Book + 

VI + 

I + 

“Has Friedrich not come back yet!” + 

“No, General.” + 

August, who had his hand already upon the door, was just leaving the room. + 

“One moment!” said the General. + 

August obeyed with a face of much embarrassment; the General had come close up to him, and there was in his countenance, not anger, as August assured himself by one nervous glance upwards, but something peculiar; while the deep tones of his voice did not sound peremptory but very strange, thought August. + 

“It is of great importance to me to know where my son is at this moment; Friedrich will perhaps not return immediately, and I am losing precious time. You do not know where Friedrich was to take the things?” + 

The faithful fellow trembled, and his broad, honest face quivered as if tears were not far off; it was only with an effort that he could answer: “Yes, General; Friedrich told me, and he has already two or three times had to take things there when the Lieutenant did not come home; she is called Fräulein Bertalda, and lives in ⸻ Street, and is, with all due respect, a person who⁠—” + 

“Good!” said the General, “you need not send Friedrich to me now. It is possible that I may require to send you out. Be ready, therefore!” + 

“Breakfast will be ready. General⁠—” + 

“I shall not breakfast today.” + 

“Fräulein Sidonie was coming to speak to you, sir; can she come now?” + 

“I am very sorry⁠—I am busy⁠—you must tell Fräulein Sidonie.” + 

The General turned back into the room. August, in his heartfelt anxiety, longed to say: “If only our young lady were here!” But he did not venture, and so slipped out. + 

“Part of it was true then,” murmured the General, “so I suppose the rest will be also.” + 

He went up to his writing-table, on which lay an open letter that he had received a quarter of an hour before from Herr von Wallbach. Bending over it in vague bewilderment, supporting himself by one hand on the table, he almost mechanically perused it again, then raised himself with a long-drawn breath and passed his hand over his bushy brows, as if trying to sweep away from his mind, like a bad dream, the fearful thing which he read there. Not merely what he read! between the lines there flitted to and fro terrible things which he himself had mentally inserted whilst he read, as in a bad dream the most dreadful part is not in the images which a terror-stricken imagination calls up, but in the expectation of horrors that are still to come. And yet! what more could come, when an alliance with the Werben family was declined as dishonourable! when satisfaction was denied to a Werben! + 

The latter point, as the most comprehensible, was that to which the unhappy man’s wandering thoughts returned and clung most persistently. + 

A betrothal broken off was a thing that had happened before and might happen again; it was a trifle even, a mere nothing, if only honour were untouched by it, if only Ottomar could stake his life upon his unimpeachable honour. Might not Wallbach’s cowardice⁠—he had always thought the man a coward⁠—be taking advantage of Ottomar’s difficulties, which “had reached a height and assumed a character that made it dubious, at least, if Herr von Werben were still entitled to demand satisfaction as an officer and a gentleman, or even from the standpoint of ordinary honesty.” + 

This must be cleared away! He had thought since that last affair, when in the autumn he had paid the bills which had come into his hands, that everything was settled, since no more bills had been presented to him⁠—he had erred, grossly erred. Ottomar in his need had drawn more bills⁠—he himself was the cause of Ottomar being in such need!⁠—why had he at that time so sternly refused him any further assistance? Might he not have known that such embarrassment cannot be at once ended? that when a man’s true friends refused their assistance he would turn to false friends who would ruthlessly make profit out of his position, as had evidently been the case here? No matter, no matter! all should be forgiven and forgotten, if Ottomar would only confide in him again, would only allow him to put things straight for him again, as he had so often done. But could he do so? Counting all that he possessed, he could not make up more than about ten thousand thalers. That might not be enough; as much again might perhaps be wanted; it should be found then, it must be found⁠—it must! Ottomar had evidently sent his man for his sash that he might make the necessary communication to his colonel of what had occurred. Herr von Bohl would of course require that the money difficulties should be settled before bringing the matter before a court of honour. He himself would then become surety to the fullest extent for Ottomar’s debts; their old friend would for once⁠—once more! not look too closely into it; he would accept the surety and let the matter rest till all was settled. If only Ottomar would not now, at this very time, let himself be led into taking steps⁠—that must be the meaning of the obscure part of Wallbach’s letter; what else could the man mean?⁠—steps which could only increase the difficulty of arranging the business. That an officer should put his name to a bill with the most exorbitant interest⁠—that was, alas! for Ottomar no new thing! The fact that he had sent for plain clothes as well as for his sash appeared to point to some such intention. There was not a moment to lose! he had lost only too many in his first bewilderment! The General rang the bell. He was himself in plain clothes this morning, as he usually had been since his retirement; he would put on his uniform. It would take him a few minutes longer, but he always felt a little want of confidence without his uniform, and there must be no want of confidence today. As August still did not come after he had rung a second time, he was about to go to his bedroom, when there came a knock at the door, and on his irritable “Come in!” Captain von Schönau entered the room. + 

