, Mrs. Werner," cried out Hummel. "I come immediately, only I will first express to this major-domo my high opinion of him. You are a scoundrel, sir, and an object to whom I wish such treatment as he deserves--a well-seasoned switch and a tight halter. I am coming, Mrs. Werner." He ascended the stairs heavily. Ilse flew to meet him, led him into her room, and was so overcome that she laid her head on his shoulder and wept.

Mr. Hummel was silent, and looked sympathizingly at Ilse.

"So these are Court ways?" he asked, softly; "and this is the fashion in which people act here?"

"My husband is away. I wish to leave this place; Mr. Hummel, do help me to escape!"

"That is exactly my situation," said Mr. Hummel: "I am implicated, myself, in an elopement affair. I have come to this city in order to convey to you a request from my daughter Laura, and to bring matters to some settlement with the clergymen here. But where do you wish to go to?"

"To kind friends who will take me to my father's house."

"That will certainly be the right course," replied Mr. Hummel.

"In times of despair, when everything totters in the world, the child should go back to the father. His faithfulness remains; she is twenty years old before that of the husband begins. As your father is not here, allow one who knows what it is to feel anxious about a child to take the place of a father to you."

Ilse clung to him: Mr. Hummel pressed her hand, after his fashion, tenderly; but it was a hard pressure.

"Now for composure and cool blood. It can be no small matter which moves you so strongly. I will not leave you until I see you well protected." He looked at Gabriel, who made him a sign. "Do not trouble yourself further in the matter. Be quietly seated, and allow me to confer with Gabriel. I will take care of everything for you, and I shall answer for everything."

Ilse looked at him thankfully and seated herself obediently. Mr. Hummel beckoned Gabriel into the next room.

"What has happened here?" he asked.

"The master has gone away for a few days; meanwhile Mrs. Werner has been treated in an unseemly way; great wickedness is carried on here, and they will not let her go."

"Not let my lodger go?" cried Mr. Hummel; "ridiculous! I have a passport to Paris in my pocket, we will skip over this country like grasshoppers. I will fetch a conveyance immediately."

Gabriel shook his head. The confidants again conferred together. Mr. Hummel came back and said, with greater seriousness, to Ilse:

"Now I must beg of you to write a few lines to the Crown Inspector--to the husband, not to his wife, otherwise there would be confusion. You must request him, immediately after the receipt of this letter, if he is willing to do a great kindness, to come here in a closed carriage, to stop in the suburb, at the Black Bear; and he must not leave his carriage. Nothing further. This letter Gabriel will convey to him. How he does so is his affair, not ours; if he chooses to fly, like this ambiguous genius on the ceiling, who has forgotten its overcoat, it will be so much the better. Now the letter is written, forgive me if I read it. All right and accurate--away, Gabriel, quickly. When you have passed the castle, then make speed: till then, act like a composed philanthropist. I will allow you to whistle my Dessauer, if you can. If they ask you any questions, say you are attending to some business for me."

Gabriel hastened away. Mr. Hummel placed his chair in front of Ilse, and looked at his watch.

"You will have to wait five hours for the carriage if all goes right. Meanwhile you must bear my company, I will not leave the house without you. Do not be troubled at the delay. I am glad of it; for I wish to speak with you as with an honorable woman, to whom I can take off my hat with true respect, concerning my own affairs, which I have much at heart. We have time enough for it. I have also brought some papers to the Professor; they are of little importance, but I will lay them on the table, and we shall sit opposite each other like people of business. Then I should be glad if you would give that Judas in the servants' chamber a few instructions for me. Have the goodness also to take everything away that might lead him to suppose that you and I were going to elope."

Ilse looked round her, undecided.

"What shall I say to the man, Mr. Hummel?"

"You are so good a housewife," replied Hummel, politely, "that I can leave entirely to you to decide what you will provide for me. I have been travelling the whole day," and he made a significant gesture towards his waistcoat.

"Ilse jumped up; in spite of all her anxieties, she could not help laughing, and said:

"Forgive me, Mr. Hummel."

"That is the right frame of mind," replied Hummel; "there is no better remedy for tragic spirits than a well spread table. I beg, therefore that you will send not only for one plate, but for two. I could not eat if you were looking on. Believe me, Mrs. Werner, the noblest feelings are not to be depended on if an honest piece of bread and butter is not impressed on them as a stamp. It makes people calm and firm--and you will have occasion for these virtues to-day."

Ilse rang the bell.

"If the knave appears," proceeded Mr. Hummel, "mention to him my name and my firm. I do not generally travel incognito, and I wish not to be looked upon as a mystery here."

The lackey appeared. Ilse gave him orders to fetch the necessary refreshment, and asked him how it was he had denied her dear landlord admittance.

The man stammered an excuse, and went away hastily.

"When I came to the house I was aware that all was not right here. I asked after you at the castle and received no satisfactory answer. I asked a man at the back of the castle who was wandering about, which was your house. He looked at me like a crossbill. You were travelling, he declared, and he tried to discover my secret. Thereupon there was a short conversation, in which cross-bill showed his spite because I in ignorance called him by his proper title of spy. The sentinel came up at this, and I saw that these jovial comrades had a great mind to arrest me. Then a young gentleman appeared, who asked the other the cause of the disturbance, and said he knew that you were at home. He accompanied me up to this house, asked my name politely, told me also his own, Lieutenant Treeclimber, and advised me not to be frightened away, that the servants were insolent, but that you would be rejoiced to see an old friend. He must be known to you."

The lackey laid the table. Whenever he offered Mr. Hummel a dish, the latter gave him a withering look, and did not endeavor to make his office easy to him. While the servant was removing the things, Mr. Hummel began:

"Now permit me to talk of our affairs, it will be a long account; have you patience for it?"

The evening had set in, darkness lay over the dismal house, the storm came on, the windows rattled, and the rain poured down. Ilse sat as in a dream. In the midst of the stormy scenes of the past day and the uneasy expectation of a wild night, the comfortable prose of the Park Street rose before her, where, fearless and secure, she was at peace with herself and the world,--so far as the world was not vexatious. But she felt how beneficial this contrast was; she even forgot her own position, and listened with deep sympathy to the account of the father.

"I am speaking to a daughter," said Mr. Hummel, "who is going back to her father, and I tell her what I have said to no one else: how hard it is to bear my child's wish to leave me."

He spoke about the child whom they both loved, and it was pleasant intercourse between them. Thus several hours passed.

The lackey came again, and asked respectfully whether Mrs. Werner had sent Gabriel away.

"He has gone upon a commission for me," grumbled Mr. Hummel, to the inquirer; "he is looking after some money matters with which I did not choose to burden your honesty. If any one inquires from the city for me, I must beg, Mrs. Werner, to request this man to say that I am at home."

He again looked at his watch.

"Four hours," he said. "If the horse was good, and Gabriel did not lose his way in the dark, we may expect him every moment. If he has not succeeded, you may still be without anxiety; I will still take you from this house."

The bell below rang, and the house door opened--Gabriel entered. There was a gleam of pleasure in his countenance.

"Promptly, at ten, the carriage will stop before the inn," he said, cautiously; "I have ridden hastily in advance."

Ilse jumped up. Again the terrors of the day and anxiety for the future passed through her mind.

"Sit still," admonished Mr. Hummel again; "violent moving about is suspicious. I will meanwhile hold council once more with Gabriel."

This council lasted a long time. At last Mr. Hummel came back, and said, very seriously:

"Now, Mrs. Werner, prepare yourself; we have a quarter of an hour's walk. Yield yourself quietly to our guidance; all has been carefully considered."

Mr. Hummel rang. Gabriel, who had returned to the spy on the ground floor, entered as usual, and took several keys and a screw-driver out of his pocket, and said, cautiously:

"The first week we were here I closed the small back staircase and secured the door with a large screw; the people do not know that I have the keys."

He went to one of the back rooms and opened the entrance to a secret staircase. Mr. Hummel glided after him.

"I wished to know how I was to let myself in again," he said, returning to Ilse. "When I have taken you away some one must be heard moving about here as your spirit, otherwise all the trouble would be lost. Gabriel will take you down the back staircase, while I go out at the front door and keep the lackey in conversation. I will meet you a short distance from the house among the bushes; Gabriel will bring you to me, and I will be sure to be there."

Ilse pressed his hand anxiously.

"I hope all will go well," said Mr. Hummel, cautiously. "Take care to have a cloak that will disguise you as much as possible."

Ilse flew to her writing-table and in haste wrote these words:

"Farewell, beloved; I am gone to my father."

Again sorrow overpowered her; she wrung her hands and wept. Mr. Hummel stood respectfully aside. At last he laid his hand on her shoulder: "The time is passing away."

Ilse jumped up, enclosed the note in an envelope, gave it to Gabriel, and quickly veiled herself.

"Now forward," admonished Mr. Hummel, "out of both doors. I go first. Good bye, Mrs. Werner," he called out, through the open door; "I hope you will rest well."

He stepped heavily down the stairs, the lackey was standing on the last step.

"Come here, young man," shouted Mr. Hummel, "I wish to have you stuffed after your death, and placed before the council house as a model for later generations of the love of truth. When I return you may depend upon it I shall again give myself the pleasure of expressing my high opinion of you; then I will reveal to the Professor the consummate meanness of your character. I have a great mind to make your worthlessness known in the daily paper in order that you may become a scare-crow to the world."

The servant listened with downcast eyes, and bowed mockingly.

"Good-night, courtling," said Mr. Hummel, going out and closing the door behind him.

Mr. Hummel walked with measured tread from the house, turning to the left side where a path entered a thicket; there he concealed himself. The rain poured, and the wind roared in the tops of the trees. Mr. Hummel looked cautiously about him when he entered the darkness of the spot where Gabriel and Prince Victor had once spoken to one another of the ghosts of the castle. There was a slight stir in the thicket, a tall figure approached him and seized his arm.

"Good," said Mr. Hummel, in a low tone; "go back quickly, Gabriel, and expect me in time. But we must seek out dark paths and avoid the lights; you must conceal your face under your veil when we come into the open."

Ilse took the arm of her landlord and walked along, covered by the great umbrella which Mr. Hummel held over her.

Behind the fugitives the tower clock struck ten, when the outline of the inn outside the gate was seen against the darkened heaven.

"We must not be too early nor too late," said Mr. Hummel, restraining the steps of his eager companion. At the same moment a carriage came slowly towards them out of the darkness. Ilse's arm trembled. "Be calm," begged Mr. Hummel; "see whether that is your friend."

"I recognize the horses," whispered Ilse, breathless. Mr. Hummel approached the coachman's covered seat, and asked, as a password, "From Toad?"

"Ville," answered a firm voice. The Crown Inspector sprang down to Ilse; there was a little movement in the carriage, the corner of the leather curtain was lifted, and a small hand was put out. Hummel seized and shook it. "An agreeable addition," he said. Without speaking a word, the Crown Inspector unbuttoned the leather curtain. "My dear friend," cried a trembling female voice from within. Ilse turned to Mr. Hummel; "not a word," he said; "a pleasant journey to you." Ilse was pushed in; Mrs. Rollmaus seized hold of her arm, and held it firmly; and while the Crown Inspector was again buttoning the curtain, Mr. Hummel greeted him. "It gives me great pleasure," he said, "but for an exchange of cards this is not a favorable opportunity. Besides which, our classes, according to natural history, are not the same. But punctuality at the right time and goodwill were mutual." The Crown Inspector jumped upon the coachman's box and seized the reins. He turned the carriage, Mr. Hummel gave a farewell tap upon the wet leather curtain, the horses trotted off quietly, and the carriage passed into the darkness.

Hummel looked after it till the heavy rain concealed it from his view, cast one more searching glance down the now empty road, and hastened back to the city. He went to the Pavilion through the most remote part of the grounds; at the spot where Gabriel had put the lady under his charge, he dived into the deep shade of the trees, and made his way cautiously through the wet bushes to the back of the house. He felt along the wall. "Stop on the threshold," whispered Gabriel; "I will take off your boots."

"Cannot I be spared this court toilet?" grumbled Hummel. "Stocking-feet are contrary to my nature."

"All will have been in vain if you are heard on the staircase."

Hummel slipped up the stairs behind Gabriel into the dark room. "Here are Mrs. Werner's rooms. You must move backwards and forwards in the dark, and sometimes move the chairs, till I call you. There is now another spy, they are talking together below. I fear they suspect that we have something on hand. They look at me askance. The lackey every day carries the lamps from the sitting-room, and nothing must be altered; it would create suspicion if he did not hear some one moving about in the next room. When all is quiet, then the lackey leaves the house, and we can speak to one another."

"It is against my conscience, Gabriel," murmured Hummel, "to remain in a strange house without the permission of the owner or lodger."

"Quiet," warned Gabriel, anxiously; "I hear the man on the stairs; close the door behind me."

Mr. Hummel stood alone in the dark. He placed his boots near the arm-chair, walked around them, and sometimes gave them a push. "Very gently always," he thought, "for they are the movements of a Professor's wife. The demands which now-a-days are made on a householder exceed all imagination. An elopement from the house of a stranger, and acting the part of a lady in the darkness of night." The steps of men were heard outside, and he again pushed his boots. "Darkness in a strange house is by no means desirable," he continued, to himself. "I have always had a hatred of a dark room since I once fell down into a cellar; this gloom is only good for cats and rogues. But the most lamentable thing for a citizen is, that his boots should be withheld from him." He heard a light tread in the next room, and again moved the chair.

At last all became quiet in the house. Mr. Hummel threw himself back in the chair, and looked wearily around the strange room. A pale ray of light fell from without through a crevice of the curtains, and the tassel of the curtain and the gilded top of a chair glimmered in the darkness. Now at last Mr. Hummel might put on his boots, and then for a time he occupied himself with severe comments upon the world. His usual hour for rest had meanwhile come, and he was tired from his journey; he sank gradually into a dreamy state, and his last distinct thought was, "there must be no snoring in this princely darkness." With this intention he closed his eyes, and said farewell to the cares of the world.

In his sleep it appeared to him as if he heard a slight noise; he opened his eyes and looked about the room. He saw indistinctly that the wall looked different from what it had done. The large mirror that before stood there, seemed to have vanished, and it appeared to him as if a veiled figure stood in its place and moved. He was a courageous man, but his limbs now trembled with terror. He barricaded himself behind a chair. "Is this a magic lantern?" he began, with stammering voice; "if so, I beg you not to disturb yourself; I admire your skill, but have not my purse with me. But if you are a man, I should like a more distinct knowledge of the fact. I call upon you to show yourself in substance. I have the honor of introducing myself to you in this scanty light. Hat-manufacturer, Henry Hummel; my papers are correct--a passport to Paris." He put his hand into his breast pocket. "As a respectable citizen is bound to defend himself in these dangerous times, it has been inserted in my passport, avec un pistolet. I beg you kindly to bear this in mind." He took out a pocket pistol and held it before him. He again looked at the spot; nothing was to be seen; the mirror stood as before. He rubbed his eyes. "Stupid stuff," he said; "it was, after all, only a sleepy fancy."

The door of the house was closed outside. For a while Mr. Hummel stood looking round suspiciously, and perspiration rose on his brow. At last he heard Gabriel's knock at the door; he opened it, took the light quickly from his hand, and approached the mirror so as to throw the light upon the frame and wall.

"It seems to stand firm as iron," he said to himself; "it was only a deception."

But he hastily seized his hat, and took the servant out of the room.

"I have had enough for to-day," he muttered; "I wish to get out of this house as quickly as possible. I do not like to have you remain here alone, Gabriel. Early to-morrow I will call for you; I have business for the whole day in the city. Endeavor to sleep; in our beds we shall both think of this intrigue and of her who is still seeking a secure roof for protection from night-storms and spirits."

Ilse traveled through the night; the rain poured in torrents around her, the storm howled through the trees, and the water splashed high from the ruts about the horses and carriage. It was only between the figures of the men on the front seat that she caught glimpses of the midnight sky, which hung heavy and dark above the fugitives. Sometimes a glimmer of light twinkled from the window of a house, and then again there was nothing but rain, storm, and black night. She maintained a terrified silence during the ghostly journey, Mrs. Rollmaus still clasping her hand. Ilse was driving into the world, a storm-lashed world, poor in light and rich in tears. There was uncertainty and fearful anxiety everywhere, whether she thought of the loved one whom she left behind her in the hands of the persecutor, or saw before her the troubled countenance of her father, and the fields of the estate where the young man dwelt whose neighborhood now threatened her with new trouble; but she sat erect.

"When he returns to the door over which the dark angel hovers, he will ask in vain for his wife. But I have done what I had to do: may the sovereign Lord of life watch over me."

There was the sound of a horse's hoofs behind the carriage; it approached nearer. Where the private road to the estate branched off from the highway, a cavalier galloped up on a foaming horse; he spoke to some one on the coachman's seat, the carriage and rider rushed forward side by side for a few moments, then the rider reined in his horse. The Crown Inspector threw a branch of a tree into the carriage.

"The rider has brought this for Lady Ilse; it is from the tree under her window, and the reckoning is paid."

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE LORD HIGH STEWARD.

At the same hour in which Ilse was listening to the comforting words of her landlord, the carriage of the Lord High Steward was driving to the tower castle of the Princess. The Princess received the announcement with astonishment, and flew down to her reception-room. The Professor caused the chest with its contents to be taken to his room, and was in the act of bending over the manuscript, when the High Marshal entered below to deliver himself of his commission. Meanwhile the Princess awaited the old gentleman.

The Lord High Steward had been appointed to the honorable office of attendance upon the Princess: it was a considerate way of removing him from the person of the Sovereign. At the same hour every morning his carriage was to be seen standing before the wing of the castle which was occupied by the Princess. His personal relations to the young Princess appeared cool; in Court society he was treated by her with just as much distinction as was needful, and petitioners learnt sometimes that their requests were imparted to him. He was esteemed by the citizens on account of his benevolence, and was the only one of the lords of the Court concerning whom one never heard an unfavorable opinion. He dwelt in an old-fashioned house surrounded by gardens, was unmarried, rich, without relations, and lived quietly by himself. He was, it was supposed, without influence; he was not in favor, and was therefore treated by the young cavaliers with chivalrous condescension. He was, notwithstanding all this, indispensable to the Sovereign and the Court. He was the great dignitary who was necessary for all ceremonious affairs; he was counsellor in all family matters; he was ambassador and escort in all transactions with foreign powers. He was well known at most of the courts of Europe, had acquaintances in the great diplomatic bodies, and enjoyed the special favor of various rulers whose good will was of importance to the Sovereign; and as in our courts the reputation that one enjoys at foreign capitals is the standard of the judgment of the palace, the correspondence which he carried on with political leaders in foreign countries, and the abundance of broad ribbons of which he had the choice, gave him with the Sovereign himself an authority which was at the same time burdensome and valuable; he was the secret counsellor for the Court and the last resource in difficult questions.

The servant opened the door of the Princess's room with a profound bow to the old gentleman. Indifferent questions and answers were exchanged, the Princess entered the adjoining room and intimated to her faithful lady-in-waiting by a sign that she was to keep watch in front. When the conversation was secure from the ear of any listener, the demeanor of the Princess altered, she hastened up to the old gentleman, seized him by the hand, and looked inquiringly at his earnest countenance:

"Has anything happened? No trifle could have caused you to take the trouble of coming into this wilderness. What have you to say to your little daughter,--is it praise or blame?"

"I am but fulfilling my duty," replied the old lord, "if I make my appearance in order to take your Highness's commands, and to ascertain whether the residence of my gracious Princess is suitably arranged."

"Your Excellency has come to complain," exclaimed the Princess, drawing back, "for you have not one kind word for your little woman."

The High Steward bowed his white head in apology:

"If I appear more serious than usual to your Highness, it is perhaps only the fancies of an old man which have intruded themselves at an unseasonable time. I beg permission to relieve myself of them by discussing them with your Highness. The health of the Sovereign is a cause of anxiety to us all: it reminds us of the transitory nature of life. Even the good humor of Prince Victor does not succeed in dissipating my troubled thoughts."

"How does my cousin?" asked the Princess.

"He overcomes the difficulties of being a Prince in a wonderful way," replied the High Steward; "but he is sound to the core; he knows very well how to manage serious things cleverly. I rejoice," added the courtier, "that my gracious Princess feels warmly towards a cousin who is faithfully devoted to her Highness."

"He has always been true and kind to me," said the Princess, indifferently. "But now you have punished me severely enough. What you have to say to me confidentially must not be carried on in this way."

She took a chair, and pushed it into the middle of the room.

"Here, sit down, my worthy lord, and allow me to hold the hand of my friend when he tells me what makes him anxious on my account."

She fetched herself a low tabouret, held the right hand of the old lord between hers, looking earnestly into his eyes.

"Your Highness knows the way of giving me courage to make bold requests," said the courtier, laughing.

"That is more to the purpose," said the Princess, relieved; "I now hear the voice and hold the hand of him in whom I most love to trust."

"But I wish for your Highness a nearer and stronger support than myself," began the old lord, earnestly.

The Princess started.

"So it was that which occasioned your Excellency's journey?" she exclaimed, with agitation.

"That was the anxiety which occupied me. It is nothing--nothing more than an idea," said the High Steward, inclining his head.

"And is that to tranquilize me more?" asked the Princess. "What has hitherto given me the power to live but your Excellency's ideas?"

"When your Highness, while still in widow's weeds, was called home, the wish of the Sovereign, making it a duty to attend upon you, was welcome to me; because I thereby obtained the right of carrying on this conversation with your Highness."

He motioned with his hand to the seat, and the Princess again hastened to place herself by his side.

"Now when I see your Highness before me in the bright bloom of youth, richly gifted and fitted to confer the greatest happiness on others and to partake of it yourself, I cannot forbear thinking that it is wrong for you to be debarred from the pleasures of home."

"I have enjoyed this happiness and have lost it," exclaimed the Princess. "Now I have accustomed myself to the thought of renouncing much. I seek for myself a compensation which even you will not consider unworthy."

"There is a difference between us of more than fifty years. A mode of life, proper for me, an unimportant man, may not be permitted the daughter of a princely house. I beg the permission of my beloved Princess," he continued, with a gentle voice, "to draw aside to-day the curtain which has covered a dark image of your early youth. You were witness of the scene which separated the Sovereign from your illustrious mother."

"It is a dark recollection," whispered the Princess, looking up anxiously at the old lord; "my mother was reproaching the Sovereign,--it was something concerning the fateful Pavilion. The Sovereign got into a state of excitement that was fearful. I, then but a little girl, ran up and embraced the knees of my mother; he dragged me off, and--" the Princess covered her eyes. The old lord made a motion to stop her, and continued:

"The after-effect of the scene was ruinous to the life of a noble woman, and also to that of yourself. Then for the first time the diseased irritability which has since darkened the Sovereign's spirit displayed itself; from that day the Sovereign sees in you the living witness of his guilt and his disease. He has for years endeavored to wipe away from you that impression by kindness and attentions, but he has never believed himself to be successful. Shame, suspicion, and fear have continually ruined his relations with you. He will not let you go away from him, because he fears that in your confidence to another man you might betray what he would fain conceal from himself. He unwillingly gave in to the first marriage, and he will oppose a second, for he does not wish to see your Highness married again. But in the hours when dark clouds lie over his extraordinary spirit, he rejoices in the thought that your Highness might lose the right of secretly reproaching him. The thought that he did an injury to the princely dignity of his wife gnaws within him, and he is now occupied with the idea that your Highness might under certain circumstances forget your position as princess."

"He hopes in vain," exclaimed the Princess, excitedly. "Never will I allow myself to be degraded by an unworthy passion; it has not been without effect that I have been the child of your cares."

"What is unworthy of a princess?" asked the High Steward, reflectively. "That your Highness would keep yourself free from the little passions which are excited in the quadrille of a masked ball there can be no doubt. But intellectual pastime with subjects of great interest might also disturb the life of a woman. Easily does the most refined intellectual enjoyment pass into extravagance. More than once has the greatest danger of a woman been when under powerful external excitement, she has felt herself to be higher, freer, nobler than her wont. It is difficult to listen to entrancing music and to preserve oneself from a warm interest in the artist who has produced it for us."