“I beg your pardon, General,” said Schönau, “for coming in unannounced, but I did not find your servant outside, and my errand here will bear of no delay.” + 

The perfect calmness and concentrated energy which generally marked the Captain’s well-cut features had given place to an expression of the deepest anxiety and trouble. + 

“You come about Ottomar’s affairs?” said the General, mastering his fears, and stretching out his hand to the Captain. + 

“Yes, General, and I beg and implore you to allow me to keep silence as to how I obtained my knowledge of the state of his affairs. But the state is this, that without any delay whatever, and before the matter comes to Herr von Bohl’s knowledge, those bills of Ottomar’s which are due today, and are in the hands of a banker here, whose address I know, must be paid. I know also the total of them. The sum is large, so large that so far as I know, General, neither you nor I alone could pay it; but together we might find it possible if, as I do not doubt, you will put at my disposal all that you can lay your hands upon, and will allow me to take the further management of the affair into my own hands and deal with it as if it were mine.” + 

Schönau had spoken with decision, but in breathless haste, and the General could not doubt but that the Captain’s thoughts had taken the same direction as his own. So long as Ottomar was left to himself, and attempted to save himself in his usual fashion, any delay could only increase the difficulties of his position, perhaps make it impossible for his friends, with the best will in the world, to help him. However painfully his pride was wounded by the conviction that he could not avert the threatening danger by his own efforts, he had made up his mind, even while Schönau was speaking, to accept the help so generously offered to him, supposing that he found it possible to repay the debt thus incurred. This he expressed in the fewest words, at the same time explaining the state of his finances and naming the sum which at the utmost could be raised upon the security of his interest in his house. + 

“Will that suffice!” he asked, “and for how much shall I be indebted to you?” + 

“It will suffice,” said Schönau; “and I only ask now for a line to your banker, giving me full powers.” + 

“You have not answered my last question,” said the General, as with rapid pen he wrote the required words. + 

“I must beg you to excuse me from answering,” replied Schönau; “be satisfied that the remainder does not surpass my means, and that it will be an honour and a pride to me to be able to serve you and your family.” + 

The young man’s steady clear voice faltered as he said the last words. + 

As the General continued writing, he remembered that amongst their friends Schönau’s and Elsa’s names had been often coupled together in jest, with the regret that it might not be done in earnest, as the two were far too good friends ever to fall in love with each other. He had shared this view, not without some regret. Could he have been mistaken? Could Schönau⁠—it would be no detraction from his generosity⁠—be offering help less to the father of his friend than to the father of the girl he loved? In the excited state of his mind these thoughts had taken no more time than was required to carry his hand from the end of one line to the beginning of another; and moved by the sudden consideration, he stopped in his writing, and looked up at Schönau who stood by him. + 

A sad smile played round the Captain’s firmly-closed lips. + 

“Do not stop, General,” said he; “I desire and expect nothing, I assure you, but the continuation of your friendship and that of your belongings.” + 

The General compressed his lips and went on writing. It was bitter⁠—most bitter to him to have to take everything from the full hands of this generous friend, with no power of returning to him anything from his own empty ones⁠—it was too bitter! A cloud came over his eyes; he was forced to break off. + 

“There is nothing but the signature wanting,” urged Schönau, leaning over his shoulder. + 

“I cannot do it, Schönau!” said the General. + 

“I implore you,” cried the Captain, “life and death hang upon it⁠—oh! my God!” + 

Startled by a sound at the door, he had turned and saw Colonel von Bohl enter the room. + 

“Too late!” muttered Schönau; and then, with a desperate effort to save what was already lost: “Your signature. General!” + 

But the General had turned round, and had seen the Colonel. Ottomar then had been to him already⁠—had told him everything; the affair could go no further without consultation with his commanding officer. + 

The Colonel’s usually severe military aspect had the stamp of a solemn gravity upon it now, as he said, after briefly apologising for his intrusion: + 

“Have the goodness, my dear Schönau, to leave us. I have a communication to make to the General which will admit of no delay, and which I must make without witnesses.” + 

A word trembled upon Schönau’s lips, but he restrained himself, and only bowed and said: + 

“Certainly, Colonel!” and then turning to the General: “May I ask permission to pay my respects meanwhile to Fräulein Sidonie!” then, after a little pause: “In case you should wish, however, to see me again, I think my visit will be a long one.” + 

He bowed again and went. The General looked after him with fixed, terrified eyes. Evidently there was some understanding between Schönau and the Colonel, although they had not spoken to one another yet; evidently both knew something that Schönau had not said, and that the Colonel had now come to say. He shuddered as before when he had laid down Wallbach’s letter; again there came upon him that agony of fear, only now it was no longer lingering at the threshold; now it had come close to him in the person of this iron soldier, in whom, though he had never formed any intimacy with him socially, he had always seen and honoured the pattern of a soldier after his own heart. The door was shut behind Schönau. + 

“I know all,” cried the General; and said to himself, at the same moment, that he had spoken falsely. + 

The Colonel shook his head. + 

“You do not know all, General; Schönau could not tell you all, or rather, as I suspect from his manner, would not tell you all.” + 

“Then I am prepared for anything,” said the General in a hollow voice. + 

Again the Colonel shook his head. + 

“I wish you were, but I think it is impossible. You must be prepared for the worst; your son’s bills, which fall due today, are all forgeries.” + 

The General fell back as if he had been shot, his hands convulsively grasping the air. The Colonel sprang forward to save him from falling, but with a frightful effort the unhappy man recovered himself before the other could touch him, and stammered: “I⁠—I thank you⁠—it is over⁠—it is⁠—” + 

He could say no more, he could bear no more, but fell back into his chair, pressing his cold hands to his throbbing temples, and muttering with bloodless lips: “It is all over⁠—all over!” + 

The Colonel, who could only with great difficulty retain his own composure, drew forward a chair, and said: + 

“It is terrible, I can offer you no word of consolation, for I know only too well that you will not take it as an extenuating circumstance that it was your name, his father’s name, in and by which the fraud was carried out.” + 

“You are right, quite right,” said the General; “the fact is irrelevant⁠—absolutely irrelevant.” + 

Had he understood? Did he know what he was saying? The Colonel, who had not taken his eyes off him, almost doubted; the dark eyes, usually so steady, stared vacantly into nothing; the voice that had formerly been so strong and decided, sounded harsh and wavering as if his mind were giving way; the Colonel thought it best to recall him to a sense of the reality, however terrible, by a relation of the circumstances. + 

He related, therefore, in his dry way, that Ottomar had come to him at about ten o’clock, and had immediately on his entrance announced to him, with the calmness of utter, hopeless despair, that he had that morning sent a challenge by Herr von Lassberg to Herr von Wallbach, on account of certain reports, now current in society, concerning on the one hand his relations with Fräulein Ferdinanda Schmidt, and on the other Fräulein von Wallbach’s conduct with Count Golm, which reports could only have originated with Herr von Walbach. That Herr von Wallbach, without further reference to the truth or untruth of these reports, or to his share in spreading them, had refused satisfaction, until Herr von Werben had cleared himself from the suspicion of having lately made use of improper methods to free himself from his money difficulties. He, Herr von Wallbach, would of course be ready to give satisfaction for this insinuation touching his honour in case it should not be substantiated. + 

“Unfortunately,” continued the Colonel, “Herr von Wallbach was but too sure of his facts. His informant, whose name, I know not from what consideration, he refused to mention even to Herr von Lassberg, could only be, according to your son’s assertion, the very man with whose assistance this miserable fraud has been carried out; a man whose name, if I remember rightly, has been often mentioned lately in the Wallbach circle⁠—Signor Giraldi.” + 