The Princess looked down.

"Supposing the case," continued the High Steward, "in which a diseased man, in bitter humor, should meditate and work for such an object, the sound person should guard himself from doing his will."

"But they should also not allow themselves to be disturbed in what they consider for the honor and advantage of their life?" cried the Princess, looking up at the old man.

"Certainly not," replied the latter, "if such benefits are in fact to be gained by the playful devotion of a woman to art or learning. It would be difficult for a princess to find satisfaction in this way. No one blames a woman of the people when she makes a great talent the vocation of her life; she may satisfy herself as singer or painter and please others, and the whole world will smile upon her. But if my gracious Princess should employ her rich musical talent in giving a public concert, why would men shrug their shoulders at it? Not because your Highness's talent is less than that of another artist, but because one expects other objects in your life; the nation forms very distinct ideal demands of its princes. If, unfortunately, the ruling princes of our time do not find it easy to answer to this ideal, yet to the ladies of these illustrious families the serious tendency of the present day makes this more possible than in my youth. A princess of our people ought to be the noble model of a good housewife,--nothing more and nothing else: true and right-minded, firmly attached to her husband, careful in her daily duties, warm hearted to the needy, kind and sympathizing to all who have the privilege of approaching her. If she has intellect, she must beware of wishing to shine; if she has a talent for business, she must guard herself from becoming an intrigante. Even the great social talent of virtuosoship she must exercise with the greatest discretion. A well-weighed balance of female excellence is the best ornament of a princess; her highest honor, that she is better and more lovable than others, without parading it, with goodness and capacity in everything, and with no pretensions of any kind. For she stands too high to seek conquest and acquisition for herself."

The Princess sat near the speaker, her head supported on her arm, looking sorrowfully before her.

"My beloved Princess does not hear me speak in this way for the first time," continued the Lord High Steward. "I have often felt anxious about the dangers which a high-flown spirit and active fancy prepare for you, the cradle gift of an envious fairy, who has made your Highness too brilliant and attractive. It is owing to these brilliant gifts that you have not the same aristocratic nature as your illustrious brother, the Hereditary Prince. There is too lively a desire in you to make yourself appreciated, and to influence others. One can leave your brother with full confidence to his own good nature. Every attempt to persuade the soul of the much-tormented child has come to naught. But you, that delicate artistic work of nature which now gazes at me with those open eyes, I have endeavored constantly to guard from an over-refined coquetry of sentiment. I am now the severe admonisher to high duties, because I anticipate the dangers which this love of conquest in your soul will bring upon yourself and others."

"I hear a severe reproof in loving words," replied the Princess, with composure. "I should marry again in order to become distinguished."

"My dear Highness, I wish that you may obtain this great aim as the wife of a husband who is not unworthy of your devotion. Only in this way can a princess expect true happiness. Even this happiness cannot be gained without self-denial, I know it; it is difficult to every one to control themselves. To those who are born in the purple this virtue is ten times more difficult than to others. Forgive me," he continued, "I have become talkative, as often happens to us old people at Court."

"You have not said too much, my friend, nor too little," said the Princess, much moved. "I have always cherished the hope to live on quietly for myself, surrounded by men who would teach me the highest things that it is possible for a woman to acquire. On this path also I find tender duties, noble bonds which unite me with the best, and such a life also would not be unworthy of a princess; more than one have, in former times, chosen this lot, and posterity respects them."

"Your Highness does not mean Queen Christina of Sweden," replied the High Steward. "But to others also this lot has seldom been a blessing. Your Highness must remember that when a princess surrounds herself with wise men, she means always one man who is to her the wisest."

The Princess was silent, and looked down.

"We have now long discussed the possible position of a princess," began the old gentleman; "let us now consider the fate of the men who would be united by tender bonds to the life of an illustrious lady. Granted that she should succeed in finding a friend, who, without unseemly pretensions, would attach himself with self-denial and real devotion to the active and varied life of a princess. He must sacrifice much and forego much; the right of the husband is that the wife should devote herself to him, but in this case a man must fetter the powers,--nay, even the passions of his nature,--for a woman who would not belong to him, whom he could only cautiously approach at certain hours as a friend unto friend; who would consider him at first, to a certain extent, as a valuable possession and a beautiful ornament, but finally, under the best circumstances, as a useful bit of furniture. The greatest sufferer in such a position would be the artist or scholar. I have always felt compassion for the walking dictionaries of a princely household. Even men of great talent then resemble the philosophers of ancient Rome, who, with the long beard and the mantle of their schools, pass through the streets in the train of some distinguished lady."

The Princess rose, and turned away.

"Better, undoubtedly, is the situation of the man," concluded the High Steward, "whose personality allows him to guide, by silent work, the life-current of his high-born friend. Yet even he must not only himself lose much of what is most delightful in life, but, even with the purest intentions, he will not always be able to give pleasure to his princess. He who would be more than a faithful servant diminishes the security of his princely mistress. Should such chivalrous devotion be offered, a noble woman should hesitate to accept it, but to endeavor to attract it does not become a princess."

Tears rushed to the eyes of the Princess, and she turned quickly to the old man.

"I know such a life," she exclaimed; "one that has been passed in unceasing self-denial--a blessing to three ladies of our family. O my father, I know well what you have been to us; have patience with your poor ward. I struggle against your words; it is a hard task for me to listen to you, and yet I know that you are the only secure support that I have ever had in this life. Your admonitions alone have preserved me from destruction."

Again she seized his hand, and her head sank on his shoulder.

"I loved your grandmother," replied the old man, with trembling voice; "it was at a time when such things were lightly thought of. It was a pure connection; I lived for her; I made daily self-sacrifice for her. She was unhappy, for she was the wife of another, and her holiest duties were made difficult to her by my life. I guarded your mother like an anxious servant, but I could not prevent her from being unhappy and dying with the feeling of her misery. And now I hold the third generation to my heart, and before I am called away I would like to impress my life and the sufferings of your mother as a lesson on you. I have never been so anxious about you as I am now. If my dear child has ever felt the heart of a fatherly friend in my words, she should not lightly esteem my counsel now, whatever brilliant dreams it may dispel."

"I will think of your words," exclaimed the Princess. "I will endeavor to resign my wishes; but, father, my kind father, it will be very hard for me."

The old gentleman collected himself, and interrupted her.

"It is enough," he said, with the composure that befitted his office; "your Highness has shown me great consideration to-day. There are others who also desire their share of your Highness's favor."

There was a knock at the door. The waiting-woman entered.

"The servant announces that Lady Gotlinde and the gentlemen are waiting in the tea-room."

"I have still some business with his Excellency," answered the Princess, gently. "I must beg Gotlinde to take my place in entertaining our guest."

* * *

Evening had descended upon the castle-tower, the bats flew from their hiding-places in the vacant room; they whirled about in circles, astonished that they had awoke in an empty habitation. The owls flew into the crevices of the tower, and searched with their round eyes after the old arm-chairs, on which they had formerly waited for the stupid mice; and the death-watch, which the scholar had carried down from the lonely room, gnawed and ticked on the staircase and in the rooms of the castle among living men. The rain beat against the walls, and the stormy wind howled round the tower. The wife of the scholar was driving through the night, flying like a hunted hare; but he was pacing up and down his room, dreamily forming from the discovered leaves the whole lost manuscript. And again he wondered within himself that it looked quite different from what he had imagined it for years.

The wind also howled about the princely castle at the capital, and large drops of rain beat against the window; there, also, the powers of nature raged and demanded entrance into the firm fortress of man. The darkness of the night seemed to pervade the halls and the decorated rooms like gloomy smoke; only the lamps in the pleasure-grounds threw their pale light through the window, and made the desolate look of the room still more dreary. The melancholy tones of the castle clock sounded through the house, announcing that the first hour of the new day was come. Then again silence, desolate silence, everywhere; only a pale glimmer from the distance on the covers of the chandeliers and the golden ornaments of the walls. Sometimes there was a crackling in the parquet of the floor, and a draught of wind blew through an open pane upon the curtains, which hung black round the window like funeral drapery. Here and there fell a scanty ray of light on the wall, where hung the portraits of the ancestors of the princely house in the dress of their time. Many generations had dwelt in these rooms; stately men and beautiful women had danced here. Wine had been poured out in golden goblets; gracious words, festive speeches, and the soft murmur of love, had been heard here; the splendor of every former age had been outdone by the richer adornment of later ones. Now everything had vanished and withered; the darkness of night and of death hung over the bright colors. All those who had once moved about and rejoiced in the brilliant throng, had passed away into the depths. Nothing now remained of these hours but a dreary void and dismal stillness, and one single figure which glided about on the smooth floor, noiseless like a ghost. It was the lord of this castle. His head bent forward as in a dream, he passed along by the pictures of his ancestors.

"The timid doe has escaped," he whispered; "the panther made too short a spring: in rage and shame he now creeps back to his den. The powerful beast could not conceal his claws. The chase is over; it is time to set at rest the beatings of this breast. It was only a woman--a small, unknown human life. But the jade Fancy had bound my senses to her body; to her alone belonged whatever remained in me of warmth and devotion to human kind."

He stopped before a picture, on which fell the gloomy light of an expiring lamp.

"You, my steel-clad ancestor, know what the feeling is of him who flies from home and court, and has to give up to his enemy what is dear to him. When you fled from the castle of your fathers, a homeless fugitive, pursued by a pack of foreign mercenaries, there was misery in your heart, and you cast back a wild curse behind you. Still poorer does your descendant feel, who now glides fleeting through the inheritance that you have left him. To you remained hope in your hard heart; but I to-day have lost all that is worth the effort of life. She has escaped my guards. Where to? To her father's house on the rock! Cursed be the hour when I, deceived by her words, sent the boy among those mountains."

He dragged himself onward.

"The third station on the road to the end," he meditated, "is idle and empty play, and puerile tricks. So said the learned pedant. It coincides; I am transformed into a childish caricature of my nature. Miserable was the texture of the net which I drew around her; a firm will could have broken it in a moment. He was right; the game was childish: by a stroke of a quill I wished to hold him fast, and, before the art of the Magister had accomplished its purpose, I disturbed the success of the scheme by the trembling haste of my passion. When the news comes to him that his wife has fled, he also will pack up his books, and mock me at a safe distance. Bad player, who approached the gaming-table with a good method, to put piece after piece on the green cloth, and who in his madness flung down his purse and lost all in one throw. Curses upon him and me! He must not escape from me; he must not see her. Yet, what use is there in keeping him, unless I encase his limbs in iron, or conceal his body below, where we shall all be concealed when others obtain the power of doing what they will with us? You lie. Professor, when you compare me to your old Emperors. I am alarmed at the thought of things which they did laughing, and my brain refuses to think of what was once commanded by a short gesture of the hand. A ball and dice for two," he continued; "that is a merry game, invented by men of my sort; as it turns up, one falls and the other escapes. We will throw the dice. Professor, to see which of us shall do his opponent the last service; and I will greet you, dreamer, if I am the fortunate one that is carried to rest. Does thy wit, philosopher, extend far enough to see thy fate, as happened to that old astrologer, of whom thy Tiberius inquired about his own future? Let us try how wise you are."

He again stood still, and looked restlessly on the dark pictures.

"You shake your heads, you silent figures; many of you have done injury to others; but you are all honorably interred, with mourning marshals and funeral horses. Songs have been sung in your honor, and learned men have framed Latin elegies, and sighed that the golden shower has ceased that fell upon them from your hands. There stands one of you," he exclaimed, gazing with fixed eyes on a corner; "there hovers the spirit of woe, the dark shadow that passes through this house when misfortune approaches it--guilt and atonement It passes along bodiless to frighten fools, an apparition of my diseased mind. I see it raise its hand--it scares me. I am terrified at the images of my own brain. Away!" he called out, aloud, "away! I am the lord of this house."

He ran through the room and stumbled; the black shadow hastened behind him. The Sovereign fell upon the floor. He cried aloud for help through the desolate space. A valet hastened from the anteroom. He found his master lying on the ground.

"I heard a shrill cry," said the Sovereign, raising himself up; "who was it that screamed above my head?"

The servant replied, trembling:

"I know not who it was. I heard the cry, and hastened hither."

"It was myself, I suppose," the master returned, in a faltering tone; "my weakness overcame me."

* * *

In the early morning the Professor called to the Castellan, and rushed up the staircase of the tower. He went about the room, pushing boards and planks in all directions; he found many forgotten chests, but not that which he sought. He made the Castellan open each of the adjoining rooms; went through garrets and cellars; he examined the forester, who lived in a house near by, but the latter could give him no information. When the Scholar again entered his room, he laid his head on his hands; prolonged disappointment and the consciousness of his impotence overmastered him. But he chid and restrained himself.

"I have lost too much of the cool circumspection which Fritz said was the highest virtue of a collector. I must accustom myself to the thought of self-resignation, and calmly examine the hopes which still remain. I must not be ungrateful also for the little I have gained."

He could not sit quietly by the discovered leaves, but paced thoughtfully up and down. He heard voices in the court-yard; hasty running in the passages; and at last a lackey announced the arrival of the Sovereign, and that he wished to see the Professor at breakfast.

The table was spread among blooming bushes on the side of the tower that faced the rising sun. When the Professor entered under the roof which protected the place from rain and the rays of the sun, he found there, besides the household and Marshal, the forest officials and the Lord High Steward, who thought, with more anxiety than the Professor, of the sudden arrival of the Sovereign. The old lord approached the Scholar, and spoke on indifferent subjects.

"How long do you think of remaining here?" he asked, politely.

"I shall request permission to return to the city in an hour; I have accomplished what I had to do."

It was a long time before the princely party appeared. When the Sovereign approached them, all present were struck by his ill appearance: his movements were hurried, his features disturbed, and his looks passed unsteadily over the company. He turned first to the forester, who was in attendance, and asked him, harshly:

"How can you tolerate the disagreeable screaming of the daws on the tower? It was your business to remove them."

"Her Highness the Princess last summer requested that the birds be left."

"The noise is insupportable to me," said the Sovereign; "bring out the weapons, and prepare yourself to shoot among them."

As the practice of shooting was one of the regular country pleasures of the Court, and the Sovereign had, even in the neighborhood of the castle, frequently used his gun on birds of prey or other unusual objects, the Court thought less seriously of this commission than did the Scholar.

The Sovereign turned to the Lord High Steward.

"I am surprised to find your Excellency here," he said; "I did not know that you too had taken leave of absence for this quiet life."

"My gracious master would have been surprised if I had not done my duty. It was my intention to have reported to your Highness to-day at the palace concerning the health of the Princess."

"So it was for that," said the Sovereign. "I had forgotten that my Lord High Steward is never weary of his office of guardian."

"An office that one has exercised almost half a century in the service of the illustrious family becomes in fact a habit," replied the High Steward. "Your Highness has heretofore judged with kind consideration the zeal of a servant who is anxious to make himself useful."

The Sovereign turned to the Marshal, and asked, in a suppressed voice:

"Will he remain?"

The Marshal replied, distressed:

"I could obtain no promise, nor even a wish from him."

"I knew it already," replied the Sovereign, hoarsely. He turned to the Professor, and violently forced himself to assume a friendly demeanor, as he said: "I have heard from my daughter of your campaign against broken chairs. I wish to have some talk with you alone about it."

They sat down to table. The Sovereign gazed vacantly before him, and drank several glasses of wine; the Princess also sat silent, the conversation flagged, the High Steward alone became talkative. He asked about a bust of Winkelmann, and spoke of the lively interest which the nation took in the fate of their intellectual leaders.

"It must be an agreeable feeling," he said, politely, to the Professor, "to be in a certain measure under the protection of the whole civilized world. In the majority of cases the private life of our great men of learning passes away uneventfully, but our people delight in occupying themselves with the course of life of those who have departed. If happy accident brings a person into contact with gentlemen of your standing, he must take care that he does not suffer for all eternity under the hands of later biographers. I confess," he continued, laughing, "that a fear on this point has robbed me of many interesting acquaintances."

The Professor answered, quietly:

"The people are conscious that they have by the labor of scholars first been raised from misery; but with greater experience in political life, their interest in the promoters of our present culture will assume more moderate proportions."

"I have told the Sovereign that you have found something here," remarked the Princess, across the table.

"There has been a remarkable discovery made in an ancient sepulchre," interrupted the High Steward; and he gave a diffuse account of a funeral urn.

But now the Sovereign himself turned to the Scholar.

"Surely you may hope to find the rest?"

"Unfortunately, I do not know where to search further," replied the Professor.

"What you have found, then," continued the Sovereign, with self-control, "is unimportant."

It did not please the Professor that the conversation should again turn upon the manuscript; he felt annoyed at having to talk about his Romans.

"It is a few chapters from the sixth book of the Annals," he replied, with reserve.

"When your Highness was at Pompeii," interposed the High Steward, "the inscriptions on the walls attracted your attention. In those days a beautiful treatise upon the subject came into my hands; it is fascinating to observe the lively people of lower Italy in the unrestrained expression of their love and their hatred. One feels oneself transplanted as vividly into the old time by the naive utterances of the common people, as if one took a newspaper in one's hand that had been written centuries ago. If any one had told the citizens of Pompeii that at the end of eighteen centuries it would be known who they, in accidental ill-humor, had treated with hostility, they would hardly have believed it. We indeed are more cautious."

"That was the hatred of insignificant people," replied the Sovereign, absently. "Tacitus knew nothing of that, he only concerned himself about the scandal of the court. Probably he also held office."

The Princess looked uneasily at the Sovereign.

"Is there anything in the contents of the parchment leaves which would be interesting to us ladies?" she said, endeavoring to turn the conversation.

"Nothing new," replied the Scholar. "As I had the honor of telling your Highness, the same passage was already known to us from an Italian manuscript: it is about small events in the Roman senate."

"Quarrels of the assembled fathers," interposed the Sovereign, carelessly. "They were miserable slaves. Is that all?"

"At the end, there is another anecdote of the last years of Tiberius. The disturbed mind of the prince clung to astrology: he called astrologers to him to Capri, and caused those to be cast into the sea whom he suspected of deceit. Even the prudent Trasyllus was taken to him over the fatal rock path, and he announced the concealed secret of the Imperial life. Then the Emperor furtively asked of him whether he knew what would happen to himself that day? The philosopher inquired of the stars, and called out, trembling: 'My situation is critical; I see myself in danger of death.' At this passage our fragment breaks off. The incident may have been repeated--the same anecdote attaches to more than one princely life."

A couple of daws flew round the battlements of the tower, they cawed and screamed, and told one another that underneath there stood a sportsman who was seeking his game. The Sovereign suddenly arose.

"There must be an end to the screaming of these birds."

He beckoned to the forester. The man approached, and placed a weapon in his hands. The Sovereign placed the but-end on the ground and turned to the Professor, while the Princess, disquieted by the last words of the Scholar, stood aside with her suite, struggling for composure.

"The Princess has told me," began the Sovereign, "that you have some hesitation as to fulfilling a wish that we have all much at heart. I hope that the hindrances may not be insurmountable."

"It becomes me," replied the Professor, delighted by the kind words of the Sovereign, "to weigh calmly so honorable a proposal. But I have other things to take into account besides the cause of learning."

"What others?" asked the Sovereign.

"The wish of a loved wife," said the Professor. A sudden convulsion shook the limbs of the Sovereign.

"And how do you consider your relations to me?" asked the Sovereign, in a hoarse voice.

The Scholar looked at the man, from whose eyes darted a look of deadly hatred and malignity. He saw the muzzle of the weapon directed toward his breast, and the raised foot of the Sovereign feeling for the trigger. The flash of lightning impended, there was no room for flight, no time for movement; the thought of the last moment passed through his mind. He saw before him the distorted countenance of the Emperor Tiberius, and he said, in a low voice:

"I stand on the verge of death."

"The Sovereign is sinking," called out the High Steward.

He threw himself with outstretched arms towards his master, and seized his hands. The Sovereign tottered, the weapon fell to the ground, he himself was received in the arms of those who hastened toward him. The Princess flew up to them, and looked inquiringly into the pale face of the Scholar.

"The Sovereign has been attacked by a sudden dizziness," answered the latter calmly.

"My master is losing consciousness," cried the High Steward. "How are you, Mr. Werner?"

The hands of the old man trembled. The Sovereign lay senseless in the arms of his attendants, and was carried to the castle.

The by-standers expressed with much concern their terror at the event and the Princess hastened after the stricken Sovereign. Before the High Steward followed, he said to the Professor, whilst giving him a searching look:

"It is not the first time that the Sovereign has been taken ill in such a manner. Was that a surprise to you? You did not know that the Sovereign was suffering in this way?"

"I know it to-day," replied the Scholar, coldly.

A few minutes afterwards the High Steward entered the room of the Professor, who was preparing for his journey.

"I come to beg your indulgence," began the High Steward; "for I must trouble you with an acknowledgment which is painful to me. You have talked much lately in my presence to the Sovereign of the Caesarian madness of the Roman emperors. What you then said was very instructive to me."

"I now find," replied the Professor, gloomily, "that the place was ill chosen."

"More than you assume," replied the courtier, drily. "To me it was peculiarly instructive, but not so much what you said as that you said it. I should not have thought it possible that any one would so acutely reason upon the past, and so completely give up all judgment of that which was around him. You then told a sick man the story of his own disease."

"I have just discovered that," replied the Scholar.

"The Sovereign is diseased in mind. It is now necessary that you should know it. I have a second confession to make to you. I discover that I have misjudged you."

"I shall be glad if your present opinion is more favorable to me than the former one," replied the Professor, with dignity.

"In your point of view, yes," continued the High Steward. "I have for a long time regarded you in your relations here as a cautious man, who was cleverly following out his objects. I have learnt that you are not that, but something different."

"An honorable man, your Excellency," replied the Professor.

"We have nothing to reproach one another with," rejoined the courtier, bowing; "as you misjudged the Sovereign, so did I misunderstand you; but my mistake is the greater, for I am an older man, and I have not the excuse of a specially intellectual mind, which sometimes makes it difficult for a man to judge correctly of other natures. But we have both one excuse. It is seldom easy to form a just estimate of those who have grown up in other circles, and show a different combination of virtues and weaknesses. We are all liable to be confused in our judgment, according as our self-respect is satisfied or wounded. Where genial tendencies find no response, displeasure erects a barrier; and where powerful tones echo sympathetically to one's breast, there is the danger of too rapid intimacy. Thus I have put too low a value on your honorable openness and candor. I now pay the penalty, for I have to confide to you a secret that I have no doubt you will accept with proper regard."

"I assume that your Excellency does not make this communication to me without a specific cause."

"There is a plan for keeping you in our city," interposed the High Steward.

"Proposals of this nature have been made to me since yesterday."

The High Steward continued: "It is not necessary for me to be anxious about your answer. You have learnt the meaning which is concealed under a veil of civility. Do you know why the Sovereign made you the proposal?"

"No; up to this morning I have not doubted that a certain personal feeling of kindness, and the view that I might be useful here, were the motives."

"You are mistaken," replied the High Steward. "It is not a wish to keep you here merely for passing private interests. The real motive is, as appears to me, the freak of a diseased mind, which sees in you an opponent, and fears a sharp-sightedness that will remorselessly disclose to the world a diseased spirit. You were to be fettered here; you were to be cajoled, watched, and persecuted. You are an object of interest, of fear, and of aversion."

The Professor rose.

"What I have experienced and what you tell me compel me to leave this place instantly."

"I do not wish," said the High Steward, "that you shall depart from here with displeasure, if this can be avoided; both on your own account and for the sake of many of us."

The Professor went to the table, on which lay the parchment leaves.

"I beg your indulgence if I do not regain my composure immediately. The situation in which we are placed is like that of a distant century; it stands in fearful contrast to the cheerful security with which we are wont to consider our own lives and the souls of our contemporaries."

"Cheerful security?" asked the High Steward, sorrowfully. "In courts, at least, you must not seek this, nor under any circumstances in which the individual passes out of private life. Cheerful security! I must ask whether we have it in this century? It would be difficult to find a time in which there is so much that is insecure; in which the old is so decayed, and the new so weak."

The Professor raised his head, astonished at the bitter complaints of the old man. The High Steward continued, indignantly:

"I hear everywhere of the hopes that one has in the nation, and I see an abundance of young student-like confidence. There is not much mature power, and I do not blame a sanguine man if he places his hopes on it; nay, I even admit that this youthful spirit is in fact the best hope that we have. But I am an old man; I cannot among these novelties find anything that commands my respect, where they affect the interests of private life. I feel the decay of vital power in the air which surrounds me. My youth belonged to a time when the best culture of the nation was to be found at Court. My own ancestors have for six centuries taken an eager part in the follies and crimes, and also in the pride, of their times; and I have grown to be a man in the conception that princes and nobles were the born leaders of the nation. I see with sorrow that they have for long, perhaps for ever, lost this lead. Much of what you lately said exactly coincides with the last decades that I have passed through. It has been a sorrowful time; the hollow weakness in the life of the people has in a great measure deteriorated the higher classes. But there has not been altogether a deficiency of honorable and powerful men. What time has been entirely without them? But what should be the noblest blossom of the national strength is just what in this empty shallow time is most deeply diseased."

The Professor interposed:

"It is a cause for sorrow; but where, perhaps, the individual loses, the whole gains?"

"Undoubtedly not," replied the courtier; "if only the gain to the whole was certain. But I see with astonishment that the greatest concerns of the nation are carried on, on all sides, with school-boyish pettiness. Much that is valuable is lost; nothing better is gained. The delicacy of feeling which formerly expressed itself beneficially in all forms of intercourse, and the discreet management of important affairs, become rare. If these advantages did not suffice to form the character, as is perhaps needed in the present, they made life pleasing and beautiful. A secure feeling of superiority, and a gracious rule over others, was general at courts and in business; of this we are deprived. Diplomacy has ceased to be distinguished. One sets bluntly to work; not only nobleness of feeling, but even the pleasing show of it is wanting; an uncertain pettiness, a grumbling, irritable, reserved character has gained the upper hand at courts, and in diplomacy ill-bred frivolity, without knowledge and without manly will. Our princes rattle about like accoutred idlers; the old court discipline is lost, and one feels oneself incessantly on the defensive, and seeks for safety in senseless attacks. It is impossible not to feel that by these acts one is irretrievably going downward."

The Professor smiled at the sorrow of the old lord.

"I do not blame you," continued the High Steward, "if you do not feel the misfortune of this change as deeply as I do. It is only a pity that it should always be the highest earthly interests which are thus trifled with."

"But is this misfortune so general?" replied the Professor.

"Some splendid exceptions have not been wanting," said the High Steward; "some were granted us at a time when we played the greatest tragedy before the world, as if here and there to preserve a bright romance. They have scarcely been wanting in a country which possesses the five qualities which are necessary to form a good court: an upright sovereign, an amiable princess, a high-minded statesman, some intellectual court ladies, and a superior spirit among the cavaliers. But these requisites are seldom found."

"Were they ever frequent?"

"They were the pride of our nation at the time from which my earliest recollections date," replied the High Steward.

"Just at this time we gained something else of which we may still be proud," rejoined the Scholar. "There was a short period during which the Court became the home of the most liberal culture of the time, and it was only through the rare political circumstances of our nation that this leadership was possible. Now it has passed into other circles, and we have exchanged the increased capacity of many for the distinguished culture of individuals."

"In this also there is a loss," returned the High Steward; "distinguished men have become rare. I am ready to acknowledge the advance which the citizen classes have made in the last fifty years. But the capacity which a people develop in trade and commerce is seldom united with secure self-respect, nay, seldom also with that firmly-established position which is necessary to political strength. Too frequently we find a wavering between discontented insolence and over-great subserviency; covetousness abounds, and self-sacrifice is small. Wealth increases everywhere; who can deny that? But not in the same degree a comprehension of the highest interests of the nation."

"Time will improve," rejoined the Scholar, "and our sons will become firmer and freer; here too our future belongs to those who work laboriously."

"Much may be lost," said the High Steward, "before the improvement which you expect becomes great enough to secure to those who are struggling onward a salutary and active participation in the affairs of government. I am too old to nourish myself with hopes, and therefore cannot adopt your sanguine conception of our situation. I wish for the good of our nation, in whatever way it may come. I know it has passed through crises more critical than its present swaying between a decaying and a rising culture. But I feel that the air in which I live is growing more sultry; the tense excitement of contrast more dangerous. When I look back on a long life, I sometimes feel horror at the moral pestilence that I have contemplated. It was not a time of gigantic vices like your Imperial era, but it was a time in which, after short poetic dreams, the weakness of petty souls ruled and brought distraction. The figures which in this lamentable time have passed away will appear to posterity, not fearful, but grotesque and contemptible. You, Professor, live in a new epoch in which a younger generation awkwardly endeavors to rise. I have no sympathy for the new style. I have not the courage to hope, for I have no power to promote the culture of the younger generation."

He had risen. The old man and the young, vigorous man, the diplomat and the scholar, stood opposite to each other; the one an advocate for the world which was tending downwards; the other a proclaimer of a teaching which was unceasingly to renew the old world; secret sorrow lay on the calm countenance of the old man, and feeling, vigorous feeling, worked in the animated features of the younger: a high mind and a refined spirit were visible in the open countenance of both.

"What we had to say to one another," continued the High Steward, "is said. I have endeavored to make amends for my mistake in regard to you. May the gossiping openness with which I have exposed myself to your judgment be some small compensation for my having been so long silent. It is the best satisfaction that I can give to a man of your sort. As respects the diseased state of mind of others, which was the subject of our conversation, there need be no further words between us; both of us will endeavor to do what is our duty concerning the men that are entrusted to our care, to preserve them from danger and to guard ourselves. Mr. Werner, farewell. May the occupation which you have chosen preserve your joyful confidence in your time and your generation for as many years as I bear on my head. This highest happiness of man, I, an insignificant individual, have painfully felt the want of, as did your great Roman."

"Allow me, your Excellency, to express one request to you," replied the Scholar, with warm feeling. "Often may the unpractical activity of the new apostles evoke a bitter smile from you, and the unfinished work which we pioneers of learning throw off will not always satisfy the demands which you make upon us; but when you are compelled to blame us, remember, with forbearance, that our nation can only bear within it the guaranty of renewing youth so long as it does not lose respect for intellectual aspiration, and retains its simple honesty, in love and hate. So long as the nation renews itself, it may inspire its princes and leaders with new life; for we are not Romans, but staunch and warm-hearted Germans."

"Nero no longer ventures to burn the apostles of a new doctrine," replied the High Steward, with a sad smile. "May I say something kindly from you to the Sovereign, as far as is compatible with your dignity?"

"I beg you to do so," replied the Professor.

The Professor hastened to take leave of the Princess. She received him in the presence of her ladies and the Marshal. Few words were exchanged. Upon expressing the hope of seeing him soon again at the capital, speech almost forsook her. When he had left the room, she flew up to her library and looked down on the carriage into which the chest was being put. She plucked some flowers which the gardener had placed in her room, and fastened them together with a ribbon.

"His eye looked upon you, and his voice sounded in the narrow halls in which you are passing your life. It was a short dream! No, not a dream, a beautiful picture from a new world."

"As the womanly heart submits, in loving devotion, to the stronger mind of a life-companion, her eye fixed upon his, such is the happiness of which I have had a presage. Only once has my hand touched his, but I feel as if I had lain on his heart, invisible, bodiless. No one knows it, not even himself, I alone felt the happiness. Light, airy bond, woven of the tenderest threads that ever were drawn from one human soul to another, thou must be torn and blown away! Only the consciousness remains that the inclination which drew two strangers together has been forever a blessing to one of them.

"You, earnest man, go on your path, and I on mine; and if accident should bring us together, then we shall bow civilly to each other, and greet one another with courtly speeches. Farewell, my scholar. When I meet with one of your associates, I shall henceforth know that he belongs to the silent community, in whose porch I have humbly bowed my head."

From the tops of the trees on which the princely child was looking down the birds were singing. The carriage rolled away; she bent down, and held the nosegay with outstretched hand; then with a powerful swing she threw the flowers on to the top of a tree; they hung among the leaves; a little bird flew out, but the next moment he again perched by the nosegay, and continued his song. But the Princess leaned her head against the wall of the tower.

The Scholar drove to the city with the chest he had found beside him. More rapid and stormy than on his coming were the thoughts that flitted through his soul; he hastened the coachman, and an indefinite anxiety fixed his looks on the rising towers of the capital. But amidst all, he ever saw the figure of the High Steward before him, and heard the sorrowful words of his soft voice.

"Immeasurably great is the difference between the narrow relations of this Court and the mighty greatness of Imperial Rome; immeasurably great also the difference between the troubled Court lord and the gloomy power of a Roman senator. And yet there is something in the structure of the soul that has this day displayed itself to me which reminds me of a figure from a time long past; and what he said sounds in my soul like a feeble tone from the heart of the man whose work I seek in vain. For just as we endeavor to explain the present from the past, so do we interpret circumstances and figures of a past time in the light of the men that live around us. The past unceasingly sends its spirit into our souls, and we unceasingly adapt the past to conform to the needs of our hearts."

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE MAGISTER'S EXIT.

Professor Raschke was sitting on the floor of his room. The bright colors of his Turkish dressing-gown were faded; constant perseverance in scientific service had given it a tinge of pale grey, but it still continued worthily to cover the limbs of its master. The Professor had seated himself by the side of his eldest son Marcus, in order to facilitate the latter's study of the first book of A, B, C. While the little one, tired of the pictures, was resting, his father made use of the pause to draw a small copy of Aristotle out of his pocket. He read, and made remarks with a pencil, not observing that his son Marcus had long thrown away the picture book, and with the other children danced round their father.

"Papa, take your legs away; we can't get round them," exclaimed Bertha, the eldest, from whom, indeed, one might have expected greater discretion.

Raschke drew in his legs, and as after that he found his seat uncomfortable, he desired the children to bring him a chair. They brought the chair, and he supported his back against it.

"We can't get around yet," cried the dancing children.

Raschke looked up. "Then I will sit upon the chair."

That was satisfactory to the children, and the noisy hubbub continued.

"Come here, Bertha," said Raschke; "you may act as my desk." He laid the book on her head whilst he read and wrote; and the little one stood as still as a mouse under the book, and scolded the others because they made a noise.

There was a knock; the Doctor entered.

"Ha, Fritz!" called out the Professor; "I hardly recognized you; I must try to recall your face. Is it right to set your friends aside in this way, when a friendly greeting might do you good? Laura has told me what has happened to your dear father. A heavy loss," he continued, sorrowfully: "if I am not mistaken, two hundred thousand."

"Just one cipher too much."

"It matters little," replied Raschke, "what the loss is, compared with the sorrow it occasions. I should have been with you, Fritz, at that time. I started immediately, but a circumstance interfered with my intention," he added, embarrassed. "I have long been accustomed to go to your street in the evening, and--well--I got to the wrong house, and with difficulty found my way back to the lecture."

"Do not pity me," replied the Doctor; "rejoice with me--I am a happy man. I have just now found, what I despaired of obtaining, Laura's heart and the consent of her father."

Raschke clapped the Doctor on the shoulder, and pressed first one hand, then the other. "The father's!" he exclaimed; "he was the hindrance. I know something of him, and I know his dog. If I may judge of the man by his dog," he continued, doubtingly, "he must be a character. Is it not so, my friend?"

The Doctor laughed. "There has been an old enmity brooding over our street. My poor soul has been unkindly treated by him, like the Psyche in the tale of Venus. He vents his anger upon me, and gives me insoluble tasks. But beneath all his insolence, I perceive that he is reconciled to my attachment. I anticipate happiness, for I am to-day to accompany Laura to Bielstein. On my friend's account alone have I wished to start earlier on this journey. I cannot rid myself of one anxiety. I am disturbed that the Magister is in the neighborhood of Werner."

Raschke passed his hand through his hair. "Indeed," he exclaimed.

"I have distinct reasons for this," continued the Doctor. "The dealer who was said, to have brought the forged parchment strip of Struvelius to the city was sent to me by the mother of the Magister. I dealt severely with him, as was natural; but he assured me that he knew nothing of such a parchment, and never had sold such a sheet to the Magister. The anger of the man at the false assertion of the Magister has made me very anxious. It confirms a suspicion that I have expressed in a letter with respect to the genuineness of another piece of writing which has been mentioned to me by Werner from the capital. I cannot help fearing that the Magister himself was the forger, and a terror comes over me at the thought that he is now exercising his art upon our friend."

"That is a very serious affair," exclaimed Raschke, pacing up and down, disquieted. "Werner trusted the Magister implicitly."

The Doctor also paced up and down. "Only think, if his noble confidence should make him the victim of a deceit. Fancy what a bitter sorrow that would be to him. He would long struggle sternly and self-tormentingly with a painful impression, which we should not be able to obliterate without great effort."

"You are quite right," said Raschke, again passing his hand through his hair. "It is not in him to be able to overcome moral delinquency without great excitement. You must warn him at once, and that face to face."

"Unfortunately I cannot do that for several days; meanwhile, I beg of you to make Professor Struvelius acquainted with the statement of the dealer."

The Doctor went away. Raschke forgot Aristotle, and meditated anxiously on the treachery of the Magister. Whilst so doing, there was a knock, and Struvelius, with Flaminia, stood at the open door.

Raschke greeted them, called his wife, begged them to sit down, and quite forgot that he was in his Turkish dressing-gown.

"We come with one wish," began Flaminia, solemnly. "It is with respect to our colleague Werner. My husband will impart to you what has moved us both deeply."

Raschke started up from his chair. Struvelius, whose emotion was only visible in his bristly hair, began: "We were called yesterday to the police-station. When the brother of Magister Knips fled to America, his things were taken possession of on the application of petty creditors, and as the greater portion of his effects were at his mother's house, they were taken away from there. Amongst them were utensils and portfolios which evidently did not belong to the fugitive, but to his brother; one of those portfolios contained tracings after the style of manuscripts, unfinished attempts to imitate old writings, and written parchment sheets. The officials had been surprised at these, and requested me to inspect them. It appeared upon closer observation that the Magister had long been occupied in acquiring the skill of imitating the characters of the Middle Ages. And from the fragments I have found in the portfolio, there can be no doubt that he has other forgeries in his collection, some of which answer exactly to that parchment strip."

"That is enough, Struvelius," began his wife. "Now let me speak. You may imagine, dear colleague, that Werner at once occurred to us, and that we were greatly alarmed lest the husband of our friend should get into trouble through the deceiver. I asked Struvelius to write Professor Werner, but he preferred to inform him through you. This method also appeared most satisfactory to me."

Raschke, without saying a word, took off his dressing-gown, and ran in his shirt-sleeves about the room, searching in all the corners. At last he found his hat, which he put on.

"What are you about, Raschke!" exclaimed his wife.

"Why do you ask?" he said, hastily; "there is no time for delay. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Struvelius," he said observing his sleeves, and again put on his dressing-gown, but in his excitement he still kept on his hat, and thus attired, seated himself opposite his friends. Bertha, at a sign from her mother, gently took his hat off.

"A quick decision is necessary in this case," he repeated.

"There is no reason," continued Struvelius, "for withholding the property of the Magister from his mother; but, meanwhile, they would willingly allow you an inspection of the writings."

"That I do not wish," exclaimed Raschke; "it would spoil the day for me. Your judgment, Struvelius, satisfies me."

There was some further excited interchange of views, and the visitors left. Again Raschke rushed stormily about, so that the skirts of his dressing-gown flew over the chairs.

"Dear Aurelia, do not be frightened; I have made up my mind. I shall set out to-morrow."

Mrs. Raschke clasped her hands together.

"What are you thinking of, Raschke?"

"It is necessary," he said. "I despair of shaking the firm views of Werner by letter. My duty is to try whether persuasive words and detailed representations will have greater effect. I must know in what relation my friend stands to the Magister. From certain intimations of the Doctor, I fear the worst from the activity of the forger. I have a short vacation before me, and I cannot employ it better."

"But, Raschke, you wish to travel!" asked his wife, reproachfully. "How can you engage in such an undertaking?"

"You mistake me, Aurelia; in our city I sometimes do lose my bearings, but in foreign parts I always find my way."

"Because you have never yet been alone in foreign parts," replied the prudent wife.

Raschke approached her, and raised his hand warningly.

"Aurelia, it is for our friend, and one must pay no regard to trifles."

"You will never get there," rejoined his wife, with sad foreboding.

"It is much easier to speed through half the world in a secure vessel than to go on two legs through our streets; half acquaintances are the most unreliable."

"Then the money for the journey, Raschke?" whispered Mrs. Aurelia, in a low voice, that the children might not hear.

"You have in your linen cupboard an old black savings-box," replied Raschke, slily. "Do you think I know nothing of it?"

"What I have collected in that is for a new dress-coat."

"You wish to take away from me my old one?" asked Raschke, indignantly; "it is well that I have made the discovery. I would now travel to the capital even if I had no occasion for it. Out with the box!"

Mrs. Aurelia went slowly, brought the savings-box, and with silent reproach, put it into his hands. The Professor tossed the money, together with the box, into his breeches' pocket, threw his arm round his wife, and kissed her on the forehead.

"You are my own dear wife," he exclaimed; "and now there must be no delay. Bring me Plato and Spinoza."

Plato was the silk cap, and Spinoza the thick cloak of the Professor. These treasures of the house were so called because they had been bought with the money earned by two books on those philosophers. The impression which the works had made on the learned world had been very great, but the remuneration very small. A commotion arose among the children, for in winter these beautiful articles were sometimes brought out for a Sunday walk. The little troop ran with their mother to fetch them.

"Be sure and bring them back, Raschke. I am so afraid you will lose one of them."

"As I have told you, Aurelia, in traveling you may depend upon me."

"I will write a few lines to Werner; he must take care that you keep them both. I will put the letter in your coat pocket, if you will only give it to him."

"Why not?" exclaimed Raschke, courageously.

The following morning Mrs. Aurelia accompanied her husband to the point from which the coach started and took care that he came to the right place.

"If you were only safely home again!" she said, piteously.

Raschke kissed her gallantly, and seated himself on his traveling-bag.

"The seats are remarkably high," he cried out, with his legs dangling. His traveling companions laughed, and he said, civilly, "I beg the gentlemen to excuse me."

* * *

The lamps burned, and the moon shone through the white mist on the walls of the Pavilion when the Professor returned there. No ray of light fell from the windows. The house stood gloomy and abandoned, and a blue phosphorescence seemed to glimmer above it. The door was closed; the lackey had disappeared. The Scholar pulled the bell. At last some one came down the stairs. Gabriel appeared, and gave vent to a cry of joy when he saw his master before him.

"How is my wife?" asked the Professor.

"Mrs. Werner is not at home," replied Gabriel, shyly. He beckoned his master into the room: there he gave him Ilse's letter. The Professor read the lines, and held them in his hands as if stunned. This also was a manuscript which he had found. It informed him that his wife had gone from him: every word went like a dagger to his heart. When he looked at Gabriel he perceived that he did not yet know all. The servant told him what had happened. The Scholar pushed the chair from him; his limbs trembled as in a fever.

"We will leave this house immediately," he said, faintly; "collect all the things."

Like a Romish priest who prays in secret devotion to his God, he had veiled his head from the sounds which sought to penetrate his soul from the outward world. He had closed his ears and eyes to the figures that moved about him. Now fate had torn the veil from his head.

"Mr. Hummel would not depart before your arrival," continued Gabriel; "he is in great haste."

"I shall go to his inn; follow me," said the Professor; "but first mention at the castle that I have departed."

He turned away and left the house. As he passed by the castle, he cast a wild look on the windows of the room which the Sovereign inhabited. "He is not returned yet; patience," he murmured. He then went, as if in a state of stupor, to the inn. He ordered a room, and inquired after his landlord. Immediately afterwards Mr. Hummel entered.

"Good news," began the latter, in his softest tone; "a messenger from the Crown Inspector brings me the report that they have all made a safe journey. It must have been a matter of caution that there is no letter for you."

"It was indeed a matter of caution," repeated the Scholar, and his head sank heavily on his breast.

Mr. Hummel seated himself close to him, and whispered in his ear. At the last words the Professor sprang up in terror, and a groan sounded through the room.

"A man is not a screech owl," declared Mr. Hummel, pacifyingly; "and it would be unjust to expect of him that he should be able to distinguish in the darkness the head from the tail of a rat; but every householder knows that there are also worthless contrivances of architecture. These intimations I make to you only, to no one else. I sent my card a few days ago to your father-in-law. Little Fritz Hahn has, in your absence, become a Doctor Faustus, who will carry off my poor child under his fiend's cloak to Bielstein. May I announce your arrival there?"

"Say," replied the Scholar, gloomily, "that I will come as soon as I have settled matters here."

He held Mr. Hummel firmly by the hand, as if he did not like to part from the confidant of his wife, and led him down to the hall. New travelers had arrived there, and a little gentleman in a cloak and a beautiful silk traveling-cap, turned, without looking from under a large umbrella, to the Professor, and said:

"I should be much obliged if you would show me to a room, waiter. Am I in the right place here?"

He mentioned the name of the city; the Professor took the gentleman's traveling-bag from him, seized him by the arm without saying a word, and took him rapidly up the stairs.

"Very polite," exclaimed Raschke, "I thank you sincerely, but I am not at all tired; my only wish is to speak to Professor Werner. Can you arrange for an audience with him?"

Werner opened his room, took off his hat, and embraced him.

"My dear colleague," cried Raschke, "I am the most fortunate traveler in the world: usually a pilgrim on the highroad is contented if no misfortune happens to him, but I have met in the carriage with modest and thoughtful men. The conductor on changing carriages carried my cap after me, and some one kindly accompanied me to this house; and now when, for the first time, I stand on my own feet, I find myself in the arms of him whom I came to see. It is a pleasure to travel, colleague: at every mile-stone one observes how good and warm-hearted the people are among whom we live. We are fools that we do not deliver our lectures in carriages; the anxieties of our wives are unjustifiable; a man can manage by himself."

Thus did Raschke exult.

"Who lives in this room--I or you?"

"You may remain with me or have the adjacent room, as you please," replied Werner.

"Then with you; for I wish to be without you, my friend, as little as possible."

"You come to a man who is in need of consolation," said the Scholar. "My wife is with her father; I am alone," he added, with faltering voice.

"You look to me like a traveler who draws his cloak around him in bad weather," exclaimed Raschke; "therefore what I bring you will at any rate not disturb you in cheerful repose. My business as messenger is to lower a human soul in your eyes; that is hard for us both."

"I have to-day experienced what would shatter the foundations of the strongest structure. There can be but little that would shock me now: I am composed enough to listen."

Raschke seated himself by him and told his story. He fidgeted about on the sofa, slapped his friend on the knee, stroked his arm, and begged for composure.

Again was a veil drawn from the head of the seeker, who had believed himself to be speaking alone with his God. The Scholar was silent, and did not flinch.

"This is fearful, friend?" he said, at last.

With that he broke off, and the whole evening he did not say a word about the Magister.

The following morning the Professors sat together in Werner's room. Werner at last threw the two parchment sheets on the table.

"With these at least the Magister has had nothing to do. I myself fetched them out of the old rubbish: there lies the missal on the chest. It demands great self-control for me to look at that dearly-bought acquisition."

Raschke examined the parchment.

"Highly valuable," he exclaimed, "if it is genuine, as it appears." He hastened to the chest and examined the missal. "Probably the initial letters of the book will afford some evidence as to whether the missal was used in the cloister of Rossau," he said. "I regret that my knowledge of monastic customs does not extend to this test."

He opened the chest and took up the contents. Of the absence of mind which usually disturbed him nothing was to be observed: he looked round with sharp eyes, as if he were searching the dark words of a philosopher.

"Very remarkable," he exclaimed. "Only one thing surprises me. Has the chest been cleaned out?"

"No," replied Werner, irritably.

"The three companions of a century's repose are wanting--dust, cobwebs, and grubs; yet there ought to have been something on the inside of the lid or on the bottom, for the chest has crevices which allow of the entrance of insects."