“Impossible!” exclaimed the General. “My son could not⁠—impossible!” + 

“I beg your pardon, General,” said the Colonel, “I am repeating to you exactly the account which I received from your son’s mouth, and which I believe to be perfectly truthful. According to him, from the first moment of their acquaintance, Signor Giraldi manifested the most lively interest in your son. Herr von Werben intimated also that Signor Giraldi had known and encouraged his passion for a certain lady; but he did not go further upon this point, only added that these, as he believed, equally treacherous efforts had proved absolutely useless. Although from his agitation Herr von Werben’s account omitted some details, I must suppose that he has been, with regard to his money affairs, also the innocently guilty victim of a villain who has mercilessly made use of his unsuspicious and blind confidence for ends which escape my comprehension. It seems that Herr von Werben’s evil genius recommended him, as the easiest means of freeing himself from his difficulties, to speculate on the Exchange, under a feigned name of course; that he enticed him into the wildest speculations, allowed him to win two or three times at first, till suddenly the luck changed and turned more and more against him; and then, as usual, bills had to be given, to which at first your son’s name was put, and afterwards, as the sums grew larger, yours, General, was forged, with the help of the credit which Signor Giraldi enjoyed, although he declares himself to be without any available means. That the bills might not come into your hands too soon, they were lodged at first with various bankers, and finally with one alone whose name has unfortunately escaped me. Signor Giraldi undertook to meet them regularly as they fell due, and promised of course to meet them also today when the enormous sum of twenty thousand thalers is due. Herr von Werben of course went at once, on the receipt of Herr von Wallbach’s answer, to Signor Giraldi’s hotel; Signor Giraldi had left in the night. From that moment Herr von Werben seems to have given up the case as hopeless. Signor Giraldi had, as you may suppose, most distinctly engaged to receive him at this hour; the people of the hotel declared that he had not so much as mentioned his destination; it was only when Herr von Werben, whose suspicions were aroused by the porter’s manner, offered him a considerable bribe, that he learned from the man that Signor Giraldi had gone to Warnow, where letters were to be forwarded to him. With despair in his heart he hastened to the banker, to hear only what he had expected: that Signor Giraldi had made no arrangements for meeting the bills, which however had not yet been presented, but on the contrary had withdrawn from the bank yesterday afternoon the remainder of the very large sum⁠—half a million, if I mistake not⁠—which he had deposited with them. Half an hour later Herr von Werben was with me.” + 

The Colonel paused; he could no longer endure the sight of the General, who still stared straight before him like a man bereft of his senses. What was he brooding over? Undoubtedly upon the final end of the story, and undoubtedly also upon the same brief and bloody end which in his innermost heart he felt to be unavoidable. But this man was the father! he had not fully considered that before. He had not allowed himself to put forward any extenuating circumstance; now he ransacked his mind for any such circumstance, for any sincere word of comfort even in which he could himself have faith. + 

But he found none. + 

“Shall we ask Schönau to come in again?” said he. + 

The General lifted his fixed eyes, evidently not understanding why the Colonel should ask the question, having probably forgotten that Schönau was still in the house. + 

The Colonel did not wait for his answer, but rang the bell and desired August, who immediately appeared, having been in the kitchen giving vent to his grief to the old cook, to summon Herr von Schönau. The Captain meanwhile had been passing a most uncomfortable half-hour. With the terrible certainty that he had come too late, and that Ottomar was lost, now that he had officially informed his commanding officer of his misconduct, and that the latter, as was to be expected from his opinions and his ideas of honour, had acquainted Ottomar’s father with what had occurred; with the miserable anxiety which increased every moment till it became an unspeakable terror, that now⁠—now⁠—at this very moment might happen, perhaps had already happened, what must plunge his loved and honoured friends into unutterable grief, it was too painful to have to keep up a conversation with the good-humoured, unsuspecting, and talkative old lady upon indifferent or tiresome subjects, such as the bad weather, the next ball at court, or a doubtful passage in Malortie which had already cost the compiler of “Court Etiquette” several sleepless nights. + 