He rummaged again, and examined the bottom.

"Under a splinter of wood there hangs a bit of paper."

He drew out a tiny piece of paper, and a deep shadow passed over his noble features.

"Dear friend, compose yourself, and be prepared for an unwelcome discovery. On this fragment there are only six printed words, but they are the characters of our time: it is a piece of one of our newspapers, and one of the six words is a name well known in the politics of our day."

He laid the bit of paper on the table. Werner stared at it without saying a word; his countenance was changed; it seemed as if one hour had done the work of twenty years of care.

"The things were unpacked by me and again put back; it is possible that the paper may have fallen in."

"It is possible," replied Raschke.

The Professor jumped up, and sought in great haste for his pocket copy of Tacitus.

"Here is the reading of the Florentine manuscript, comparison with the parchment sheets will throw light on it." He compared some sentences. "It appears an accurate copy," he said, "too accurate--awkwardly accurate."

He held the manuscript searchingly towards the light; he poured a drop of water on the corner of the parchment and wiped it with a towel; the next moment he flung towel and parchment to the ground, and clasped his hands over his face. Raschke seized the leaves, and looked at the damaged corner.

"It is true," he exclaimed, sorrowfully; "a writing that had been on the parchment six hundred years would leave other traces on the material."

He paced hastily up and down, his hands in his coat pocket, rubbed his face with the towel, and, perceiving his mistake, threw it away from him.

"I only know of one word for this," he exclaimed--"a word that men unwillingly allow to pass their lips--and that word is villainy!"

"It was a piece of vile and rascally knavery," exclaimed Werner, in a strong voice.

"Here let us stop, friend," begged Raschke; "we know that a deception has been intended; we know that the attempt has been made lately; and when we compare the place of the discovery and your presence here, we may assume as a fact, without doing injustice to any one, that the trick was intended to deceive you. Of the person who has practiced it we have only suspicion, well-grounded suspicion, but no certainty."

"We will make it certainty," explained Werner, "before the day becomes many hours older."

"Undoubtedly," replied Raschke, "this certainty must be obtained, for suspicion ought not to continue in the hearts of men; it destroys all ideas and thoughts. But the ultimate question remains: For what object was the deceit practiced? Was it the willfulness of a knave? If so, the wickedness of it is not, to an honorable mind, thereby lessened; yet it is not the worst kind of turpitude. But if it was deliberate malice with intent to injure you, then it deserves the severest condemnation. On what terms are you with the Magister?"

"It was deliberate malice to injure a man, body and soul," replied the Professor, with solemn earnestness; "but the doer was only the tool--the idea was that of another."

"Hold," cried Raschke, again, "no further; this also is only suspicion."

"It is only suspicion," repeated the Professor; "therefore I seek for certainty. When I wished to go to the country castle I was detained from day to day under trivial pretexts; the Magister was absent not long ago for a day from the work which was entrusted to him; he excused himself on the score of illness, and as he was profuse in his excuses I was struck by a shyness in his manner. There was a wish to keep me here for reasons which you, in your sphere of feelings, can scarcely understand. It was hoped to attain this object by exciting the fanatical zeal with which I was afflicted, without entirely contenting it. Such is my suspicion, friend; and I feel myself miserable, more miserable than I have ever been in my life."

He threw himself on the sofa, and again concealed his face.

Raschke approached him, and said, softly:

"Does it distress you so much, Werner, that you have been deceived?"

"I have confided, and deceived confidence gives pain; but in my sorrow I feel not only for myself, but for the destruction of another who belongs to us."

Raschke nodded his head. He again paced vehemently about the room, and looked angrily at the chest. Werner rose and rang the bell.

"I wish to speak to Magister Knips," he said, to Gabriel, who entered. "I must beg him to take the trouble of coming here as soon as possible."

"How will you speak to him?" asked Raschke, stepping anxiously before his friend.

"I need so much consideration myself," replied Werner, "that you need not fear my violence. I also have been laboring under a disease, and I know that I have to speak to one who is more diseased than I."

"You are not diseased," exclaimed Raschke, "only shocked, as I am. You will say what is necessary to him, for the rest you will leave him to his own conscience."

"I will only say what is necessary," repeated the Professor, mechanically.

Gabriel returned, and reported that the Magister would call when he left the Museum in the evening.

"How did the Magister take the message?" asked Raschke.

"He appeared alarmed when I told him that the Professor was stopping at the inn."

The Professor had ensconced himself in a corner, but the philosopher left him no rest; he kept talking to him about the occurrences at the University, and compelled him to take part by frequent questions. At last he expressed a wish to take a walk, to which the Professor unwillingly consented.

Werner led him through the gate of the city; as they walked along he briefly answered the lively talk of his friend. When they came to the inn from which Ilse had got into the carriage of the Crown Inspector, the Scholar began, with hoarse voice:

"This is the road along which my wife escaped from the city. I came early this morning along this same road, and at every step I felt what is the deepest humiliation to man."

"Before her was light, and behind her darkness," exclaimed Raschke.

He talked of Ilse, and now thought of the commission which his children had given to their aunt.

Thus the afternoon passed. Werner again sat brooding in his room, when Gabriel announced the arrival of the Magister. Before Raschke hastened into the next room, he once more pressed the hand of the other, and, looking imploringly at him, said:

"Be calm, friend."

"I am calm," replied he.

Magister Knips had profited by the refining influence of the Court. His black suit had been made by a tailor who had the princely coat of arms above his workshop; his hair was free from feathers, and his vocabulary had been replenished with new expressions of respect. He now looked furtively and defiantly around him.

Werner measured the man as he entered with a steady look; if, before, he had had a doubt of the guilt of the Magister, he now recognized it. He turned away for a moment in order to struggle with his aversion.

"Examine this," he said, pointing with his finger to the parchment leaves.

Knips took a leaf in his hand, and the parchment trembled as he cast a shy glance upon it.

"It is another forgery," said the Professor; "the reading of the first Florentine manuscript, and even the peculiarities of its orthography, are copied with a careful accuracy which would have been impossible to any old transcriber. The writing, too, betrays itself to be recent."

The Magister laid the sheet down, and answered, with hesitation:

"It appears undoubtedly to be an imitation of an old script, as the Professor has already discovered."

"I found this work," continued the Scholar, "in the tower of the castle in the country, inserted in that torn missal, laid in that chest, and concealed among old furniture. And you, Magister, have prepared this leaf, and you have concealed it in this place. That is not all. Long before, in order to put me on a false track, you placed the register of a chest in the old records; you invented the figures 1 and 2 for the chests, and further, you yourself wrote the register in order to deceive me."

The Magister stood with lowered head, seeking for an answer. He did not know on what confession of others these deliberate assertions were grounded. Had the Castellan betrayed him? Had the Sovereign himself exposed him? Terror came over him, but he replied, doggedly:

"I did not do it."

"In vain do you seek to deceive me anew," continued the Scholar. "If I had not already sufficient ground to say to your face that you did this, your demeanor in the presence of this sheet would be ample evidence. No sound of astonishment, no word of horror at such an attempt at forgery escaped you. What true scholar would look upon such a thing and remain silent, if his own conscience did not close his mouth? What have I done to you, Magister, that you should inflict upon me this bitter anguish? Give me some excuse for your action. Have I ever injured you? Have I ever aroused in you secret ill-will against me? Any reason that will make this abomination comprehensible will be welcome to me; for I look with dismay on this depravation of a human soul."

"The Professor has never given me any ground for complaint," replied Knips, submissively.

"Nevertheless," said the Professor, "in cold blood, with indifference, with malicious levity, you have done your worst to me: it was wrong, very wrong, Magister."

"Perhaps it was only a jest," sighed the Magister; "perhaps it was only put in that way to him who prepared the writing. He only perhaps acted by the command of another, not by free choice, and not of his own will."

"What power on earth could command you to practice towards another so deliberate a piece of knavery?" asked the Professor, sorrowfully. "You yourself know right well what consequences this deception may have for myself and others."

Magister Knips was silent.

"I have done with you," continued the Scholar. "I shall say nothing of the plan which this falsehood was to serve nor make any further reproaches concerning the injury that you have practiced towards a man who trusted in your honor."

He threw the parchment under the table. Knips seized his hat silently to leave the room.

"Stop!" exclaimed the Professor; "do not move from the spot. I must be silent as to what you have endeavored to do personally against me. It is not so much on account of this manuscript that I have sent for you. But the man whom I see before me, on whom I look with an abhorrence that I have never yet felt, is something more than an unscrupulous tool in the service of a stranger; he is an unfaithful philologist, a traitor to learning, a forger, and deceiver in that in which only honorable men have a right to live, a cursed man, for whom there is no repentance and no mercy."

The Magister's hat fell to the ground.

"You wrote the parchment strip of Struvelius; the trader has informed against you in your native city. Your writings are confiscated and are in the hands of the police."

The Magister still remained silent. He fumbled for his pocket-handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

"Now, at least, speak out," cried Werner. "Give me an explanation of the fearful riddle, how any one who belonged to us could willfully destroy all that made his life noble. How could a man of your attainments become untrue to science in so despicable a way?"

"I was poor and my life full of trouble," replied Knips, in a low voice.

"Yes, you were poor. From your earliest youth you have worked from morning to night; even as a child you have denied yourself much that others thoughtlessly enjoy. You have in this way the secret consciousness of having obtained for yourself inward freedom, and a humble friendship with the great spirit of our life. Yes, you have grown up to be a man amidst countless sacrifices and self-denials which others fear. You have thus learnt and taught what is the highest possession of man. In every proof-sheet that you have read for the assistance of others, in every index of words that you have drawn up for a classical work, in every word that you have corrected, in every number that you have written, you have been obliged to be truthful. Your daily work was an unceasing, assiduous struggle against what was false and wrong. Yet more, and worse than that, you have been no thoughtless day-laborer; you have fully and entirely belonged to us; you were, in fact, a scholar, from whose learning many with higher pretensions have frequently taken counsel. You not only treasured in your mind a mass of rare knowledge, but you well comprehend the thoughts to which such knowledge gives rise. You were all this--and yet a forger. With true devotion and self-denial, you united malicious willfulness; you were a confidential and assiduous assistant, and at the same time a deceiver, bold and mocking like a devil."

"I was a tortured man," began Knips. "He who has lived otherwise does not know how difficult it is, in the service of science, to be ever following in the foot-steps of others. You have never worked for others who knew less than yourself. You do not understand the feeling that possesses one when others use haughtily, without acknowledgement and without thanks, what one has given them from one's own knowledge. I am not insensible to friendship. The Professor was the first who, in the last lines of the introduction of his maiden work, mentioned my name because I had been of use to him. And yet I have done less for you than any other of my old patrons. The copy which you then gave me I have put in the place of honor among my books. Whenever I have felt tired from my night's work I have read those lines; I have seldom experienced the like kindliness. But I have felt the torment of having more knowledge than I had credit for, and I have had no opportunity to work my way out of my narrow sphere. That has been the cause of all."

The Magister suddenly stopped.

"It was pride," said the Professor, sorrowfully, "it was envy, that burst forth from an oppressed life against more fortunate ones, who, perhaps, did not know more; it was the craving for superiority over others."

"It was that," continued Knips, plaintively. "First came the idea of mocking those who employed and despised me. I thought, if I chose, I had you in my power, my learned colleagues. Then it became a purpose and took fast hold on me. I have sat many nights working at it before I went so far, and frequently have I thrown away what I have done, Professor, and hid it under my books. But I was allured to go on, it became my pride to master the art. When at last I had done so, it was a pleasure to me to make use of it. It was less for the gain than for the superiority it gave me."

"It is easy," replied the Professor, "to deceive men of our sort where they are accustomed to place firm confidence. Where the acuteness that we acquire in our work is not brought into play, many of us are like children, and he who is colder and wishes to deceive may easily for a time play with us. It is a weak glory to exercise the art of Satan against the innocent."

"I knew that it was a devil with whom I was dealing; I knew it from the first day, Professor, but I could not guard myself from him. Thus it was," concluded Knips, seating himself exhausted on the chest.

"Thus it was, Magister," exclaimed Werner, raising himself up; "but thus it cannot remain. You were one of us, you can no longer be so. You have done an injury to the highest good which is granted to the race of man--the honor of learning. You yourself knew that he who endangers this honor is a mortal enemy to our souls. In our realm, where error daily threatens the limited powers of individuals, the determination to be true is a preliminary which none can be wanting in, without involving others in his own destruction."

"I was only an assistant," sighed Knips, "and few cared about me. If others had esteemed me as a scholar it would not have happened."

"You considered yourself so, and you had a right to do so," rejoined the Professor. "You felt the pride of your learning, and you well knew your high vocation. You well knew that you also, the humble Magister, had your share in the priestly office and in the princely office of our realm. No purple is nobler, no rule is more sovereign than ours. We lead the souls of our nation from one century to another; and ours is the duty of watching over its learning and over its thoughts. We are its champions against the lies and spirits of a past time which wander amongst us clothed with the semblance of life. What we consecrate, lives; and what we condemn, passes away. The old virtues of the Apostles are required of us--to esteem little what is earthly, and to proclaim the truth. You were in this sense consecrated, like every one of us; your life was pledged to God. On you, as on all of us, lay the responsibility for the souls of our nation. You have proved yourself unworthy of this office, and I grieve, I grieve, wretched man, that I must separate you from it."

The Magister jumped up, and looked imploringly at the Scholar.

The Professor spoke impressively:

"It is my duty both towards you and others to speak out. What you have done to my fellow professors, and what you have prepared for similar attempts, cannot remain secret. Honorable men must be warned against the art which you have been led by a demon to exercise. But in this last hour in which you stand before me, I feel that I have done too little to help you against temptation. Without intending to be unkind, I have perhaps sometimes undervalued you, in comparison with others, and have forgotten how hard was your daily life. If you have ever felt depressed and embittered by my severity, I now atone for it. For when I, short-sighted, erring man, advised you to accept a position which was to raise you out of external need, I participated in your guilt, by exposing you to new temptation here. That gives me bitter pain, Magister, and I feel the anguish of this hour."

Magister Knips sat exhausted and cowering on the chest: the Scholar stood over him, and his words sank like blows on the Magister's head.

"I cannot conceal the fact, Magister, that you are a forger; you can never again move in our circle; your career is closed by your transgression, you are lost to learning, lost to all who took an interest in your work. You have vanished from the place which you held amongst us; nothing remains but a black shadow. Human powers laboriously trained, a spirit of uncommon acuteness and fullness, are lost and dead to us; and I mourn over you as over a dead man."

The Scholar wept, and Knips covered his face with his hands. Werner hastened to his writing-table.

"If you require means to maintain your ruined life in some other neighborhood, here it is. Take what you require."

He threw some money on the table.

"Try to conceal yourself where no member of our community will meet you. May all the good become your portion, which is still possible for you to have on earth. But fly, Magister; avoid those places where one shall think of you with the sorrow and repugnance that the faithful workman feels towards one who is untrue."

Knips rose; his face was paler than usual, and he looked distractedly about him.

"I need no money," he said, with faint voice; "I have enough for my journey. I beg of the Professor to care for my mother."

The Scholar turned away, the strong man sobbed. Magister Knips went to the door; there he stopped.

"I have the Homer of 1488; tell my mother to give you the book. Though the thought of me be painful, yet keep the book. It was a treasure to me."

The Magister closed the door and went slowly out of the house. The wind drove through the streets; it blew against the back of the Magister, and hastened his steps.

"It drives," murmured Knips again; "it drives me onward."

At the open square he remained standing in the wind; looking towards the clouds, which were passing in hasty flight beneath the moon. Distorted figures hovered in the grey vapor and glided over his head. He thought of the last proof-sheets which he had read in his native town, and spoke some Greek words; they were verses from the Eumenides of AEschylus:--

"Rush on! rush on! rush on! ye messengers of vengeance!"

He went up to the castle, and remained standing before the lighted windows; the four black steeds which brought the Sovereign back from the tower castle to the city dashed past him, and he clenched his bony fist at the carriage. He then ran round the castle to the park side. There, against a tree, beneath the windows of the Sovereign's apartment, he cowered; looked up to the castle, and again raised his fist against the lord of it, and sighed. He looked up at the dark boughs that towered over him, gazed at the sky and the grey flitting shadows which coursed along under the moon, and desperate thoughts passed through his mind:

"When the moon vanishes that will be a token to me also."

He looked long at the moon. Amidst his wild thoughts a Latin sentence entered his confused brain: "'The moon and the earth are but as little points in the universe;' that is beautifully said by Ammianus Marcellinus. I have compared the manuscripts of this Roman; I have made conjectures on all sides with respect to his mutilated text; I have pored for years over him. If I do here, in order to vex this ignorant lord, what was done to Haman, all this preparation for my Roman would be lost."

He rushed from under the trees and ran to his dwelling. There he collected all his possessions, put his small copy of Ammianus into his pocket, and hastened with his bundle to the gate.

They say he went to the same country to which his brother had gone before him--far off in the West.

He passed away, he hid his head--an unfaithful servant, and at the same time a victim of science. All his life long he had pondered over written words; now the living words, which penetrated from another soul into his, drove him from his home. Day and night he had been surrounded with the letters of books and learned writings which had flowed from the pen on to the white sheets; but the blessing of living words which pass from the mouth to the ear, and echo from heart to heart, had failed him at the right time; for what is in common use with us is also our highest boon. Its power is as mysterious to us to-day as it was to our ancestors; the generation of our literary period, accustomed to contemplate tones in their imaginations, and to estimate the powers of nature by measure and weight, seldom think how powerfully the echoing word from the human heart rules within us; it is mistress and servant, it elevates and annihilates us, it produces disease and health. Happy the living being in whose ear it sounds full and pure, who incessantly receives the soft sound of love and the hearty call of friendship. He who is deprived of the blessing of the conversation which flows from warm hearts, wanders among others as a living being in whom the spirit is separated from the body, or like a book that one opens, makes use of, and puts away at pleasure. The Magister had sinned by the written word; a cry of agony uttered by a human voice had frightened him into the misty and silent distance.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

BEFORE THE CRISIS.

The cattle lowed and the sheep-bells tinkled, and the springing blades of wheat waved in the wind. The eldest daughter of the family was again walking in the garden, surrounded by her brothers and sisters. What has become of the glad brightness of your eye and the hearty child's laugh, Lady Ilse? Your countenance has become serious and your demeanor subdued; your looks scan critically the men about you and the paths that you tread, and calm commands sound from your lips. Your home has not made your heart light, nor given you back again what you lost among strangers.

But it zealously exercises its right to be loved by you and to show you love; it recalls familiar images to your soul, and old recollections awake at every step; the people whom you fostered faithfully in your heart, the animals that you cared for, and the trees that you planted, greet you, and labor busily to cover with bright colors what lies gloomily within you.

The first evening was painful. When Ilse, accompanied by her neighbor, entered her home a fugitive, striving to conceal what tormented her, amidst the terror of her father and the inquisitive questions of her brothers and sisters, anger and dismay once more threw their black shadows over her. But on the breast of her father, under the roof of a secure house, together with the feeling of safety, her old energy revived, and she was able to conceal from the eyes of her loved ones that which was not her secret alone.

Another painful hour came. Ilse was sitting late in the evening, as years before, on her chair opposite her father. After her story was told, the strong man looked down anxiously, used hard words concerning her husband, and cursed the other. When he told her that even in her father's house danger threatened her, when he desired her to be cautious at every step, and when he told her that in her childhood there had been a dark rumor that a maiden from the house on the rock, a child of a former possessor, had been the victim of a distinguished prince, she raised her hands to heaven. Her father seized them and drew her towards him.

"We are wrong to forget in an uncertain future how mercifully Providence has guarded you. I hold you by the hand and you stand on the soil of your home. We must do what the day requires, and trust everything else to a higher Being. As for the talk of strangers we care not; they are weather-cocks. Be calm and have confidence."

The younger children chattered innocently; they asked about the charming life at the capital, they wished to know accurately what their sister had gone through, and above all how the Sovereign of the country had treated Ilse, he whom they thought of as a holy Christ, as the unwearied dispenser of joy and happiness. But the elder ones were more cautious in their language without exactly knowing why, with that kind of natural tact which children show towards those whom they love. Ilse accompanied her sister Clara through the upper floor, they arranged the room for the guests who were expected, and placed an immense bunch of flowers in the room which Mr. Hummel was to occupy. Her brothers took her through the kitchen-garden into the narrow valley, and showed her the new wooden bridge over the water to the grotto, which their father had built as a surprise for Ilse. Ilse passed by the swollen brook, the water rushed yellow and muddy over the rocks, it had overflowed the small strip of meadow by its banks and flowed in a strong stream down the valley to the town. Ilse sought the place where she once, under the foliage and wild plants, lay concealed, when she read in the eyes of her Felix the acknowledgement of his love. This cosy nook was also flooded; the stream ran muddily over it, the flowers were broken down and washed away, the alder bushes covered to their upper branches, and reeds and discolored foam hung round them: only the white stem of a birch rose out of the devastation, and the flood whirled round its lowest branches.

"The flood is passing away," said Ilse, sadly; "in a few days the ground will again be visible, and where the verdure has been injured the mild rays of the sun will soon restore it. But how will it be with me? There is no light so long as he is not with me, and when I see him again how he will be changed? How will he, so serious and zealous, bear the cold wind of adversity that has passed through his life and mine?"

Her father watched her carefully; he talked to her more frequently than formerly. Whenever he returned from the field he told her of the work that was doing on the farm; he was always taking care not to touch on thoughts that might give her pain, and the daughter felt how tender and loving was the attention of the busy man. Now he beckoned to her from a distance, and near him was walking a thick-set figure, with a large head and comfortable aspect.

"Mr. Hummel!" exclaimed Ilse, joyfully, and hastened with winged footsteps towards him. "When will he come?" she called out, with eager expectation.

"As soon as he is free," replied Hummel.

"Who detains him there?" said the wife, looking sorrowful.

Mr. Hummel explained. At his report the wrinkles on Ilse's forehead disappeared, and she led her guest into the old house. Mr. Hummel looked astonished at the tall race that had grown up on the rock: he looked with admiration on the girls and respectfully at the heads of the boys. Ilse did not to-day forget what becomes a good housewife in welcoming a guest. Mr. Hummel was happy among the country people, and delighted with the flowers in his room; he took the sprightly lad Franz upon his knee, and made him drink almost too much out of his glass. Then he went through the farm with the proprietor and Ilse; he was clever in his judgment, and he and his host recognized in each other sound common sense. At last Ilse asked him frankly how he was pleased with her home.

"Everything is magnificent," said Hummel; "the development of the family, their curly heads, the flowers, the cattle, and the domestic arrangements. Compared to the business of H. Hummel, it is like a gourd to a cucumber. Everything capacious and abundant, only to my taste there is too much straw."

Ilse was called aside by her father. "The Prince is preparing to depart. He has expressed a wish to speak to you first. Will you see him?"

"Not to-day. To-day belongs to you and our guest, but to-morrow," said Ilse.

On the morning of the day following, Professor Raschke entered his friend's room prepared for the journey.

"Has the Magister disappeared?" he asked, anxiously.

"He has done what he was obliged to do," replied Werner, gloomily. "Whatever his future life and fortune may be, we have done with him."

Raschke looked anxiously on the furrowed countenance of his colleague.

"I should like to see you on the road to your wife, and better still, with her on the road back to us."

"Have no doubt, friend, that I shall seek both roads as soon as I have a right to do so."

"Ilse counts the hours till your return," said Raschke, in still greater anxiety; "she will not be at rest till she has fast hold of her loved one."

"My wife has long been deprived of rest while she was with me," said the Scholar, "I have not understood how to defend her. I have exposed her to the claws of wild beasts. She has found from strangers the protection that her own husband refused her. The indifference of her husband has wounded her in that point which it is most difficult for a woman to forgive. I have become a mere, impotent dreamer," he exclaimed, "unworthy of the devotion of this pure soul, and I feel what a man never should feel--ashamed to meet my excellent wife again." He turned his face away.

"This feeling is too high-strained, and the reproaches that you angrily make yourself are too severe. You have been deceived by the cunning prevarication of a worldly wise man. You yourself have expressed that it is ingloriously easy to deceive us in things in which we are not cleverer than children. Werner, once more I entreat of you to depart with me immediately, even though by another road."

"No," replied the Scholar, decidedly; "I have all my life long been clear in my relations with other men. I cannot do things by halves. If I feel a liking, the pressure of my hand and the confidence that I give does not leave a moment's doubt of the state of my heart. If I must give up my relation to any one, I must have the reckoning fully closed. I cannot leave this place as a fugitive."

"Who demands that?" asked Raschke. "You only go like a man who turns his eyes away from a hateful worm that crawls before him on the ground."

"If the worm has injured the man, it is his duty to guard others from the danger of like injury, and if he cannot guard others, he ought to clear his own path.

"But if he incurs new danger in the attempt?

"Yet he must do what he can to satisfy himself," exclaimed Werner. "I will not allow myself to be robbed of the rights that I have against another. I am called upon by the insult to my wife; I am called upon by the ruined life of a scholar, whom we both lament. Say no more to me. Friend, my self-respect has been severely wounded, and with reason. I feel my weakness with a bitterness that is the just punishment for the pride with which I have looked upon the life of others. I have written to Struvelius, and begged his pardon for having so arrogantly treated him in the uncertainty that once disturbed his life. Here is my letter to our colleague. I beg you to give it to him, and to tell him that when we meet again I wish to have no words upon the past, only he must know how bitterly I have atoned for having been severe with him. But, however much patience and consideration I may require from others, I should lose the last thing that gives me courage to live, if I went from here without coming to a reckoning with the lord of that castle. I am no man of the world who has learnt to conceal his anger beneath courtly words."

"He who seeks to call a man to account," exclaimed Raschke, "should have the means of getting firm hold of his opponent, otherwise what should be satisfaction may become a new humiliation."

"To have sought this satisfaction to the utmost," replied Werner, "is in itself a satisfaction."

"Werner," said his colleague, "I hope that your anger and indignation will not draw you into the thoughtless vindictiveness of the weak fools who call a brutal playing with one's own life and that of others satisfaction."

"He is a prince," said the Professor, with a gloomy smile; "I wear no spurs, and the last use I made of my bullet mould was to crack nuts with it. How can you so mistake me? But there are things which must be expressed. There is a healing power in words; if not for him who listens to them, yet for him who speaks. I must tell him what I demand of him. He shall feel how my words are forced down into his joyless heart. My speaking out will make me free."

"He will refuse to hear you," exclaimed Raschke.

"I will do my best to speak to him."

"He has many means of preventing you."

"Let him use them at his peril, for he will thereby deprive himself of the advantage of hearing me without witnesses."

"He will set all the machinery that his high position affords him in motion against you; he will use his power recklessly to restrain you."

"I am no bawling soothsayer who will attack Caesar in the open street, to warn him of the Ides of March. My knowledge of what will humble him before himself and his contemporaries, is my weapon. I assure you he will give me opportunity to use it as I will."

"He is going away," said Raschke, anxiously.

"Where can he go to that I cannot follow him?"

"The apprehension that you will excite in him will drive him to some dark deed."

"Let him do his worst; I must do what will give me peace."

"Werner!" cried Raschke, raising his hands, "I ought not to leave you in this position, and yet you make your friend feel how powerless his honest counsel is against your stubborn will."

The Professor went up to him and embraced him. "Farewell, Raschke. As high as any man can stand in the esteem of another, you stand in mine. Do not be angry if, in this case, I follow more the impulse of my own nature than the mild wisdom of yours. Give my greeting to your wife and children."

Raschke passed his hands over his eyes, drew on his coat, and put the letter to Struvelius in his pocket. In doing so he found another letter, took it out, and read the address. "A letter from my wife to you," he said; "How did it come into my pocket!"

Werner opened it; again a slight smile passed over his face. "Mrs. Aurelia begs me to take care of you. The charge comes at the right moment. I will accompany you to your place of departure; we will not forget the cap or cloak."

The Professor conducted his friend to the conveyance; they spoke together, up to the last moment, of the lectures which both wished to give in the approaching term. "Remember my letter to Struvelius," were Werner's last words, when his friend was seated in the carriage.

"I shall think of it whenever I think of you," said Raschke, stretching out his hand from the carriage.

The Professor went to the castle for a last conversation with the man who had called him to his capital. The household received him with embarrassed looks. "The Sovereign is just starting on a journey, and will not return for some days; we do not know where he is going," said the Intendant, with concern. The Professor, nevertheless, desired him to announce him to the Sovereign, his request was urgent; the servant brought as an answer that his master could not be spoken to before his return; the Professor might impart his wishes to one of the aides-de-camp.

Werner hastened to the adjacent house of the Lord High Steward. He was taken into the library, and gave a fleeting glance at the faded carpet, the old hangings, which were covered with engravings in dark frames, and on the large bookshelves, with glass doors, lined within, as if the possessor wished to conceal what he read from the eyes of strangers. The High Steward entered hastily.

"I seek for an interview with the Sovereign before his departure," began the Professor, "I beg of your Excellence to procure me this audience."

"Pardon my asking you your object," said the High Steward. "Do you wish again to speak to a sufferer concerning his disease?"

"The diseased man administers a high office, and has the power and rights of a healthy one; he is answerable to his fellow-men for his deeds. I consider it a duty not to go from here without informing him that he is no longer in a condition to perform the duties of his position."

The Lord High Steward looked with astonishment at the Scholar.

"Do you insist on this interview?"

"What I have learned since my return here from the country compels me to do so; I must seek this interview by every possible means in my power, whatever may be the consequences."

"Even the consequences to yourself?"

"Even these. After all that has passed, the Sovereign cannot refuse to hear me speak before I go."

"What he ought not to do he will yet try to do."

"He will do it at his peril," replied the Professor.

The High Steward placed himself in front of the Professor, and said, impressively:

"The Sovereign is going to Rossau to-day. The plan is secret. I accidentally learnt the orders, which were given at the princely stables."

The Scholar started.

"I thank your Excellence from my heart for this communication," he exclaimed, with forced composure. "I will endeavor to send a speedy warning beforehand. I shall not start, myself, till your Excellence has seconded my efforts to speak to the Sovereign before his journey."

"If you seek an audience through me," said the High Steward, after some consideration, "I will, as an officer of the Court, and from personal esteem for you, immediately convey your wish to the Sovereign. But I will not conceal from you, Professor, that I consider a criticism from you upon past events as very risky in every point of view."

"But I am thoroughly impressed with the conviction that the criticism must be made," exclaimed the Professor.

"To the Sovereign alone, or before others?" asked the High Steward.

"If the ears and mind of the Sovereign remain closed, then before the world. I shall thus fulfil an imperative duty to all who might suffer from the dark fancies of this disordered mind; a duty from which I, as an honest man, cannot escape. If calm remonstrance will not move him, I shall publicly arraign him before the rulers and people of our nation. For it is not to be borne that the conditions of ancient Rome should again rise to life among our people."

"That is decisive," replied the High Steward.

He went to his bureau, took out a document, and presented it to the Scholar.

"Read this. Will you renounce a personal interview with the Sovereign if this paper is signed by his hand?"

The Professor read, and bowed to the High Steward.

"As soon as he ceases to be what he has been, I shall consider him merely as an afflicted man; in this case my interview with him would be useless. Meanwhile I repeat my request to procure an audience before the Sovereign's departure."

The High Steward took back the document.

"I will endeavor to act as your representative. But do not forget that the Sovereign travels to Rossau in another hour. If we ever see each other again, Mr. Werner," concluded the old lord, solemnly, "may both our hearts be free from anxiety about that which sometimes one esteems lightly, as you do at this moment, but which one does not willingly allow one's self to be robbed of by the intervention of another."

The Professor hastened to the inn and called for his servant.

"Show me your fidelity to-day, Gabriel: none but a messenger on horseback can arrive at Bielstein in time. Do your best, take courier's horses, and put a letter into the hands of my wife before the Court carriages arrive there."

"At your command, Professor," said Gabriel, with a military salute, "it is a hard ride even for a hussar; if I am not detained in changing horses, I trust to be able to deliver the letter in due time."

The Professor wrote in haste, and despatched Gabriel; then he returned to the dwelling of the High Steward.

* * *

The Sovereign was lying wearily on his sofa, his cheeks pale and his eyes dim--a thoroughly sick man.

"I had formerly other thoughts, and could, when I had touched the keys, play more than one melody; now everything changes itself into a discordant measure: she has gone, she is in the neighborhood of the boy, she laughs at her foolish wooer. I see nothing before me but the track on the high road that leads to her. A strange power eternally strikes the same notes within me, a dark shadow stands near me and points with its finger incessantly to the same path; I cannot control myself, I hear the words, I see the road, I feel the dark hand over my head."

The servant announced the High Steward.

"I will not see him," said the Sovereign, imperiously. "Tell his Excellence that I am on the point of departing for the country."

"His Excellence begs admittance, it is a question of an urgent signature."

"The old fool," murmured the Sovereign, "usher him in."

"I am unfortunately much pressed for time, your Excellence," he called out to him, as he entered.

"I do not wish to make a long demand upon the time of my most Serene Lord," began the courtier. "Prof. Werner begs that your Highness will consent to receive him before his departure."

"What is the cause of this importunity?" exclaimed the Sovereign; "he has already been here, and I have refused him."

"I must be permitted to make the respectful remark that after all that has passed, the honor of a personal interview cannot well be refused him. Your Highness would be the last to approve of so marked a violation of seemly considerations."

The Sovereign looked vindictively at the High Steward.

"All the same, I will not see him."

"Besides these considerations, it is not advisable to refuse this interview," continued the old lord, with emphasis.

"Of that I am the best judge," replied the Sovereign, carelessly.

"This person has become privy to certain things, the exposure of which, for the sake of the princely dignity, must be avoided, even at a heavy sacrifice, for he is not bound to keep the secret."

"No one will listen to an individual, and a dreamer at that."

"What he will divulge will not only be believed, but will excite a storm against your Highness."

"Gossip from bookworms will not hurt me."

"This person is a highly-respected man of character, and will use his observations to demand of the whole civilized world that the possibility of similar occurrences at this Court should be made impossible."

"Let him do what he dare," cried the Sovereign, with an outbreak of fury, "we shall know how to protect ourselves."

"The exposure may yet be guarded against; but there is only one last and radical remedy."

"Speak out, your Excellence; I have always respected your judgment."

"What inflames the Professor," continued the courtier, cautiously, "will become generally known; at all events it will produce a great sensation and dangerous scandal; nothing further. It was a personal observation only that he was compelled to make at the foot of the tower; it was a conjecture only which he gave vent to beneath the same tower. According to his assertion, two attempts have been made, and yet neither has been followed by evil consequences. To be able to provoke the public judgment of the civilized world on such grounds is doubtful. However upright the narrator may be, he may himself have been deceived. Your Highness remarks rightly that the irritation of a single scholar would occasion disagreeable gossip, nothing further."

"Most admirable, your Excellence," interrupted the Sovereign.

"Unfortunately there is one important circumstance that I have not yet added. With respect to that personal observation at the foot of the tower, the Scholar has a witness, and I am that witness. When he calls upon me for my testimony and speaks of my personal observation, I must declare that he is right, for I am not accustomed to consider half-truth as truth."

The Sovereign started.

"It was I who restrained the hand," remarked the courtier; "and because that simple scholar is in the right, and because I must confirm his views concerning the state of my gracious master's health, I tell you there is only one last and radical remedy." The High Steward took the document out of the portfolio. "My remedy is, that your Highness should, by a great resolve, anticipate the storm, and high-mindedly consent to make this declaration the expression of your will."

The Sovereign cast a look on the paper, and flung it away from him:

"Are you mad, old man?"

"Insanity has not yet been discovered in me," replied the High Steward, sorrowfully. "If my gracious master would but weigh the circumstances with his usual acuteness! It has unfortunately become impossible for your Highness to carry on the duties of your high calling in the way you have hitherto done. Even if your Highness considered it possible, your faithful servants are in the painful position of not partaking of this opinion."

"These faithful servants are my High Steward?"

"I am one of them. If your Highness will not consent to give your princely approbation to this project, consideration for that which is dearer to me than your Highness's favor will forbid my remaining in your service."

"I repeat the question, have you become insane. Lord High Steward?"

"Only deeply moved; I did not think that I would ever have to choose between my honor and my service to your Highness."

He took out another document from the portfolio.

"Your resignation," exclaimed the Sovereign, reading. "You should have added to it, 'with permission.'" The Sovereign seized the pen. "Here, Baron von Ottenburg, you are released from your office."

"It is no joyful thanks that I express to your Highness for it. But now it is done, I, Hans von Ottenburg, express to you my respectful request that your Highness would still, at this hour, be pleased to sign the other document. For in case your Highness should hesitate to fulfil the earnest entreaties of a former servant, this same request, from now on, will be forced upon your Highness's ear in many ways, and by persons who would not use so much consideration for your Highness as I have hitherto done. Till now there has been one who has begged of you, a professor,--now there are two, he and I,--in another hour the number will become burdensome to your Highness."

"A former High Steward, a rebel!"

"Only a petitioner. It is your Highness's right, of your own free will, to make the high decision to which I endeavor to influence you. But I beg you once more to consider that it can no longer be avoided. Your Highness's Court will, in the next hour, be brought front to front with the same alternative as myself; for my regard for the honor of these gentlemen and ladies will compel me, on the same grounds which have led to my decision, not to be silent with respect to them. Without doubt, the gentlemen of the Court will, like me, approach your Highness with earnest entreaties, and, like me, will resign in case their entreaties are unsuccessful, and without doubt your Highness will have to find new attendants. Respect for the honor and the office of those who rule under you will oblige me to make the same communication to your Highness's ministers. True, these also might be replaced by less important servants of the State. But further, from loyalty and devotion to your Highness's house, from anxiety about the life and welfare of the Hereditary Prince and his illustrious sister, as well as from attachment to this country in which I have grown gray, I see myself obliged to appeal to every Government connected with ours for an energetic enforcement of this my request. As long as I was a servant of the Court, my oath and allegiance compelled me to silence and careful regard for your Highness's personal interests. I am now relieved from this obligation, and I shall from henceforth advocate the interests of our people in opposition to those of your Highness. Your Highness may yourself judge what that would lead to; this signature may be put off, but can no longer be avoided. Every delay makes the situation worse; the signing will no longer appear as the voluntary act of a high-minded decision, but as a necessity forced upon you. Finally, let your Highness bear in mind that the Professor has made in the Tower Castle another important observation,--another with respect to the conduct of a certain Magister; it is my destiny to know much which does not belong to the secrets of my department."

The Sovereign lay on his sofa, with his head turned away. He folded his hands before his face. A long oppressive silence intervened.

"You have been my personal enemy from the first day of my reign," suddenly put in the Sovereign.

"I have been the faithful servant of my gracious master; personal friendship has never been my portion, and I have never simulated it."

"You have always intrigued against me."

"Your Highness well knows that I have served you as a man of honor," replied the Baron, proudly. "Now, also, when once more I beg of you to sign this document, I do not stand upon the right which many years of confidence give me with your Highness; I do not advance as an excuse for this repeated importunity the interest that I have been entitled to take in the dignity and welfare of this princely house; I have another ground for relieving your Highness from the humiliation of a public discussion of your Highness's state of mind. I am a loyal and monarchically-minded man. He who has respect for the high office of a prince is under the urgent necessity of guarding this office from being lowered in the eyes of the nation. This he must do, not by concealing what is insupportable, but by extirpating it. Therefore, since that scene in the tower, there has been this struggle between me and your Highness, that I, in order to maintain your Highness's exalted office, must sacrifice your Highness's person. I am determined to do so, and there consequently only remains to your Highness the choice of doing that which is inevitable, of your own free will, and honorably in the eyes of the world, or dishonorably and at the instance of importunate strangers. The words are spoken; I beg for a speedy decision."

The old lord stood close before the ruler. He looked firmly and coldly into the restless eyes of his former master, and pointed with his finger fixedly to the parchment. It was the keeper conquering the patient.

"Not now--not here," exclaimed the Sovereign, beside himself. "In the presence of the Hereditary Prince I will take counsel and come to a decision."

"The presence and signature of your ministers are necessary for the document, not the presence of the Hereditary Prince. But as your Highness prefers signing in the presence of the Prince, I will do my self the honor of following your Highness to Rossau, and beg one of the ministers to accompany me for this object."

The Sovereign looked reflectively down.

"I am still a ruler," he exclaimed, springing up; and seizing the signed resignation of the High Steward, he tore it up. "High Steward von Ottenburg, you will accompany me in my carriage to Rossau."

"Then the minister will follow your Highness in my carriage," said the old lord, calmly. "I hasten to inform him."

CHAPTER XL.

ON THE ROAD TO THE ROCK.

Towards the quiet country town which pious colonists had once built about the monastery walls of praying monks, and towards the rock on which the heathen maiden had once whispered oracles to her race, were now hastening along different roads horses and wheels, together with living men who were seeking the decision of their fate; here joyful, rising hopes--there downward, declining powers; here the pure dream of enthusiastic youth--there the destructive dream of a gloomy spirit. In the valley and over the rock hovered the spirits of the country; they prepared themselves to receive the flying strangers with the hospitality of home.

The early dawn sent its pale glimmer into Laura's study; she stood by her writing-table, and cast a lingering look on the familiar book in which, with rapid hand, she had written the concluding words. She fastened the book and the Doctor's poems together, and concealed them under the cover of her trunk. She cast another look on the sanctuary of her maiden life, and then flew down the stairs into the arms of her anxious mother. It was a wonderful elopement--a quiet Sunday morning, a mysterious light, gloomy rainclouds, contrasting strongly with the deep red glow of morning. Laura lay long in the arms of her weeping mother, till Susan urged her departure; then she passed into the street, where the Doctor awaited her, and hastened with him into the carriage; for the carriage was ordered to wait in a deserted place around the corner, and not before the house; upon this Laura had insisted. It was a wonderful elopement--a modest, sedate traveling-companion, the object of the journey the house of a loved friend, and, lastly, a large leather bag containing cold meat and other victuals, which Mrs. Hahn herself carried to the carriage, in order that she might once more kiss her son and Laura, and bless them amid tears.

Spitehahn had for several days found it difficult to bear his lonely existence; since the departure of the learned lodgers he had been much disturbed, but when the master of the house also disappeared, there was no one to recognize him. This morning he cast cold glances on Laura as she hovered round her sorrowing mother, and looked askance at Susan when she carried the great traveling-trunk to the carriage; then he sneaked out into the street in order to give expression to his hatred of the neighboring house. But when Mrs. Hahn hastened to the carriage with the leather bag, he saw that something was wrong and he crept after his neighbor from across the way; and whilst she mounted on the step of the carriage to warn her Fritz of the sharp morning air, and to kiss Laura once more, he sprang upon the footboard and ensconced himself under the leather apron of the coachbox, determined to abide his time. The coachman seated himself, and supposing the dog belonged to the travelers, cracked his whip and started off. Another look and call to the mother, and the adventurous journey began.

Laura's soul trembled under the pressure of passionate feelings, which were called forth by this long-desired but dreaded hour. The houses of the city disappeared, and the poplars on the high road seemed to dance past. She looked anxiously at her Fritz, and placed the tips of her fingers in his hand. He smiled, and pressed the little hand warmly.

His cheerfulness was a support to her. She looked tenderly into his true face.

"The morning is cool," he began, "allow me to fasten your cloak."

"I am very comfortable," replied Laura, again putting her trembling hand within his.

Thus they sat silently together, the sun peeped modestly from behind his red curtains and smiled on Laura, so that she was obliged to close her eyes. Her whole childhood passed before her in fleeting pictures; and finally, she heard the significant words of her friends at her last visit. Her godmother had said to her. Return soon again, child; and Laura now felt with emotion that this return was at an immeasurable distance. Her other godmother had kindly asked, When shall we see each other again? and a touching echo sounded in Laura's heart, Who knows when? All Nature was stirring in the fresh morning: a flock of pigeons flew across the field, a hare ran along the road as if racing, a splendid cluster of blue flowers grew on the border of the ditch, and red roofs shone from among the fruit trees. Everything on earth looked green and hopeful, blooming and waving in the morning breeze. The country people who were going to the city met them, a peasant sitting on his waggon smoking his pipe nodded a good morning to Laura, who held out her hand as if she wished to send a greeting to the whole world. The milkwoman in her little cart, who was going to sell her milk, also greeted her, saying, "Good morning. Miss Laura." Laura drew back, and, looking alarmed at Fritz, said:

"She has recognized us."

"Without doubt," replied the Doctor, gaily.

"She is a gossip, Fritz; she cannot hold her tongue, and will tell all the servant-girls in our street that we are driving together along this road. This distresses me, Fritz."

"We are taking a drive," replied the Doctor, triumphantly; "going to pay a visit to some one; we are going to act as sponsors together in the country. Do not mind these trifles."

"It began by our being sponsors together, Fritz," answered Laura, tranquilized. "It has all been owing to the cat's paws."

"I do not know," replied Fritz, slyly, "whether this misfortune did not originate earlier. When you were quite a little girl I kissed you once."

"I do not remember that," said Laura.

"It was for a basket of colored beans that I brought you from our garden. I demanded the kiss, and you consented to give the price, but immediately after wiped your mouth with your hand. From that time I have liked you better than all others."

"Do not let us talk of these things," said Laura, troubled; "my recollections of old times are not all so harmless."

"I have always been kept at a distance," exclaimed Fritz, "even to-day. It is a shame. It must not go on so; I must have some serious talk about it. Travelling together as we are, it is not fitting that we should use the stiff you in talking to one another."

Laura looked reproachfully at him. "Not to-day," she said, softly.

"It is of no use now," replied Fritz, boldly. "I will no longer be treated as a stranger. I once heard the honest thou from you, but never since. It pains me."

Laura regretted that. "But only when we are quite alone," she entreated.

"I propose it for all time," continued Fritz, undisturbed, "otherwise there will be continually mistakes and confusion."

He offered her his hand, which she shook gently, and before she could stop him she felt a kiss on her lips.

Laura looked at him tenderly, but then immediately drew back and ensconced herself in a corner of the carriage. Fritz was quite different to-day from usual; he looked confident and bold. In the house he had always been modest, while Laura had more than once thought of this relation, and had written in her book: "When two human beings are united in soul they ought to let each other know it." Now he used little ceremony. He looked boldly out of the carriage, and when they met travelers did not retreat as she had done after meeting the milkwoman, but looked as if challenging notice, and greeting people first.

"I must begin about the Hindus," she said to herself, "in order to turn his thoughts to other subjects."

She asked him about the contents of the Veda.

"I cannot think of it to-day," exclaimed Fritz, gaily. "I am too happy to think of the old books. I have only one thought in my heart: 'Laura, the dear girl, will become mine.' I could dance in the carriage for joy."

He jumped up from his seat like a little boy.

Fritz was fearfully changed; she did not know him again; she withheld her hand from him, and looked at him, suspiciously, askance.

"The heavens are covered with clouds," she said, sadly.

"But the sun shines above them," replied Fritz; "it will come out again in a few minutes. I propose that we examine the great leather bag which my mother gave us; I hope there will be something good in it."

Thus did the prose of the Hahn family betray itself, and Laura observed with secret regret how eagerly the Doctor rummaged the bag. She had, however, in her excitement thought little of her breakfast, so when Fritz offered her some of its contents she extended her little hand for it, and both ate heartily.

Something darkened the seat next the coachman; a misshapen head showed itself at the window, and a discordant snarl was heard in the carriage. Laura pointed terrified at the apparition.

"Merciful heavens, there is the dog again!"

The Doctor also looked angrily at the hostile figure. "Drive him away," cried Laura; "make him run home."

"He will hardly find his way back," replied the Doctor, thoughtfully; "what would your father say if he were lost?"

"He has been the enemy of my life," exclaimed Laura; "and must we now take him with us into the world? The idea is insupportable, and a bad omen, Fritz."