“And, before I forget it,” said Sidonie, “have you heard yet of the shocking thing that happened last night, and of which, people tell me, the whole town is talking? I am sorry for our neighbour, poor Herr Schmidt; he is a very respectable sort of man I am told, and he keeps a manservant who is⁠—only think, my dear Schönau!⁠—a cousin or something of the sort of our August, and August told us⁠—my brother and me⁠—since Elsa has been away he always takes his coffee with me, which he used not to do, but he is always so kind and attentive⁠—What was I saying, my dear Schönau? oh! yes; it is another proof to me that nothing but harm and evil can come out of societies that have once imbibed the poison of democratic tendencies. A young man who has been educated in those pernicious principles has no safeguard in the critical moments of his life such as religion and family honour, thank God, afford us. At such moment he seizes⁠—not I dare say without some struggles⁠—for after all we are all children of God, however few of us walk in His ways⁠—but still he seizes upon improper, doubtful, desperate, and even criminal means. Millions, so I am told, he has stolen from a safe entrusted to him; and then to take flight at the very moment when he was giving a large party. What recklessness! what a want of the most ordinary delicacy, although, quite between ourselves, my dear Schönau, I do not think it particularly delicate of us to take part in festivities which end in such a way. I indeed might triumph, for what in the world could prove better than such occurrences how necessary is the existence of well-ordered small courts, as schools of morals and manners, of chivalry and true goodness, to our distracted and increasingly democratic society? But heaven forbid that I should feel such pride! My sentiments are those of silent grief and tender pity, all the more that, as you know, Ottomar also could not deny himself this equivocal pleasure. When the models of modern chivalry go and dance at Herr Schmidt’s, Herr Schmidt himself, indeed, is none the better for it, as we see, since a crow will always remain a crow; but the swans, my dear Schönau, I only ask you, can the swans retain their purity in such company?” + 

Schönau was spared the necessity of answering, as August here came to summon him, and he took his leave in a way which so little agreed with his usual irreproachable demeanour, that Sidonie, as the door closed behind him, shook her head, and opined that her little lecture would not come amiss to the Captain. + 

“I beg your pardon, Captain,” said August, as they crossed the hall to the General’s room. + 

Schönau looked round. + 

“I beg your pardon, Captain, but I am sure something has happened to our young gentleman. Could not you let a faithful servant, sir, who has been eight years in the family, and would go through fire and water for the General, or the Lieutenant, or our young lady, know what it is?” + 

The tears were rolling over the honest fellow’s cheeks, and Schönau’s own eyes were moist. + 

“No,” said he, “I cannot tell you. We must hope that all may yet be well.” + 

He gave August his hand. + 

“God grant it!” said August, wiping his eyes with the other hand; “I don’t think man can do much. But I wanted to say, too, if you wished, sir, to speak to our young gentleman, he will be at the lady’s in ⸻ Street⁠—you know, sir.” + 

When Schönau entered he found the two others sitting in silent meditation. At a sign from the Colonel he sat down, but, as the youngest, did not venture to break the unnatural stillness. At last the General raised his head; he seemed to the Captain to have grown years older, and his voice was dull and toneless like that of an old man. + 

“You are aware, Captain, what⁠—on what account⁠—” + 

The words came with difficulty from his throat. + 

“Yes, General,” said Schönau. “Herr von Wallbach came to me this morning, with the acknowledged purpose of justifying his conduct in the eyes of Ottomar’s friends and those of his family. He was evidently playing a carefully prepared game. For while he skilfully avoided every expression which could directly accuse Ottomar, I could plainly perceive by every word that he was absolutely certain of his facts, and that Signor Giraldi had initiated him into the minutest details of this unfortunate affair. From him also I learned the sum at stake, and the name of the banker who held the bills, who happens to be also my uncle’s banker, and with whom I am personally acquainted through business which I have transacted for my uncle⁠—Messrs. Haselow & Co. I hastened there at once, but came too late; Ottomar had just been there. I am sorry to say that his only too easily explained agitation and his distracted questions have at least startled those gentlemen, but I am convinced that I allayed any doubts by asserting positively⁠—I was obliged as matters stood to take the liberty, General⁠—that before this evening all bills due should be taken up. I intended then, when I had collected the money with your assistance, sir, to pay these bills, and⁠—” + 

The Captain hesitated. + 

“To save a swindler from his just punishment,” said the General, without looking up. + 

“To save a man whom I venerate beyond all men, from unmerited suffering,” returned the Captain. + 

“That implies a reproach to me, Captain von Schönau!” said the Colonel, knitting his brows. + 

“Pardon me, Colonel, if I differ from you. I had here no office but that of friendship. You, sir, as Colonel, had received an official communication, of which you were obliged to take notice, the more so that the idea of an arrangement of the affair would not and could not strike you as it would me.” + 

“That is to say, if I understand you rightly, that as soon as the arrangement was effected you would have considered the affair at an end? I confess that, however painful it is to me, I cannot agree with you in that view.” + 

“Pardon me again, I did not intend to say that.” + 

“I should be much obliged to you, Captain, if you would communicate your opinion to me without reservation, in the presence of General von Werben.” + 