"Perhaps we shall meet a wagon that will take him back again," said the Doctor, consolingly; "meanwhile we must not let him starve."

In spite of his aversion he handed him some breakfast, and the dog disappeared again under the apron.

But Laura continued disturbed.

"Fritz, dear Fritz," she exclaimed, suddenly, "you must leave me alone."

The Doctor looked at her with astonishment. The you was an orthographical error which must be atoned for. He was again about to give her a kiss, but she drew back.

"If you love me, Fritz, you must now leave me alone," she cried out, wringing her hands.

"How can I do that?" asked Fritz; "we are traveling for good into the great world."

"Get upon the box by the coachman," begged Laura, imploringly.

She looked so serious and depressed that Fritz obediently stopped the carriage, descended from it, and climbed upon the coach-box. Laura drew a deep breath, and became more tranquil. Her words had influenced him. Intractable as he was, he would do much to please her. She sat alone, and her thoughts became more cheering. The Doctor turned round frequently, knocked at the window, and asked how she was. He was very tender-hearted, and full of loving attentions.

"The whole responsibility for his health rests on me," she thought, "what hitherto his dear mother has done for him now becomes my duty. A delightful duty, dear Fritz. I will keep him from working at nights, for his health is delicate, and every day I will go walking with him, in the coldest weather, to accustom him to it."

She looked out of the carriage, the wind was stirring the leaves; she knocked at the window:

"Fritz, it is windy, you have no shawl on."

"I shall no longer use one," called out the Doctor, "this effeminacy must be shaken off."

"I beg of you, Fritz, not to be so childish. Put one round you, or you will certainly catch cold."

"With a you, I will certainly not put it on."

"Take it, my darling Fritz, I beg of thee," entreated Laura.

"That sounds quite different," said Fritz.

The window was opened, and the shawl put out.

"He is firm as a rock," said Laura, seating herself again. "Complaisant as he appears, he knows well what he chooses to do, and, contrary to his own convictions, will not give in, even to me. That is all for the best, for I am still a childish creature, and my father was in the right; I need a husband who will look more calmly on the world than I do."

It began to rain. The coachman put on his cloak, and Fritz spread his plaid and enveloped himself in it. She became very anxious about Fritz, and again knocked at the window.

"It is raining, Fritz."

This the Doctor could not deny.

"Come in, you will get wet and catch cold."

The carriage stopped, and Fritz obediently got down and entered it, while Laura wiped away the raindrops on his hair and shawl with her pocket-handkerchief.

"You said you four times," began Fritz, reprovingly. "If it continues thus, you will have a large reckoning to pay."

"Be serious," began Laura, "I am in a very solemn mood. I am thinking of our future. I will think of it day and night, dearest one, that you may not feel the loss of your mother. Your dear mother has always taken your coffee up to you, but that is unsociable, you shall come over to me and take your breakfast with me; your Hindus must grant this half-hour to me. About ten o'clock I shall send you over an egg, and at dinner-time you will come over again to me. I shall take care that the cooking is good; we will live simply, as we are accustomed, and well. Then you shall tell me something about your books that I may know what my husband is occupied with, for this is a wife's right. In the afternoon we will take a walk together in the streets."

"What do you mean?" asked Fritz, "'over there,' 'here,' 'in the streets'? Surely we shall live together."

Laura looked at him with open eyes, and a blush slowly mantled over her face up to her temples.

"We cannot, as man and wife, live in different houses?"

Laura held her hand before her eyes and remained silent. As she did not answer, Fritz drew her hand quietly from her face, and large tears rolled down her cheeks.

"My mother," she said, softly, as she wept.

So touching was the expression of her grief, that Fritz said, sympathizingly:

"Do not grieve, Laura, about her, we will live where you like, and exactly as you think fit."

But even these kind words could not comfort the poor soul, whose maidenly anxieties cast a shadow over her future. The colored haze with which her childish fancy had invested her free life in the neighborhood of her loved one, had been dissolved.

She sat silent and sad.

The coachman stopped before a village inn to refresh himself and his horses. The young landlady stood at the door with her child in her arms; she approached the carriage and civilly invited them to alight. Laura looked anxiously at the Doctor; he nodded, the carriage door was opened. Laura seated herself on a bench in front of the door, and asked the young woman questions about her family, in order to show the self-possession of a traveller. The woman answered, confidently:

"This is our first child, we have been married scarcely two years. Excuse me, but I suppose you are a young married couple."

Laura rose hastily, her cheeks glowed a deeper red than the rising sun, as she answered with a low "No."

"Then you are engaged without doubt," said the woman, "that can be seen at once."

"How could you discover that?" asked Laura, without raising her eyes.

"One sees evidence of it," replied the woman, "the way in which you looked at the gentleman was significant enough."

"A good guess," exclaimed the Doctor, gaily; but he also colored slightly.

Laura turned away and struggled for composure. The secret of her journey was apparent to every one. It was known in the city and was spoken of in the villages. Her betrothal had been settled by the talk of strangers. Yet her parents had not laid her hand in that of her lover, nor had any of her friends wished her happiness, but now the stranger on the high road came and told her to her face what she was.

"If the woman had known all,--how that I was eloping secretly with Fritz Hahn, without betrothal or marriage,--how would she have looked upon me?" thought Laura.

She entered the carriage before the coachman had finished feeding the horses, and again tears flowed from her eyes. The Doctor, who did not anticipate this change of mood, was about to enter, when Laura, quite beside herself, exclaimed:

"I beg of you to sit by the coachman, I feel very sad."

"Why?" asked Fritz, softly.

"I have done wrong," said Laura. "Fritz, I should like to return. What will that woman think of me? She saw right well that we were not engaged."

"But are we not?" asked the Doctor, astonished. "I consider myself as decidedly engaged, and the friends to whom we go will clearly look upon the affair in that point of view."

"I conjure you, Fritz, to leave me alone now; what I feel I cannot confess to any human being; if I become calmer I will knock at the window."

Fritz again climbed on the coach-box, and Laura passed a sorrowful hour in the solitude of her carriage.

She felt something strange on her cloak, looked with alarm at the empty seat, and started when she saw the demon sitting next her, the enemy of her life, the red dog. He stretched out his forefeet, and raised his moustache high in the air, as if he would say: "I am carrying you off. The Doctor is sitting on the box, and I, the mischief-maker, the misanthropist, who have caused so much sorrow to this poetic soul, who have been cursed in her journal in both prose and verse, I, the common and unworthy being who used to lie at her feet, sit by her side the gloomy figure of her fate, the spectre of her youth, and the bad omen of her future life. I lie in the place where, in her childish poetry, she has long dreamt of another, and I mock at her tears and anxiety." He licked his beard and looked from under his long hair contemptuously at her. Laura knocked at the window, resolved to leave the carriage herself and sit upon the box.

* * *

Meanwhile the mothers sat anxiously in the hostile houses. Since her daughter had left, Mrs. Hummel trembled for fear of the anger of her husband. She knew from Laura that he had not objected to the journey to Bielstein, and only wished to appear unconscious of it in order to maintain his defiant character towards his neighbors. But of what was to follow, he would give no information; when it came to a decision as to what was to become of Laura and the Doctor, she felt there was everything to fear from him. Mrs. Hummel had encouraged the journey in order to compel the consent of the family tyrant; but now she felt distrustful of her own cleverness. In her sad perplexity she put her mantle on, over her morning dress, and hastened out of the house to seek consolation from her neighbor.

The heart of Mrs. Hahn was burdened with similar cares; she also was prepared, in her morning dress and mantle, to go over to Mrs. Hummel. The women met outside the two houses, and began an exchange of motherly anxieties. They made use of the neutral ground that lay between the hostile domains for quiet intercourse, and forgot that they were standing in the street. The bells sounded and the church-goers returned, yet they were still standing together talking over the past and future. The comedian approached them elegantly dressed; as he drew near he made a dramatic salutation with his hand. Mrs. Hummel looked with anxiety at her favorite guest, she feared his conjectures and still more his sharp tongue. His face was radiant with pleasure and his gestures were sympathetic.

"What a surprise," he exclaimed, in the tone of a warm-hearted uncle; "what an agreeable surprise? The old quarrel made up; wreaths of flowers from one house to the other; the discord of the fathers is atoned for by the love of the children. I offer my hearty congratulations."

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Hummel, perplexed.

"An elopement," exclaimed the comedian, raising his hands.

Both mothers looked terrified.

"I must beg of you, in your remarks, to have more regard for the real state of things," replied Mrs. Hummel with offended dignity.

"An elopement," again exclaimed the gentleman triumphantly. "Quite in conformity with the humor of this house; it is a master-stroke."

"I feel confident from our old friendship," said Mrs. Hummel, "that you do not mean to insult us; but I must earnestly request you to have regard, at least, for propriety."

The comedian was astonished at the reproaches of his patroness.

"I only repeat what I have just been informed of by post." He drew out of his pocket a neat letter. "I hope that the ladies will convince themselves." He read aloud: "'I beg to announce to you the betrothal of Dr. Fritz Hahn with my daughter Laura, and their elopement this morning from her parents' house. Yours humbly, Hummel.' This quite answers to the character of our humorous friend."

The ladies stood aghast. Then the rustling of a silk dress was heard, the godmother came up hastily, her hymn-book in her hand, and called out while yet in the distance:

"What does one not live to see? You naughty people! Is it right that the friends of the family should first learn from the preacher in the church what is happening here?"

"What do you mean?" asked both ladies, quite confounded.

"That the bans of your children have been proclaimed in church to-day for the first, second, and third time. There was general astonishment, and though you have acted in so unfriendly a way as to keep it a secret, all your acquaintances were delighted. Now the whole city is full of it."

Without speaking a word the two mothers flew into each others' arms in the open street, midway between the houses. The comedian stood on one side with his hand in his breast pocket, the godmother on the other with folded hands.

* * *

It was also a troublous Sunday on the estate of Ilse's father. During the previous night a waterspout had burst on the hills, and a wild flood poured down where formerly the brook ran between the meadows. The oldest people did not remember such a rush of water. Before this the brook had been much swollen by the rains of the previous week, now it roared and thundered through the narrow valley between the manor-house and the sloping hills, and overflowed the fields where it was not defied by the steepness of the country and rocks. Furiously did the water rush and foam over the rocks and about the heads of the willows, carrying away the hay from the meadows in its course, uprooting reeds and tearing off branches of trees, and also the ruins of habitations, which, though far above, had been reached by the flood. The people of the estate stood by the edge of the orchard, looking silently upon the stream and the ruins it bore along with it. The children ran eagerly along the side of the water, endeavoring to draw toward them with poles whatever they could reach. They raised loud cries when they saw a living animal floating along. It was a kid standing on one of the boards of the roof of its stall. When the little creature saw the people standing near, it cried piteously, as if begging to be rescued. Hans put out a well-hook, caught hold of the plank, the kid sprang ashore and was taken in grand procession by the children to the farmyard and there fed.

Ilse was standing at the new bridge leading to the grotto. It had only been built a few weeks, and was now threatened with destruction. Already the supports were bending on one side. The force of the water worked against the lower end, and loosened the pegs. The foam of the water whirled round the projecting foot of the rock, which formed the vault of the grotto, and the power of the rising water made deep furrows in the flood.

"There comes some one running from the mountain," exclaimed the people.

A girl came hastily round the rock, with a large kerchief full of fresh-mowed mountain grass on her back. She stopped terrified on the platform of the rock, and hesitated about crossing the unsafe bridge.

"It is poor Benz's Anna!" exclaimed Ilse; "she must not remain there in the wilderness. Throw your burden away--be brisk, Anna, and come over quickly."

The girl passed rapidly across the bridge.

"She shall be the last one," commanded Ilse. "None of you shall attempt to go upon it, for it will not bear the pressure long."

Her father came up.

"The flood will subside to-night if fresh rain does not fall; but the injury it has done will long be remembered. Below, at Rossau, it appears still worse; it has overflowed the fields. Mr. Hummel has hastened down, as he is anxious about the bridges on the road on which his daughter is coming. In the village the water has entered some of the houses; the people are preparing to move to our farm-yard. Go down and help them," he said, turning to some laborers, and continued, in a low tone, to his daughter: "The Prince has gone to the village to examine the damage there. He wishes to speak to you; would you like to see him now?"

"I am ready," said Ilse.

She went towards the village with her father; there she ascended to the churchyard.

"I shall remain in the neighborhood," said he. "When the Prince leaves you, call me."

She stood by the side of the wall, looking at the grave of her dear mother and at the spot where the old Pastor reposed with his wife. The branches of the trees which she had planted here hung over her head. She remembered how fond her old friend had been of dilating on the fact that everything was just the same in the great world as in his village, the nature and passions of men were everywhere alike, and that one might make the same experience in their little valley as amidst the tumult of the Court.

"Here my father is master," she thought, "and the people are accustomed to obey us, his children, and to regard us as we do our rulers. And their children, too, might experience what others have had to experience, were their master an evil-minded man. Yet they may ask for justice at any moment and find protection.

"How will he, the proud man, bear that his wife should not find justice or protection from the injury which has been done to both her and him? We ought to do good to those who injure us. If the wicked Sovereign should now come to me sick and helpless, ought I to receive him in my house? and ought I to place myself by his couch, when such a mark of kindness might expose me to fresh insult? I have worn a white mantle; the stain which he has cast upon it, I see every hour, and no tears wash it away. He has taken from me my pure robe; shall I also at his bidding give him my gown? O high and honorable precept, taught me by my departed friend, I tremble to obey. It is a struggle between duties, and the thought of my Felix says to me, 'No.'

"I have done with the young Prince too, however innocent he may be. I know that he once sought encouragement from the simple woman with all the warmth of his heart, and my vanity has often told me that I have been a good friend to him in his high yet lonely life. Fearfully have I atoned for this vain pride. He also from henceforth must be a stranger to me. What can he still wish from me? I imagine that he thinks exactly as I do, and only wishes to take leave of me for ever. Well, I am prepared for it."

The Hereditary Prince came along the footpath from the village. Ilse remained standing by the wall of the churchyard, and bowed calmly to his greeting.

"I have made known at the capital my wish to travel," began the Prince; "I hope my request will be granted. And I have therefore come to say farewell to you."

"What you now say," answered Ilse, "shows that I have rightly judged your Highness."

"I had little opportunity of speaking to you in the city," said the Prince, shyly; "it would grieve me if you should deem me capable of ingratitude or of coldheartedness."

"I know the reasons that kept your Highness away," replied Ilse, looking down; "and I am thankful for your good intentions."

"To-day I wish to tell you, and at the same time your husband," continued the Prince, "that I shall endeavor to make what I have learnt with you useful for my future life. I know that this is the only way in which I can thank you. If you should ever hear that my people are contented with me, you may feel, gracious lady, that I have to thank, above all, you and yours for the strengthening of my sense of duty, for an impartial judgment of the worth of men, and for a higher standard of the duties of one who has to guard the welfare of many. I shall endeavor to show myself not quite unworthy of the sympathy you have accorded me. If you learn from others that it has benefited me, think kindly of me."

Ilse looked at his excited countenance; there was the gentle, honest expression which she had so often watched with anxious sympathy; she saw how deeply he felt that something had interposed between him and her, and how thoughtfully he endeavored to spare her. But she did not fathom the deep and powerful grief of the young man, the poetry of whose youthful life a father had destroyed. She did not guess that the punishment which could not reach the father had fallen upon the innocent soul of the son. The injury that the father had inflicted had clouded the happiest feeling of his young life--his warm friendship for the woman to whom he clung with enthusiastic admiration. But the kind-hearted Ilse understood the full worth of him who now stood before her, and her cautious reserve disappeared; with her old frankness, she said to him: "One must not be unjust to the innocent, nor be untrue to those whose confidence one has had, as I have yours. What I now wish for your Highness is a friend. I have seen that this is what your life needs, and I have observed, too, how difficult it is to avoid forming a low estimate of men when one's sole companions are servants."

These kind words of Ilse broke down the composure which the Prince had been struggling to maintain. "A friend for me?" he asked, bitterly. "Fate early disciplined me; I am not permitted to seek for or enjoy friendship; poison has been poured over the love that I felt. Forgive me," he suddenly said; "I am so accustomed to complain to, and seek comfort from you, that I cannot help speaking of myself, although I know that I have lost the right to do so."

"Poor Prince," exclaimed Ilse, "how can you look after the welfare of others, if your own life is void of light? The happiness which I desire for your Highness's future life is domestic love, a wife that understands you, and would become the friend of your soul."

The Prince turned aside to conceal the pain that this speech occasioned him. Ilse looked at him sorrowfully; she was once more his good counsellor as before.

A beggar-woman crept round the wall of the churchyard.

"May I beg of you to day?" began a hoarse voice, at Ilse's back. "When it is not the father, it is the son."

Ilse turned round; again she saw the hollow eyes of the gipsy, and cried out, dismayed, "Away from here."

"The lady can no longer drive me away," said the gipsy, cowering down, "for I am very weary, and my strength is at an end."

One could see that she spoke the truth.

"The troopers have hunted me from one boundary to another. If others have no compassion on me, the lady from the rock should not be so hard-hearted, for there is old fellowship between the beggar and her. I also once had intercourse with noble people, I have abandoned them, and yet my dreams ever hover over their golden palaces. Whoever has drunk of the magic cup will not lose the remembrance of it. It has again and again driven me into this country, I have led my people here--and they now lie in prison, the victims of the old memories that pursued me."

"Who is this woman?" asked the Prince.

The beggar raised her hands on high.

"In these arms I have held the Hereditary Prince when he was a child and knew nothing; I have sat with him on velvet in his mother's room. Now I lie in the churchyard on the high road, and the hands that I stretch out to him remain empty."

"It is the gipsy woman," said the Prince in a low tone, and turned away.

The beggar-woman looked at him scornfully, and said to Ilse:

"They trifle with us, and ruin us, but they hate the remembrance of old times and of their guilt. Be warned young woman, I know the secrets of this noble family, and I can tell you what they have tried to do to you, and what they have done to another who flourished before you on yonder height, and whom they placed, as they did you, in the gilded prison, over whose portal the black angel hovers."

Ilse stood bending over the beggar woman, the Prince approached her.

"Do not listen to the woman," he exclaimed.

"Speak on," said Ilse, with a faint voice.

"She was young and finely formed like you, and like you she was brought to that prison, and when the mother of this man removed me from her service because I pleased the Sovereign, I was appointed to serve the stranger. One morning I was made to ask for leave of absence from the imprisoned lady, because she was to be alone."

"I entreat of you not to listen to her," implored, the Prince.

"I listen," said Ilse, again bending down over the old woman, "speak low."

"When I came back the next morning I found a maniac in the house instead of the fair-haired lady, and I escaped from the place in terror. Do you wish to know through which door madness made its way to that woman?" she continued in a low murmur. Ilse put her ear to her mouth, but sprang suddenly back and uttered a piercing shriek, hiding her face with her hands. The Prince leaned against the wall and wrung his hands.

A loud call sounded from the carriage-road, and a man hastily approached; he held out a letter while still at a distance.

"Gabriel!" exclaimed Ilse, hastening towards him. She tore the letter from him, read it, and supported herself convulsively against one of the stones of the churchyard. The Prince sprang forward, but she held out the letter as if to stop him and exclaimed:

"The Sovereign is coming."

The Prince looked terrified at Gabriel.

"He is hardly a mile from here," announced the exhausted servant. "I overtook the princely carriage, and succeeded in getting ahead of it. The horses are struggling along the unfinished road, but the bridge between this and Rossau is now scarcely fit for horsemen or carriages; I was obliged to leave my horse behind; I do not believe they will be able to cross it, except on foot."

Without saying a word the Prince hastened down the road to Rossau. Ilse flew with her letter in her hand up the rock to her father, who came with Mr. von Weidegg to meet her.

"Go and pay your respects to your master," she called out wildly, to the Chamberlain. "My Felix comes!" she called to her father, and sank upon his breast.

People were collected near the temporary bridge between Rossau and Bielstein. Gabriel also hastened back to the water; he had met Mr. Hummel there, who was passing up and down along the bank looking across the stream.

"The world is wretchedly small," exclaimed Mr. Hummel, to his confidant, "people always meet again. One who has been galloping, like you, should take care of himself; you are exhausted, and look greatly changed. Sit down on this log and rest yourself like a sensible man."

He pushed Gabriel down, buttoned his coat, and patted him on the cheek with his large hand.

"You must be in great need of refreshment, but the best we have here is a water-perch, and I do not like to treat you like a despicable New Zealander, who in the booths at a fair consumes five cents-worth of raw whitings. Take the last restorative of a Parisian traveler."

He forced him to take a piece of chocolate.

A few steps from them, at the bridge, stood the Prince with folded arms, looking at the water, which on the side of Rossau had spread itself over the meadows and low fields about the town. Rapidly did the expanse of water increase; on the nearest part of the new road, which had not yet been paved, puddles of water gleamed between the heaps of sand and the wheelbarrows of the workmen; the road projected like a dark strip out of the muddy flood. A few individuals were coming from Rossau; they waded through the thick mud of the road and supported themselves timidly by the smooth poles which supplied the place of the bridge-rails. For the water rushed violently against the beams instead of flowing deep under the arches, and the spectators on the Bielstein side called aloud to them to make haste. The Chamberlain hastened down to his silent master and looked anxiously in his face. He was followed by the Proprietor.

"If I could do as I wished, I would break these tottering planks with my own hands," he said, indignantly, to Mr. Hummel.

"The carriages are coming," called the people. The Sovereign's carriage with four horses drove at a rapid trot through the gate of Rossau. Beside the Sovereign sat the Lord High Steward. The former had during the wearisome journey been in a state of gloomy stupor; an occasional wild word, and a look of intense hatred, was all his intercourse with his companion.

The courtier had in vain endeavored to draw the Sovereign into quiet conversation. Even the consideration of the two servants sitting at the back of the open carriage could not restrain the Sovereign's mood. Exhausted by the secret strain of this journey the old gentleman sat, the attendant by his invalid, and his sharp eye watched every movement of his companion. When they drove out of the town into the open country, the Sovereign began, musingly:

"Did you recognize the horseman that overtook us in such haste?"

"He was a stranger to me," said the High Steward.

"He conveyed information of our arrival; they are prepared to receive us."

"Then he has done your Highness a service, for they would hardly have had any anticipation at the hunting-lodge of your Highness's important resolution."

"We are not yet at the end of our drama. Lord High Steward," said the Sovereign, tauntingly; "the art of foreseeing the future is lost. Even your Excellency does not understand that."

"I have always been satisfied with observing cautiously what surrounds me in the present, and I have thereby sometimes guarded myself from being disagreeably surprised by the future. If by any accident I should myself be prevented from carrying out my role in the drama of which your Highness speaks, I have taken care that others shall act my part."

The Sovereign threw himself back in his seat. The carriage went on through the mire, the horses floundered, and the coachman looked back doubtfully.

"Forward!" called out the Sovereign, in a sharp voice.

"The Hereditary Prince awaits your Highness at the bridge on foot," said the High Steward.

They went on at a good pace, the coachman with difficulty restraining his horses, who were frightened at the glittering expanse of water and the roar of the flood.

"Forward!" again commanded the Sovereign.

"Permit the coachman to stop, your Highness; the carriage cannot go further without danger."

"Do you fear danger, old man?" exclaimed the Sovereign, his face distorted with hatred. "Here we are both in the water--the same fate for us both, Lord High Steward. He is a bad servant who abandons his master."

"But I wish to restrain your Highness also," replied the High Steward.

"Forward!" cried the Sovereign again.

The coachman stopped.

"It is impossible, most gracious master," he said; "we can no longer go over the bridge."

The Sovereign jumped up in the carriage, and raised his stick against the coachman. The man, frightened, whipped his horses; they reared and sprang off to one side.

"Stop!" cried the High Steward.

The frightened lackeys readily jumped down, and held the horses. The High Steward opened the carriage door, and scrambled out.

"I beseech your Highness to alight."

The Sovereign sprang out, and, casting a look of vindictive hatred at him, hastened forward on foot. He stepped on the bridge, and the flood roared around him.

"Stay back, father," entreated the Hereditary Prince.

The father laughed, and advanced over the tottering planks; he had passed over the middle of the bridge and the deepest part of the stream; only a few steps more and his foot would touch the shore of Bielstein. At that moment there rose up near the bridge a bent figure, that cried out wildly to him:

"Welcome to our country, Gracious Lord; mercy for the poor beggar-woman. I bring you greeting from the fair-haired lady of the rock."

"Away with the crazy creature," exclaimed the Chamberlain.

The Sovereign gazed-fixedly at the wild figure; he tottered, and supported himself by the rails. The Hereditary Prince flew towards him; the father drew back with a shudder, lost his footing, and rolled down the side of the slippery planks into the flood.

There was a loud scream from the bystanders; the son sprang after him. The next moment half-a-dozen men were in the water--among the first, Gabriel, cautiously followed by Mr. Hummel. The gigantic form of the Proprietor towered above the stream; he had grasped the Sovereign, while Gabriel and Hummel seized the Prince. "The Sovereign lives," called out the Proprietor to the son, laying the unconscious man on the shore. The Hereditary Prince threw himself down by his father on the ground. The latter lay on the gravel road, the beggar-woman holding his head; he looked with glazed eyes before him, and did not recognize his kneeling son, nor the furrowed countenance of the stranger who bent over him. "He lives," repeated the Proprietor, in a low tone; "but his limbs cannot perform their office." On the other side of the water stood the High Steward. He called out to the Chamberlain in French, then hastened back with the carriage to Rossau, in order to reach a safer crossing. It was with difficulty that the carriage was brought back. Meanwhile, on the Bielstein side, a plank was torn off the half-destroyed bridge and the Sovereign laid upon it and carried to the Manor. The children of the Proprietor ran ahead and opened the door of the old house. In the hall stood Ilse, white as marble. She had been told by her brother that the Sovereign was saved from the water; he was approaching the house, to two generations of which he had been a curse and a terror. She stood in the entrance-hall no longer the Ilse of former days, but a wild Saxon woman who would hurl the curses of her gods on the head of the enemy of her race; her eyes glowed, and her hands closed convulsively. They carried the exhausted man up the steps. Then Ilse came to the threshold, and cried:

"Not in here."

So shrill was the command, that the bearers halted.

"Not into our house," she cried the second time, raising her hand threateningly.

The Sovereign heard the voice; he smiled, and nodded his head graciously.

"It is a Christian duty. Ilse," exclaimed the Proprietor.

"I am the Professor's wife," cried Ilse, passionately. "Our roof will fall upon that man's head."

"Remove your daughter," said the Hereditary Prince, in a low tone. "I demand admittance for the Sovereign of this country."

The Proprietor approached the steps and seized Ilse's arm. She tore herself away from him.

"You drive your daughter from your house, father," she exclaimed, beside herself. "If you are the servant of this man, I am not. There is no room for him and my husband at the same time. He comes to ruin us, and his presence brings a curse!"

She tore open the gate into the garden and fled under the trees, burst through the hedge, and hastened down into the valley; there she sprang upon the wooden bridge, from which she had shortly before driven the village people; the flood roared wildly beneath her, and the woodwork bent and groaned. A rent, a crack, and with a powerful spring she alighted on the rock on the other side; behind her the ruins of the bridge whirled down to the valley. She stood on the rocky prominence in front of the grotto, and raised her hands with a wild look to heaven. Her eldest brother came running behind her from the garden, and screamed when he saw the ruins of the bridge.

"I am separated from you," exclaimed Ilse. "Tell father, he need not care for me; the air is pure here; I am under the protection of the Lord, whom I serve; and my heart is light."

CHAPTER XLI.

IN THE CAVE.

The dark water gurgled and streamed through the valley; the reflection of the setting sun shone on the bay-windows of the old house; the wife of the Scholar stood alone beneath the rock overhanging the entrance to the cave. Where once the wives of the ancient Saxons listened to the rustling of the forest-trees, and where the wife of the hunted robber hurled stones on his pursuers, now stood the fugitive daughter of the Manor on the Rock, looking down on the wild surging of the water, and up to the house where her husband's foe was resting in the arm-chair of her father. Her breast still heaved convulsively, but she looked kindly on the brown rock which spread its protecting vault above her. Below her roared the wild, destructive flood, while around her the diminutive life of nature carelessly played. The dragon-flies chased one another over the water, the bees hummed about the herbs of the sloping hill, and the wood-birds chanted their evening-carols. She seated herself on the stone bench, and struggled for peaceful thoughts; she folded her hands and bent her head; and the storm within her bosom spent itself in the tears that flowed from her eyes.

"I will not think of myself, but only of those I love. The little ones will inquire after me when they go to bed; to-night they will not hear the stories of the city that I used to tell them, to put them to sleep. They were all wet after their fishing, and in the confusion no one will think of putting dry stockings on them. In thinking of other things I have forgotten to care for them. The youngest persists in wishing to become a professor. My child, you do not know what it is you wish. How much must you learn, and what a change will come over you! For the work which life accomplishes in us is immeasurable. When I formerly sat here near my father, I believed, in my simplicity, that the higher the office, the more noble were the men, and the most exalted of all the best, and that all that was important on earth was done by great and refined minds. And when the two scholars came, and I talked about books with Felix for the first time, I still imagined that everything in print must be indubitable truth, and every one who wrote, a thoroughly learned man. Many think thus childishly. But I have been an obstinate thing, and have vehemently opposed myself to others, even to my husband, who stood highest in my opinion."

She looked with a sad smile before her, but immediately afterwards bent her head, and again the tears poured from her eyes.

She heard the call of her brother from the garden.

"Holloa, Ilse! are you there? The strangers are still in the house; they are making a sedan chair for the invalid; he is to be taken to the ranger's lodge. Father is busy sending out messengers. The bridge at Rossau has also been carried away by the water; we cannot get to the town, and no one can come from the town to us. We feel very anxious about your getting back to us."

"Do not mind about me, Hans," said Ilse; "tell the girls they must not be so engrossed with the strangers as to forget our dear guest. Greet the children for me; they must not come to the edge of the water to bid me good night, for the bank is slippery."

Ilse placed herself at the entrance of the cave and looked all about. Early that morning she had seated herself here, and when the water began to rise high, she had hastened over the wooden bridge to warn her brothers and sisters. Her work still lay on the bench, together with a book that had been given her by the Pastor when she was a girl. It was the life of the holy Elizabeth, written by one of the most zealous ecclesiastics of her church.

"When I first read about you," she thought, "Saint Ilse of the Wartburg, my distinguished namesake, your life touched me, and all that you did and that was told of you appeared to me as an example for myself. You were a pious, sensible, and amiable woman, and united to a worthy husband. Then the longing for higher honor in his knightly order, and martial fame, made him blind to the nearest duty of his life, and he left you and the people of his home, and went to the wars in the far-off land of Italy. Two long years he wandered and fought, and finally returned, weary and worn. But he found not his beloved wife as he had left her. In the solitude that surrounded you, you had yearned for your husband, and your overpowering sorrow had brought you to ponder upon the great mysteries of life; your own life had been full of longing, and for this you had become a pious penitent. You wore a garment of hair, and scourged your back; you bowed your head and thoughts before an intolerant priest. You did what was not right nor seemly; to please your God, you laid the leper in the bed of your dear husband. In your over-strained piety you lost your warm heart and the modesty of womanhood; you were canonized by the clergy; but you, poor woman, in your striving for what they called the grace of God, had sacrificed human feelings and duties. It is not good, Ilse, that man and wife separate without great necessity."

"When people act harshly towards those they love, they do so because some wrong has been done them or because they fancy themselves offended. But why should you care for invalid strangers on the couch that your husband had forsaken? I fear me, blessed Elizabeth, that it was the spite of offended love, that it was secret revenge for having so hopelessly longed for your husband. Your history is no good teaching for us, but rather a warning. My sweet old friend Penelope, the poor heathen woman, was far more human than you and a far better wife than you. She wept night after night for her loved husband, and when he finally returned, she threw her arms about him for his having recognized the secret signs of the nuptial couch."

Again a voice sounded from the other side of the water.

"Do you hear me, Ilse?" cried her father, from the other bank.

"I hear you," answered Ilse, raising herself.

"The strangers are going away," said the father; "the invalid is so weak that he cannot injure others; you are, in truth, separated from us. It is becoming dark, and there is no prospect of being able to repair the bridge over the water before night. Go along the valley on your side over the hill to Rossau, and there remain with some one of our acquaintances until morning. It is a long way round, but you may reach it before night."

"I will remain here, father," Ilse called back; "the evening is mild, and it is only a few hours till morning."

"I cannot bear, Ilse, that my wilful child should sleep beneath the rocks in the very sight of her home."

"Do not mind about me. I have the moon and the stars over me; you know that I do not fear the dwarfs of the cave, nor on my mountain the power of man."

The twilight of evening fell on the deep valley, and the mist rose from the water; it floated slowly from tree to tree, it undulated and rolled its long, dusky veil between Ilse and her father's house. The trunks of the trees and the roof of the house disappeared, and the grotto seemed to hover in clouds of air separated from the earth amidst indistinct shadows, which hung round the entrance of the rock and fluttered at Ilse's feet, then collected together and dissolved.

Ilse sat on the bench at the entrance, her hands folded over her knees, appearing in her light dress, like a fairy woman of olden times, a ruler of the floating shadows. She gazed along her side of the shore on the mountain-path that led from Rossau.

The distant steps of a wanderer sounded through the damp fog. Ilse took hold of the moist stone. Something moved on the ground near her, and glided indistinctly forward--perhaps it was a night-swallow or owl.

"It is he," said Ilse, softly. She rose slowly, she trembled, and supported herself against the rock.

The figure of a man stepped out of the white mist; he stopped astonished when he saw a woman standing there.

"Ilse!" called out a clear voice.

"I await you here," she answered, in a low tone. "Stop there, Felix. You find not your wife as you left her. Another has coveted that which is yours; a poisonous breath has passed over me; words have been said to me which no honest woman ought to hear, and I have been looked upon as a bought slave."

"You have escaped from the enemy."

"I have, and therefore am here; but I am no longer in the eyes of others what I once was. You had a wife free from all taint; she who now stands before you is evilly talked of, both on account of father and son."

"The noise of tongues dies away like the surging of the water beneath your feet. It signifies little what others think when we have done what is satisfactory to our own consciences."

"I am glad that you do not care for the talk of others. But I am not quite so proud and independent as I was. I conceal my sorrow, but I feel it always. I am lowered in my own eyes, and, I fear, Felix, in yours also; for I have brought on my own misfortune--I have been too frank with strangers, and given them a right over me."

"You have been brought up to trust in those who hold high positions. Who can give up loyal trust without pain?"

"I have been awakened, Felix. Now answer me," she continued, with agitation, "how do you return to me?"

"As a weary, erring man, who seeks the heart of his wife and her forgiveness."

"What has your wife to forgive, Felix?" she again asked.

"That my eyes were blinded, and that I forgot my first duties to follow a vain chase."

"Is that all, Felix? Have you brought me back your heart, unchanged to me as it was before?"

"Dear Ilse," exclaimed her husband, embracing her.

"I hear your tones of love," she exclaimed, passionately, throwing her arms round his neck. She led him into the grotto, stroked the drops of water out of his damp hair, and kissed him. "I have you, my beloved one; I cling firmly to you, and no power shall ever again separate me from you. Sit here, you long-suffering man; I hold you fast. Let me hear all the trouble you have gone through."

The Scholar held his wife in his arms, and related all. He felt her tremble when he told her his adventures.

"Indignant anger and terror impelled me along the road to Rossau after the Sovereign," he said, concluding his account, "and the delay for change of horses seemed insupportable to me. In the town I found a crush of vehicles worse than on a market-day; before the inn a confused noise of wheels, and the cries of men, drovers, and court-lackeys, who could not cross the water. In the city I learned from strangers that the foe of our happiness had been overtaken by a fate which pursued him to the water. We have done with him, and are free. They called out to me that the bridge on the way to you was broken. I sprang out of the carriage in order to seek the footpath over the hills and the road behind the garden. Then the dog of our landlord ran past me, and a coachman from our city came up to me and stated that he had brought Fritz and Laura to the town, but that they had gone further down the stream in order to find a crossing. You may believe that I would not wait."

"I knew that you would seek this path," said Ilse. "To-day you are come to me--to me alone; you belong only to me; you are given to me anew, betrothed to me for the second time. The habitations of men around us have disappeared; we stand alone in the wild cave of the dwarfs. You, my Felix, to whom the whole world belongs, who understand all the secrets of life, who know the past and divine the future--you have nothing now for a shelter but this cleft of the rock, and no covering but the kerchief of poor Anna for your weary limbs. The rock is still warm, and I will strew the grass of our hills as a couch for you. You have nothing, my hero in the wilderness, but the rocks and herbs, and your Ilse by your side."

The stillness of night reigns about; the stream rushes gently around the roots of the brambles; and the white mists hang like a thick curtain over the cave. Dusky phantoms glide along the valley; they hover, in long white dresses, past the rocky entrance, down into the open country, where a fresh breath of air dissolves them. High above, the moon spreads its white, glimmering tent, woven of rays of light and watery vapors; and the old juggler laughs merrily over the valley and down upon the rocky grotto. As the delusive moonlight harasses mortals by its unreal halo, so do they harass themselves by the pictures of their own fancy, in love and hate, in good and bad humor; their life passes away whilst they are thinking of their duty and err in doing it, whilst they seek truth and dream in seeking it. The spirit flies high, and the heart beats warm, but the hobgoblin of fancy works incessantly amidst the reality of life; the cleverest deceive themself, and the best are disappointed by their own zeal. Sleep in peace, Ilse. Thou sittest upon thy low stone bench and boldest in thy lap the head of thy husband. Even in this hour of bliss, thou feelest the sorrow that came to him and thee, and a gentle sigh sounds through the cavern like the movement of a moth's wings against the walls of rock. Sleep in peace. For thou hast lived, in the weeks gone by, through that which for all future time will be a gain to thee. Thou hast learned to seek in the depths of thy own life judgment and firm resolve. It would not be fitting. Ilse, that the lightly-woven tale of that which thou hast suffered, should separately bring up the lofty questions of eternal moment that thou hast raised--thy doubts and thy fierce battles of conscience. That were a too heavy burden for our frail bark. Yet as the mariner at sea, his eye fixed upon things below, recognizes in the waters beneath the reflection of the clouds of heaven, so will thy attainment of freedom, Ilse, be seen in the reflection of thy thoughts, in thy countenance, thy manner, and thy conduct.

Slumber in peace, you children of light! Many of your hopes have been deceived, and much innocent trust has been destroyed by rough reality. The forms of a past time--forms that you have borne reverentially in your hearts--have laid a real hold on your life; for what a man thinks, and what a man dreams, becomes a power over him. What once has entered in the soul continues to work actively in it, exalting and impelling it onward, debasing and destroying it. About you, too, a game of fantastic dreams has played. If at times it has given you pain, it has still not impaired the power of your life, for the roots of your happiness lie as deep as it is granted man, that transitory flower, to rest in the soil of earth. Slumber in peace under the roof of the wild rock; the warm air of the grotto breathes round your couch, and the ancient vaulting of the roof spreads protectingly over your weary eyes! Around you the forest sleeps and dreams; the old inhabitants of the rock sit at the entrance of the cave. I know not whether they are the elves in whom Ilse does not believe, or the old friends of the scholar, the little goat-footed Pans, who blow their sylvan songs on their reed pipes. They hold their fingers to their mouth, and blow so gently in their pipe that it sounds sometimes like the rushing of the water or the soft sigh of a sleeping bird.

CHAPTER XLII.

TOBIAS BACHHUBER.

Ilse gently touched the head of her husband. Felix opened his eyes, threw his arms round his wife, and for a moment looked in confusion at the wild scene about him. The mist hovered like a white curtain before the opening of the cave; the first dawn of morning cast a glow on the jagged projections of the dark vault; the redbreast sang, and the blackbird piped; the pure light of day was approaching.

"Do you not hear something?" whispered Ilse.

"The birds singing, and the water rushing."

"But under us, within the rock, some strange power is at work. It stirs and groans."

"It is some animal from the wood," said the Professor; "a fox or a rabbit."

The noise about their seat became louder; something was pushing against the stone bench; it was working and sighing like a man who carries a heavy burden.

"Look," whispered Ilse, "it is coming out; it is slipping round our feet. There sits the strange thing; it has shining eyes and a glittering cloak."

The Professor supported himself on his hand and looked at the dark spot, where a small figure sat with hairy face, its body covered with a stiff, glittering garment.

They both looked motionless at the figure.

"Now do you believe in the spirits of this place?" asked her husband, in a low tone.

"I am afraid, Felix; I distinctly see the gold of the dress, and I see a small beard and a horrible face."

She raised herself.

"Are you the Dwarf-King, Alberich," asked the Professor, "and is the Nibelungen treasure concealed here?"

"It is the red dog," cried Ilse, "he has a coat on."

The Professor jumped up; the dog crouched whining before his feet. The Scholar bent down, felt a strange material round the body of the dog, and took off the covering; he stepped to the entrance and held it up in the dawning light. It was old rotten stuff, woven with golden thread. The dog, freed from his burden, rushed out of the cave with a growl. The Professor gazed long on the torn tissue, let the rag fall, and said gravely:

"Ilse, I am at the goal of my long search. These are the remains of a priestly vestment. The dog has drawn this out of some hole into which he has crept; the treasure of the monk lies in this grotto. But I have done with my hopes. A few days ago this discovery would have intoxicated me, now so dark a remembrance is attached to it that the pleasure that I might have had in what is concealed in these depths has almost all vanished."

There were loud voices on the opposite bank. Hans hallooed again through the mist; he greeted his sister and Felix who now came out from the cave on the broad rock, with the joyful news--"The water has fallen." The other brothers and sisters rushed after him and came close to the water shouting and screaming. Franz brought a sandwich in a paper, and declared his intention of throwing this breakfast over to them, that they might not starve. The children contended against this decision, and eagerly devised a plan of throwing over a piece of twine on a ball and attaching the sandwich to it. Life on the estate had again resumed its ordinary routine.

"Has Fritz come?" asked the Professor, across the stream.

"They are still at Rossau," called out Hans. "The bridge has been repaired; Mr. Hummel is up, and has gone down there."

The father also came, followed by a troop of laborers, who brought beams and planks. The men went into the water and drove a support into the soft ground, upon which they laid several slender tree-trunks across the water; the Professor caught the rope which was thrown to him. After a few hours' work a small bridge was erected. The Proprietor was the first who passed over to his children, and the men exchanged a grave greeting.

"If the men have an hour's time to spare during the day," said the Professor, "they may do one last work for me here. The hiding-place of the monks was in this cave."

In the meantime Mr. Hummel was descending with rapid steps towards Rossau. The carpenters were still working at the bridge. He cast a searching look on the spot where he had caught hold of the young Prince in the water and murmured:

"He went down like a cannon-ball. This nation has no capacity for the sea either in its upper or lower classes,--in this whole neighborhood they have not so much as a boat. Twenty years ago there was one here, it is said, but it has been cut up to boil coffee. The best thanks that one can give to this Bielstein man for the disturbance that we have occasioned him, will be to send him a boat to keep among his bundles of straw."

With these thoughts he entered the door of the Dragon; there he went up to the sleepy landlord and asked:

"Where is the young couple that arrived yesterday evening?"

"They are up stairs, I suppose," returned the latter, indifferently; "their bill is to be paid yet, if you will know."

As he was about to ascend to the upper floor, he heard a cry of joy.

"Father, my father!" exclaimed Laura, rushing down the stairs; she threw her arms round his neck, and gave vent to such warm expressions of tenderness and sorrow that Mr. Hummel at once became gracious.

"Vagrants!" he exclaimed; "have I caught you? Wait! you shall pay dearly for this escapade."

The Doctor also rushed headlong down stairs, and greeted Mr. Hummel with outbursts of joy.

"Your carriage will bring the things after us; we will go on ahead," ordered Mr. Hummel. "How did your Don Juan behave?" he asked, in a low tone, of his daughter.

"Father, he took care of me like an angel, and sat on a chair the whole night before my door. It was terrible, father."

"And how does the affair please you? So romantic! It calls forth superb feelings, and one thereby escapes the almond-cake and the unseasoned jokes of the comic actor."

But Laura pressed up to her father, and looked imploringly at him, till Mr. Hummel said:

"So it has been a cure? Then I will joyfully pay the bill of the Dragon."

They walked out of the door together.

"How did she behave on the way?" he asked the Doctor, confidentially.

"She was charming," he exclaimed, pressing the arm of the father, "but in an anxious state of mind; I was sent up on the coach-box four times that repentance overcame her."

"What, and did you climb up?" asked Mr. Hummel, indignantly.

"It gave me pleasure to see that she was so deeply affected by the unusual nature of the journey."

"'It gives me pleasure that my poodle should go into the water,' said the flea, and was drowned," returned Mr. Hummel, mockingly. "Why did you not look calmly on the anxiety of my child? It would have saved you many a bond if you had been firm with her the first day."

"But she was not yet my wife," said the Doctor.

"O, it was tolerant mischievousness, was it?" replied the father, "may you bide your time."

When they approached the courtyard, the daughter hanging on the arm of her father--which she would not let go--he began:

"Not a word to-day, now, about this abominable elopement. I have hushed up your thoughtless folly before the people here, and thrown a mantle over it, that you may be able to open your eyes; you are announced and expected as quiet travelers. We shall remain here together to-day; to-morrow I shall speak to you, in my office of father, a last word concerning your romance."

At the door the wanderers were joyfully welcomed by their friends. The Professor and the Doctor embraced each other.

"You come just in time, Fritz; the adventure which we began here years ago will conclude to-day. The treasure of Brother Tobias is discovered."

After some hours the whole party started for the cave; the laborers followed with iron crows and levers.

The Proprietor examined the block of stone at the back of the cave. At the bottom on one side he saw a hole, the same through which the dog had crawled.

"This opening is new," he exclaimed; "it was closed by a stone which has fallen in."

The large stone bench was with some exertion rolled away, and an opening wide enough for a man to creep in without difficulty became perceptible. The lights were lowered into it, and showed a continuation of the cave sloping downwards, which went many yards further into the mountain. It was a desolate space. In the time of the monks it had undoubtedly been dry, but was no longer so. Roots of trees had driven the crevices of the rock asunder, or the strata had sunk, owing to the penetration of the damp. Thus an entrance had been given to water and animals, and there was a confused mass of litter from the wood and bones. The workmen cleared it with their tools, and the spectators sat and stood by, full of curiosity. The Professor, in spite of his composure, kept as close to the spot as he could. But the Doctor could not long bear to look on. He took off his coat and descended into the opening. Mouldy pieces of thick cloth were brought up; probably the treasure had been conveyed in a large bag to its place of concealment. Then came altar covers and ecclesiastical robes.

There was a cry of joy, and the Doctor handed out a book. The face of the Professor was suffused with color as he took it. It was a missal on parchment. He gave it to the Proprietor, who now looked on with great interest. The Doctor handed out a second book; all pressed near. The Professor sat on the ground and read. It was a manuscript of St. Augustine in a deplorable condition.

"Two!" he said, and his voice sounded hoarse from inward emotion.

"The Doctor handed a third book, again spiritual Latin hymns with notes. The fourth, a Latin Psalter. The Professor held out his hand, and it trembled.

"Is there more?" he exclaimed.

The Doctor's voice sounded hollow from the cave.

"There is nothing more."

"Look carefully," said the Professor, with faltering voice.

"Here is the last," cried the Doctor, handing out small square board, "and here another."

They were two book-covers of solid wood, the outside ornamented with carved ivory. The Professor perceived at once from the style of the figures that it was Byzantine work of the latest Roman period--the figure of an Emperor on a throne, and over him an angel with a halo.

"A large quarto of the fifth or sixth century. It is the cover of the manuscript, Fritz; where is the text?"

"There is no text to be found," again replied the sepulchral voice of the Doctor.

"Take the lantern and throw the light everywhere."