“I am obliged to you for the permission, Colonel; the whole thing turned for me upon the question of sparing as much as possible the General and his family, as they so fully deserve to be spared. This of course would require also that my friend should be spared to a certain degree. That is to say, the bills must be paid, as I hoped to be able to pay them with the General’s help, and they must be paid as the General’s bills. I should then of course have required that my unhappy friend should leave the service, under some pretext that might easily have been found, and should retire absolutely into private life.” + 

Schönau had raised his keen eyes imploringly to the Colonel, who, on his side, never turned his look from the speaker. He understood him now for the first time. In explaining his own plans the Captain had at the same time suggested the line which he wished his commanding officer to adopt as a guide to his action if not to his views. Even in this light the matter was one of great gravity, the Colonel felt and knew this well; but the sight of the venerable man before him so utterly broken down, the remembrance of Ottomar’s thousand proofs of courage before the enemy, and all the tender memories and compassionate feelings which crowded upon his mind, all told him that he had already gone to his utmost length, that he could do no more, that notwithstanding what he felt to be his duty, he must accept the compromise suggested by the Captain, at any rate must refrain from putting forward the reasons against it. + 

“Thank you. Captain,” said he; “I hope that, even as regards the claims of the service, this most unhappy affair may be settled as you propose. I am glad on this account, that in the first shock and bewilderment, as I must confess, of what might happen next, I gave Herr von Werben three days’ leave of absence, which he had requested on account of private affairs, though he entered into no particulars on the subject, nor did he confide to me the object of the journey which he must undertake in consequence. This leave of absence will be a very proper preparation for sending in his papers, which must be done at the same time with a notification of his wish to retire, and which I will undertake to support with the authorities. I only require first that the bills should meanwhile be settled by Captain von Schönau in the manner suggested.” + 

Schönau gave the Colonel a grateful look and rose. He would not hazard the unexpectedly happy result of the interview, and he knew too well that every word further spoken now might and would endanger it. + 

“I am already late for my work,” said he, “and I must go down to the Staff Office to ask leave of my chief for the day. I will then immediately settle the matter of the bills, if the General will have the goodness to give me his authority, and then, with your permission, inform Herr von Werben, whom I think I know where to find, of what has been decided here. May I ask you, General?” and Schönau pointed towards the table on which lay the unsigned power of attorney. + 

The Colonel had risen also. + 

“One moment, gentlemen,” said the General. + 

He walked up to the table, took the paper and tore it into two pieces, which he threw into the wastepaper basket. + 

It was done without any visible emotion, without any apparent thought of those present, as if someone alone in his study had torn up and thrown away a letter that had now become worthless. The Captain shuddered at the fall of the rustling paper, as a pitiful judge might do as he puts on the black cap. + 

“I thank you, gentlemen,” continued the General, who seemed to have completely recovered his self-possession; “you, Colonel, for the humanity which would have extended to another man’s son the mercy you would surely have denied to your own; you, my dear Schönau for the affection which would lead you to sacrifice not merely your fortune, but, like the Colonel, your conviction also. + 

“I cannot accept this sacrifice, gentlemen. One wrong figure spoils the sum, one false premise nullifies the conclusion. You must allow a father to draw the inference which you from friendship and compassion would not draw. If with the assistance of Captain von Schönau⁠—for alone it would be impossible⁠—I took upon myself my son’s fraud and thus⁠—which God forbid!⁠—allowed a man who is himself not rich, like you, my dear Schönau, to impoverish himself for the sake of a swindler, my son would then be allowed, there being nothing further against him, to retire with honour. His Majesty, our gracious commander-in-chief, would certify to the honour of a man, who, before God and his conscience, before his father and you, gentlemen, who cannot at this moment raise your eyes to me, is dishonoured. He could call to account those who doubted his honour, and there would be enough of them⁠—his enemies would see to that⁠—he who must acknowledge to himself that they are in the right, and that in the very act of demanding and receiving satisfaction he was perpetrating another deceit. + 

“And thus, gentlemen, the one lie⁠—forgive me the word!⁠—would call forth a thousand new lies; and we who sit here should have spun this web of deceit, and must leave those who become entangled in it without warning or aid. + 

“The situation is impossible, gentlemen! Impossible⁠—even for my son. Guilty as he is, he cannot be so false to the blood of his ancestors as to determine to exist at the mercy of even his best and most generous friends; to live under the sword of the doubtful reputation that must precede and follow him whichever way he turned; to endure the scorn that any man might make him feel as he pleased, without the power of defending himself. + 