The Doctor took the second lantern in. He felt with his hand and pickaxe all round in every corner of the rock. He threw the last blade of straw out, and the last remnant of the bag. There was nothing of the manuscript to be seen--not a page, not a letter.

The Professor looked at the cover.

"They have torn it out," he said, in a faint voice; "probably the monks took the Roman Emperor in ivory for a saint."

He held the cover to the light. On the inner side of one of the pieces, amidst dust and decay, might be read, in old monkish writing, the words:

"THE TRAVELS OF THE SILENT MAN."

The silent man was now drawn from his hiding-place. But he spoke not: his mouth remained mute for ever.

"Our dream is at an end," said the Professor, composedly. "The monks have torn out the text from the cover, and left it behind; there was no more room for the manuscript in the crowded bag. The treasure is lost to science. Our hand touches what was once the cover of the manuscript, and we cannot help having the bitter feeling of sorrow for what is irreparable, the same as if it had passed away in our sight. But we return to the light in possession of our faculties, and must do our duty in making available to our generation, and those who come after us, what remains."

"Was this genius called Bachhuber?" exclaimed Mr. Hummel; "judging from appearances, he was an ass."

The Proprietor laid his hand on the shoulder of his son-in-law.

"After all, you learned men have been in the right," he said, "Close the opening by the stone bench again," he said, addressing the laborers; "the cave shall remain as it was."

The party returned silently to the old house. The boys carried the books, the girls the bundles of torn monks' dresses, and made plans for drawing out the gold threads for themselves. The Professor kept the cover of the lost manuscript.

As they entered the house there was a sound of horse's feet on the other side. The Proprietor went to the door. The old Chief Forester drew in his black horse.

"I have ridden in haste through the farm to bring you news. Everything with us is topsy-turvy. We have Court Officials and Ministers, and doctors are fetched from every quarter. My people have all been sent out, and I myself have come to Rossau to order a courier. I fear his Serene Highness is very low; he knows no one. The Hereditary Prince is now awaiting the arrival of the Court physician; as soon as he gives permission the party will start for the capital. All these terrible things are owing to the unfortunate additions to my quiet dwelling. One thing more, while it occurs to me--your son-in-law is searching for old papers and books. There are some chests at our place containing such lumber of ancient times, when the ranger's lodge was still a royal shooting-box. Over the door, from under the plaster, one can discover a foreign word, solitudini, which means, they say, 'in solitude.' The chests are rotten: in the course of the building they have been moved from their place. When things become quieter with us the Professor will, perhaps, look over them."

"Then here is the Castle Solitude, with the genuine chests of the official," exclaimed the Professor. "I shall never go to that house."

The Doctor seized his hat, and spoke in a low tone to Laura and the Proprietor.

"I beg leave of absence for to-day," he said, going out.

He did not return till evening.

"In the chest there are accounts for repairs to the monastic buildings and for the estate at the end of the seventeenth century; there are, besides, some volumes of Corneille. The vicar who went to America is related to the Chief Forester."

"We have been led astray," said the Professor, calmly. "It is well that every doubt has disappeared."

"But," replied the Doctor, "there is still no proof that the old manuscript is destroyed. It is yet possible that it may come to light somewhere in fragments. Who knows but there may be strips on the back of some books?"

"On the books which the Swede has written in characters of fire at Rossau," replied the Professor, with a sad smile. "It is well, Fritz, that the tormenting spirits are forever banished."

Early on the morning of the following day a line of carriages left the ranger's lodge; the first was closely curtained--it was the prostrate Sovereign, guarded by his physicians. Before starting, the Hereditary Prince beckoned the Chief Forester to his carriage:

"Is there any other way to Rossau than that by the manor-house through the Bielstein estate?"

"Over the ridge through the wood," replied the Chief Forester; "but it is a roundabout way."

"We will take the road through the wood," commanded the Hereditary Prince. On the way he said to his attendant: "I expect from you, Weidegg, that, should occasion present itself, you will show considerate attention to the people who dwell in that house. I am the son of the sick Sovereign to whom a voice refused reception there. I shall, therefore, never again cross the threshold of that house; and I wish that you never again mention the name of that woman in my presence."

The sad procession passed close by the spot where once the lightning had struck the pine-tree. The carriages moved at a slow pace along the ridge of hills upon the forest-road.

"Drive on ahead," said the Prince; "I will walk a short distance alone."

He stepped to the edge of the hill; the early dawn tinged the dark bushes of heather with a golden green. From that same height, where once a merry party had rested, the Prince looked down on Bielstein, which stood out in the white morning mist, on the roof and balconies of the old house. Long he stood motionless; the bell sounded from the village church through the mountain air; he bent his head till the last echoes of the melancholy tones passed away; then he stretched his hand greetingly towards the manor, turned quickly back, and went along the forest-road.

* * *

The cocks crowed in the farmyard at Bielstein, the sparrows twittered in the vine arbor, and the people were preparing for the day's work. Then Mr. Hummel knocked three times with his ponderous fist at the door of the room in which his daughter slept.

"Get up, eloper," he shouted, "if you still wish to take leave of your forsaken father."

There was a noise in the room and a prattering of slippers, and Laura's head peeped through the opening in the door.

"Father, you are not going to leave us!" she said pleadingly.

"You have left me," replied Mr. Hummel; "we must have a few final words together. Dress yourself properly, and you shall accompany me down the hill. I will wait for you in the hall."

He had to wait some time for his daughter, and paced impatiently up and down, looking at his watch.

"Gabriel," he said to the servant, who came up to him in his best attire, "much misfortune arises from women's long hair. It is on that account that they never can be ready at the right time; this is their privilege by which they vex us, and it is on that account that they maintain they are the weaker sex. Order and punctuality will never be obtained unless all womankind have their pig-tails cut off on one day."

Laura glided down the stairs, clung to her father's arm, and stroked his cheeks with her little hand.

"Come into the garden, my little actress," he said; "I must speak to you alone for a few minutes. You have succeeded in eloping, you have gone through the scandal,--in what state of mind are you now?"

"Uneasy, dear father," said Laura, dejectedly. "I know that it was a folly, and Ilse says so too."

"Then it must be so," replied Mr. Hummel, dryly. "What is now to become of you?"

"Whatever you wish, father," said Laura. "Fritz and I are of opinion that we must follow your wishes unconditionally. I have by my folly lost all right of expressing a wish; if I could still venture to make a request," she said, timidly, "I should like to remain here for a short time."

"Then you wish to get rid of your seducer?"

"He is going back to his parents, and we will wait, my father, until he has an appointment at the University: he has prospects."

"Indeed," said Mr. Hummel, shaking his head. "All that would have been very sensible before the elopement; now it is too late. Your banns have been published in church, now, three times."

"The people would not have it otherwise," continued Mr. Hummel. "When it was known that you had eloped, the clergy could not avoid publishing the banns; you had not been long out of the gate when this calamity took place."

Laura stood terrified, and a burning red suffused her cheeks. The bells of the little church by the wood below sounded. Mr. Hummel took a paper out of his pocket.

"Here are those cursed old godmother's gloves; I wish at last to get rid of the trash. Here you have your dowry, I can give you nothing more; put them on quickly, that people may at least observe by your hands that this is a festive day for you. When it comes to the business of the wedding-ring you can easily take them off."

"Father," cried Laura, wringing her hands.

"You could not bear the idea of a wedding-cake," said Mr. Hummel, "so you must do without a wedding-dress, and many other things. These dramatic attitudes would have been very suitable before the elopement, now you must be married without question either immediately, or not at all. Do you think that one goes out into the world for a joke?"

"My mother!" exclaimed Laura, and the tears rolled from her eyes.

"You chose to run away from your mother, and if your father, out of consideration for these strangers, had not come, you would have had to do the business alone. You wished to escape from our homely, simple feelings."

Laura laid hold of a tree with trembling hands, and looked imploringly at her father.

"You are not so bold as I thought. Now the timid hare in you comes to light."

Laura threw herself on her father's breast and sobbed; he stroked her curls.

"Little Hummel," he said, kindly, "there must be punishment, and it is not severe; I am satisfied that you should marry him. He is a worthy man; I have observed that; and if it is for your happiness, I shall easily get on with him, but you must not immediately begin to hum and buzz if I sometimes bristle up in my way. I wish, too, that you should marry him to-day, that is now the best course for all parties. You may exercise your bridal feelings later and go through your emotions as you like. Be brave, now, my child, the others are waiting, and we must not delay them. Are you ready?"

Laura wept, but a soft "Yes" was heard.

"Then we will awake the bridegroom," said Mr. Hummel. "I believe the sacrificial lamb sleeps without any foreboding of his fate."

He left his daughter, hastened to the Doctor's door, and looked into the room. Fritz lay fast asleep. Mr. Hummel seized the boots which were standing before the door and bumped them down beside the bed.

"Good morning, Don Juan," he shouted; "have the kindness to get immediately into this leather. These are your bridal boots. My daughter Laura begs you to make haste, and the clergyman is impatient."

The Doctor sprang out of his bed.

"Are you in earnest?" he asked.

"Terribly in earnest," said Hummel.

He did not have to wait long for the Doctor. He entered the garden where Laura was still sitting alone in the bower, uneasy, like an imprisoned bird that does not venture to leave its cage. Mr. Hummel led the Doctor up to her.

"There, you have her," he said solemnly. "It is a fine morning, just like that when I set out as a boy. To-day I send my child into the world, and that is another kind of feeling. I do not object to it if you live happily together, till first your children run away from you into the world, and then the grandchildren: for man is like a bird, he takes pains and collects the bits of straw together for his home, but the young brood do not care for the nest of the parents. Thus the old raven must now sit alone and find few who will be vexed with his croaking. Take my stubborn girl, dear Fritz, and do not let her have too much of her own will. I have watched you for some time, and I will tell you something in confidence: ever since the affair of the cat's-paws it occurred to me, that in the end you would be no bad husband for this Hummel. That you are called Hahn is, after all, only a misfortune." He kissed them both right heartily. "Now come, runaways, for the others are expecting you."

Mr. Hummel walked before his children to the house; he opened the door of the sitting-room where the whole family were assembled. Laura flew to Ilse, and concealed her hot face on the breast of her friend. The latter took the bridal wreath, which her sisters had brought, and placed it on Laura's head. Gabriel opened the door. Years before the Doctor had drawn his friend from the bramble bush against the wall into the church; now he walked into the little village church hand in hand with his love, and again the children strewed flowers. When the clergymen joined the hands of the bridal pair. Ilse also clasped the hand of her husband.

"Your mother is wanting," said Hummel, to the bride, when she embraced him after the wedding; "and the Doctor's family also. But you are citizen's children, and however exalted your feelings may be you must accommodate yourself to our customs. You will go from here back to your native town. There your mothers will keep the after-nuptials, and you, runaway, shall not escape the bad poetry. You must excuse me if I am not at home on that day; I have to make a business journey, and it is not suitable to marry one's child twice in a week." He then said, in a low tone to his daughter: "between ourselves, I do not wish to peck of the same wedding-cake with the Hahn family. You are not to live with me, nor in the house over the way:--that has been advised by our friends, and I think it quite right. After the marriage feast you may travel for some weeks, and then return to your own home."

"The bridal journey you will make alone," said the Professor; "not with us. Ilse and I have determined, after a short rest, to return to the city. I have some months of the vacation still before me which I shall endeavour to make of use to a select circle of students. Among books we shall again find what we lost among strangers,--peace with ourselves, and peace with those about us."

It was about Easter the following year. Mr. Hummel and Gabriel stood dressed in festive black before the door of No. 1. Park Street.

"I was to see her, Gabriel," began Mr. Hummel, confidentially. "I took the money to her this time myself, because you wished it. I inquired concerning her of the people at the Inn and of the neighbors. She behaves with modesty, and her character is greatly changed. Much water, Gabriel," and he pointed to his eyes.

"You were kind to her?" asked Gabriel, faintly.

"As a lamb," replied Mr. Hummel, "and she the same. The room was poor, one picture only hung there without a frame, Gabriel, as a remembrance of her happy position in that house. It was a cock with golden feathers."

Gabriel turned away.

"At last the place became too moist for my dry constitution, but care has been taken of her. She is to be placed in a respectable business as a saleswoman, and as for the illegitimate Knips, the ladies will take care of him. I have spoken with Madame Hummel, and she with the Hahn woman over the way; they will arrange for the charitable collections. But as far as you are concerned, Gabriel, with all respect,--what is too much is too much."

Mr. Hummel respectfully seized Gabriel's waistcoat button, and twisted the averted face as by a screw round to himself. Then he looked into the sad eyes for some time without saying a word, but they both understood each other.

"It was a hard time, it was a mad time, Gabriel, in every point of view," began Mr. Hummel, at last, shaking his head; "what we went through with princes was no trifle."

"He was very light," said Gabriel, "and I carried him like a feather."

"That is nothing to the purpose," said Mr. Hummel; "the affair was creditable. Just think what it is to have saved a young Sovereign. That few of us can do. For a moment, ambitious thoughts came into my head--that is to say, the Chamberlain, no ill-disposed man and an old acquaintance of ours, sounded me on a delicate point when he last called."

"He also sent for me," interposed Gabriel, with dignity. "Prince Victor had commissioned him to send his respects, and to say that the Prince was to marry the Princess."

"Even this kind of householder becomes domestic," said Mr. Hummel, "that is at least a beginning. Well, the Chamberlain assured me of his Serene Highness's gratitude, made eloquent speeches, and probed me at last with a 'predicate.' Do you know what that is?"

"Hum," said Gabriel, "if it is something that is given away at that Court it would be like a colored tobacco pouch without any tobacco in it; it must be a title."

"You have hit it," said Mr. Hummel. "What do you think of Sir Court Hat Maker and Householder, Henry Hummel?"

"A swindle," replied Gabriel.

"Right, it was a weakness; but I overcame it at the right time. Then I asked this Chamberlain, 'what would you expect of me'? 'Nothing at all,' he said, 'except that you should carry on a distinguished business!' 'That is the case now,' I said. 'But what hats will they expect me to keep?' For he, who has had experience like mine, becomes suspicious, and look you, Gabriel, then the fraud came out, for what was his idea and expectation? I was in his eyes a man who dealt in straw hats. Then I thanked him for the honor, and turned my back to him."

"But," said Gabriel, "there should be some concession with regard to this matter; we are on good terms now with the people over there; and if you have given your daughter to the family, why not also an article of business?"

"Do not interfere in my affairs," said Mr. Hummel, irritably. "It is bad enough that I, as father, and in a certain degree as neighbor, have been obliged to give up my old grudge. How can one irritate oneself now, when one is obliged to have one's hand pressed here, and to drink family punch under the cursed Muse there? No, I was a weak father, and as a neighbor, an inexcusably fickle man. But, Gabriel, even the worm which is trod upon keeps its sting. And my sting is my business. There the enmity still remains. Every spring, vindictiveness; and every winter, triumph. I have lost my child and made over my money to a coxcomb, but I am still man enough to hold my own against the fellow across the way."

He looked at the empty place on the door-steps, where his dog Spitehahn formerly used to sit.

"I miss him," continued Mr. Hummel, pointing significantly to the ground.

"He is gone," said Gabriel.

"He was a dog after my own heart," continued Mr. Hummel, slowly; "and I have an idea. What do you think, Gabriel, if we were to erect a monument to him in the garden. Here near the street; there would only be a low stone and upon it a single word--'Spitehahn.' When the doors stand open one could read it across the street. It would be a memorial of the poor beast, and especially of the good time when one could pluck the feathers of a Hahn without being indicted for infanticide."

"That will not do," replied Gabriel. "What would the son-in-law's people over the way say to it?"

"The devil!" exclaimed Mr. Hummel, and turned away.

Yes, Spitehahn had disappeared from the world. Since that hour, when in the dim grey of the morning he had wound round him the golden dress of the deceased Bachhuber like a ruff, he had disappeared. No inquiries and no offers of reward had enabled Mr. Hummel to obtain a trace of him. In vain were the shepherds and laborers of the neighborhood, and even the magistrates of Rossau, set in movement--he had vanished like a spirit. The place on the steps remained empty; the blank which he had left behind in society was filled by a younger race of dogs in Park Street; the neighborhood in every walk along the street felt a satisfaction which they had long been deprived of; the cigar dealer again placed his stand near Mr. Hummel's garden; and the young ladies in white dresses, who went to the Park, gradually gave up the custom of turning away from Mr. Hummel's house, and going over to the straw side. The memory of Spitehahn passed away without regret from any; only with the old inmates of the street the remembrance of him remained as a dark tradition. Gabriel alone thought of the lost one evenings when he saved the bones for miscellaneous dogs of the neighborhood. But he did not wonder at the disappearance of the animal: he had long known that something mysterious must sometime or other happen to him.

There came a confirmation of this view, which furnished food for thought for the rest of Gabriel's life; for when, in the following autumn, he again went in company with his master and mistress to visit the Manorhouse of Bielstein, directly upon his arrival he begged permission to have an afternoon's holiday, and, as he often did now, walked alone with his thoughts. He went in the wood, far past the ranger's lodge, amongst large mossy beech-trees, ferns, and bilberries. It was evening, and a grey twilight overtook the wanderer; he was uncertain of his direction, and, somewhat uneasy, sought the road to the house. Thunder rolled in the distance, and sometimes a bright flash of lightning passed over the heavens, and for a moment lighted up the trunks of the trees and the mossy ground. Amid a bright flash he saw himself suddenly on a cross-road; he started back, for a few steps from him a great dark figure was moving across the path, with a broad-brimmed felt hat on his head and a weapon on his shoulder; it glided by noiselessly and without greeting. Gabriel stood astonished; again a flash, and along the same road ran two dogs, a black and a red cur, with huge heads and bristly hair: suddenly the red one stopped and turned towards Gabriel, who saw at the back of the dog a tuft which it wagged. The next moment there was profound darkness, and Gabriel heard at his feet a slight whimpering, and it appeared to him as if something licked his boot. Another slight noise, and then all was still.

The people on the estate maintain that it was a poacher, or the great deer-stealer from the other side of the frontier; but Gabriel knew who the night-hunter was, and what the dog was. He who had before sent the dog to Hummel's house, without money and without name, had also called him away. The hound now barked again in the night, when the storm blew like a hunting-horn, when the clouds flew under the moon, and the trees bent their heads, groaning, to the earth. Then he ran over the hills from Rossau, through the grounds of Bielstein; he howled, and the moon laughed mockingly down on the place in which Tobias Bachhuber had deposited his treasures, and among them the cover of the lost manuscript.

But if no observer could be in doubt as to the fate of the dog, far more uncertain is the judgment of the present day concerning another figure which hovers about the grotto.

What can thy fate be, unfortunate Brother Tobias Bachhuber? Thy conduct towards the manuscript we have been seeking transcends everything one could have expected of a Tobias. It is much to be feared that thy disregard of the highest interests of mankind may have injured thy social position in the other world. Grievous doubts arise, Bachhuber, as to thy heavenly happiness: for the wrong that thou hast done to us would have drawn tears from an angel. To us mortals it is impossible to think of thee with the confidence which thy true-hearted words would impress upon us: haec omnia deposui,--I have deposited all this. That was an untruth, Bachhuber, and the wounds of deceived confidence will always bleed afresh.

Answer my question, Tobias--what views didst thou hold of the unity of the human race? of the bonds of union binding the souls of men of past ages with the souls of men of the present? or of that stupendous net-work, humanity, in which thou wert a mesh? Thy views were pitiable, indeed. Thou didst stuff the great manuscript, the hope of our century, into a bag and thou didst rip out the text when thou foundest the bag too full, and didst carefully preserve the covers for later generations! For shame, thrice for shame!

And yet, withal, thou didst ever hover restlessly about the cave of the forest, and since Swedish times didst bustle about unceasingly in the rooms of the old house!

Why didst thou do that, Tobias, silly monk? Is't possible that thou hadst something in store, that thou wast guarding something, for the happiness of those who came after thee, that thou wert, after all, laboring for the unity of mankind that we said thou hadst no conception of?

Yes, a treasure was found. It did not have the appearance that our scholars thought it would, when their glance first rested on the faded letters of thy record. The treasure that both the scholars found, had clenched fists, and dimpled cheeks, and sweet, bright eyes. Their treasure came to them alive, nor was it of the silent kind. Bachhuber, can it be that thou hast frivolously transcended the rules of thy order? Was it thou that set down this treasure in the 'dry hollow place' commonly called a cradle? in the cradles of two homes?

To-day there is a great christening at the Professor's house--a double one. The Professor's son is called Felix, and the Doctor's young daughter Cornelia. Almost at the same time the children resolved to narrow the space of the over-crowded world by their appearance. The sponsors of the boy are Professor Raschke and Mrs. Struvelius; the sponsors of the girl are Professor Struvelius and Mrs. Raschke; but Mr. Hummel is godfather for both, stands in the middle and swings first one, and then the other godchild.

"I am delighted that yours is a boy," he said, to the Professor; "he will be fair and jolly. For womankind is rapidly getting the upper hand, and will soon become too powerful for us; we must strengthen ourselves by an increase, otherwise a complete revolution will take place. I am delighted that yours is a girl," he said, to his daughter; "the creature is dark and bristly; it will be no Hahn, but a Hummel."

The christening is over, and Professor Raschke raises his glass.

"There are two new human souls in the kingdom of books, two more scholars' children in our blustering, curious, pedantic, and whimsical community. You children will take your first riding-lessons on your fathers' folios; you will make your first helmet and your first dress from your fathers' proof-sheets: you will regard, earlier than others, with secret terror the books that surround your rosy youth. But we hope that you too will help preserve for a future generation the proud and lofty spirit with which your fathers have dedicated their lives to science, to thought, and to creative activity. You too, be you man or woman, must become the faithful guardians of the ideals of our people. You will find a national spirit that takes a stronger flight and makes higher demands on its intellectual leaders. As we in the present, so you in the future, will often be accorded a smile. But see to it that it be kindly. And see to it that the office that has come to you from your fathers, remain worthy of the people. And see to it that you too shall acquit yourselves as steadfast and honest workers in the fields of Science--true to your faith in the good genius of this our life."

Raschke spoke: and waved his glass.

"Pray, Professor Raschke!" exclaimed Mrs. Struvelius; "you have my glass. My gloves are in it. Do not drink them, I beseech you!"

"True enough," said Raschke, apologetically; and he poured with measured deliberation the wine from the flask on the gloves, to join with great appreciation in the toast he had offered.

But in the dimly, lighted corner, by the book-case, whereon the tiny record of our loved Brother lay, appeared the humble figure of Bachhuber,--Tobias Bachhuber, observed by no one--in the resemblance of a nurse. He greeted, and graciously bowed his thanks.

When the friends had departed. Ilse sat on the sofa, the child before her in her lap. Felix knelt at her side, and both looked down upon the young life between them.

"It is so small, Felix," said Ilse; "and yet all that was and all that is, does not make the mother so happy as the soft beating of the little heart in its breast."

"Restlessly the thinking mind struggles after the eternal," exclaimed the Scholar; "but he who holds wife and child to his heart, feels forevermore united in holy peace with the high power of life."

The cradle rocked, as if moved by spirit hands. Thus does the treasure look, blessed Bachhuber, that thy active hand has helped bestow upon a future race. Thou hast not acted well by us. Thou hast done us wrong. But when we think how studiously active thou wast, in the old manor-house and elsewhere, to perform, to the glory of coming generations, the kindly offices of a match-maker, we cannot be angry with thee on this solemn, festive occasion. All in all, we must say thou wert an unfortunate, ill-starred fellow, and hast been the cause of much trouble. But thy heart was kind. And after all, Tobias, thou hast been taken up into heaven--with a question-mark it is true: for thou shalt ever wear on the back of thy celestial cowl a tag of Satan's making--a mark for all future time of thy dealings with the lost manuscript of Tacitus.

[THE END.]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Compare the library scene in the chapter "A Day of Visits," Vol. 1, p. 265, of this novel.]

[Footnote 2: Andres means "the other."]

[Footnote 3: A festive and bibacious celebration, in honor of some prominent person, or commemoration of a great event.]

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