“And it is impossible⁠—to me. Suppose to yourselves that I were the president of a court of honour which had to decide upon this case; forget for a moment that I am a father⁠—and you would, you must answer me that it is impossible.” + 

“I cannot forget it!” cried Schönau wildly; “I cannot!” + 

“You must,” returned the General, “as the Colonel here has already done.” + 

The Colonel was in the most painful embarrassment. The General was undoubtedly right, and he would thus be released from a very difficult position; and yet! and yet! + 

“I have already expressed my most decided wish to arrange the affair without letting matters proceed to extremities,” said he, “I hope the General may yet persuade himself of the possibility of so doing, however difficult I allow such a solution may be. Meanwhile, Herr von Werben is on leave of absence. Bills of exchange have, if I remember rightly”⁠—the Colonel attempted a smile⁠—“three days’ law. Let us make use of this delay granted by the law; three days count for a great deal under some circumstances in the life of a man. Shall we leave the General alone now, my dear Schönau?” + 

The two officers went silently down the street, with their heads bent, and from time to time pressing on their caps more firmly, which the storm that raged through the streets threatened to blow away. At the corner of the cross street Schönau said: “I must take a carriage from here, Colonel.” + 

“You are going to him?” + 

“Yes, sir.” + 

“It is a hopeless case, my dear Schönau.” + 

“I fear so.” + 

“You will bring me news!” + 

“Certainly, sir.” + 

“It is eleven o’clock now; I shall be at home till two.” + 

The Colonel pressed the Captain’s hand with a warmth very unusual for him, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and went on down the street. Schönau’s cab drove quickly up the side street. + 

The General had remained standing at the door, to which he had accompanied the others, and listened mechanically to their steps upon the stone floor of the hall, then under the window of his room, and passing away down the street. + 

Now he could hear nothing more, excepting the storm which was raging without. They were gone, these men of the highest honour, the representatives of his class, gone after pronouncing sentence upon the dishonoured and unworthy member of that class. + 

And that sentence was⁠—death. + 

Death by his own hand. + 

And his father must announce it to him. + 

No! not that; only confirm what he must have already said to himself; only say: “Your father agrees to what you have already decided upon, and may God have mercy upon your soul!” + 

He pressed his hands together, and heavy cold drops of sweat stood on his deeply-furrowed brow. + 

“Must it be? oh God, my God, have mercy upon me! must it be?” + 

But no word of comfort or hope came to him. All was dumb within him, in his burning head, in his panting breast, and through that dumb silence only the fearful words: “It must be!” + 

When August entered the room at the sound of the bell, the General was sitting, turned away from him, at his writing-table, leaning his head upon his hand. On the round table behind him, on which he used always to put his finished papers, stood a box, and on the box lay a letter. + 

August turned cold all over; it was the box in which his master kept the two beautiful old pistols which he had inherited from his father, and on which he set such great store. + 

“My son is obliged to undertake a long journey,” said the General; “and he will require my pistols. The key is in the letter. You will go to him at once, and take him the box and the letter; there is no further message, the letter contains everything. Afterwards I shall go away also; when you come back you will put up my things for a few days’ absence.” + 

“Very well, General,” said August, merely to say something, and so perhaps to get free of the horror which oppressed him. + 

With mechanical obedience he had carefully taken up the letter and box, and stopped at the door. + 

“Shall I say anything kind from you to the Lieutenant, sir?” + 

There was a few moments’ pause before the answer came. + 

He mustered all his courage: + 

“Tell him, I hope to God to be with him soon again.” + 

The faithful servant breathed again. He was satisfied now; whatever had happened between the General and the Lieutenant must be something very bad, much worse than it had ever been before, but if the General hoped to meet the Lieutenant again, and that very soon too, there was nothing to break one’s heart over, and it would soon be all right, as the Captain had said indeed. + 

But when August had left the room, the General let his head fall upon his clasped hands, and so sat for a long time, while his whole frame was shaken at times as if with ague, or at others a dull groan was forced from his oppressed breast, as he prayed for his son’s soul, and took leave of that son of whom he had been so proud, and who might no longer live now with the shame that he had brought upon himself; the son whom he had so dearly loved, and whom he still loved, oh! how dearly! + 

At last he rose, an old, broken-down man, with but one thing more for him to do on earth. + 

For that, he knew that his strength would suffice. + 

And not trembling and with burning tears as he had loaded the pistol which he sent to his son, but with a steady hand and rigid flaming eyes did he load the second, with which to shoot down the scoundrel who with devilish cunning had enticed his son to disgrace and death. + 

II + 

Ferdinanda had gone today, as usual, at her accustomed hour to the studio, and had even attempted to work; but, in spite of the determination which she had long exercised in subduing her talent to her will, and the success which had often attended her efforts, the struggle was vain today, and she threw down her tools again. + 

“For the last time,” said she to herself. + 

She had meant for today; but the words, as she spoke them aloud, sounded strangely in the great, high room, as if not she but someone else had said them⁠—a ghostly, prophetic voice speaking from far off, that left her standing and listening in terror lest the voice should speak again. + 

What need was there of a prophetic voice to convince her of what her own broken heart had said long since? + 

It was all in vain⁠—her efforts, her struggles, her renunciation, vain⁠—even the tender remonstrances, the gentle warnings, the bright example of the saintly Cilli herself! + 

How often and often, when that angelic being had left her, had she thrown herself in the dust before the Pietà, which she had modelled two months ago from her, and prayed that the all-merciful love with which the heart of the blind girl overflowed might descend upon her heart too, if it were only a drop! Even that would suffice to extinguish the flames that raged there! But in vain. + 

Yesterday evening would have proved that, had proof been needed. + 

How she had debated whether she would accept that girl’s invitation, and see him again whom she had solemnly sworn never more to see! She had kept her oath, and had fled at the last moment. + 

But was such a flight to be called a victory? Had she not been conquered⁠—did she not lie here helpless, shattered, bleeding? Her deadly wound had never been healed, only insufficiently and with difficulty bound up; and now she had torn off the bandages, and might bleed to death! There was no more hope for her. + 

All else within was dull, dead, and insensible. She had fancied that she felt a kind of respect for Philip’s activity and daring⁠—that she was bound to him by at least a feeble bond of fraternal love. And yet this morning, when Aunt Rikchen had brought the terrible news, and had wept and lamented so that it might have moved a heart of stone, she had not even been touched. She had received it like any other piece of sensational intelligence which her aunt was in the habit of reading out of the newspaper and making remarks upon. She seemed turned to stone in the selfishness of her passion, so that it had not even occurred to her to go to her father and say to him, “You have still one child, father.” + 

But could she have said that without lying⁠—was she still at heart the child of the man who, in an hour of madness, had obtained from her that letter of renunciation, every syllable of which had been like a poisoned arrow in her heart? Had he attempted to compensate her, in some measure at least, for so enormous, so unsurpassable a sacrifice, by multiplying his own love to her a hundredfold? Perhaps his pride forbade him that, or he shrank from hers, which he knew so well. Well, then, she was well acquainted with his pride too. She could see his expression if she went to him in his room; she could hear his voice saying, “You have come to me about that wretched man; I wish to hear nothing more about the matter than is, unfortunately, necessary for me to hear. In my house at least I may be spared; so as you have come to see me at last, talk of something else.” + 

No, no, her father did not need her; and for herself! others might importune him with their troubles, and humble themselves before him⁠—her proud father’s prouder daughter would sooner die a martyr at the stake! + 

Cilli was better off. She was sitting now beside her father’s sickbed, and listening patiently to his childish complaints of how foolish he had been to believe in Philip, and how just was the punishment that the savings of many years, so carefully accumulated in a thousand frugal ways, and by unceasing self-denial through so many long years, should have been lost in one night, with the millions of the gambler on whose cards he had staked his little fortune! Then she would comfort the old man, and believe every word that came from her pure lips. And in secret she had another comfort, at which she only hinted sometimes in mysterious words, as if she were ashamed of such divine help⁠—the comfort of believing that, as one consecrated to early death, she needed no earthly consolation. + 

She might well be secure of that consolation! How transparent her white skin had grown in the last few weeks; how spiritually beautiful the expression of her pure features; how unearthly the look of her great, blind eyes! + 

Oh, how happy she was! To die so young, before the faintest stain had marred even the hem of her white robes! To find above, if there was anything above⁠—and for her there must surely be⁠—a heaven which she had already created for herself on earth in her pure, humble heart! To rise from joy to bliss⁠—from light into glory! Oh, how happy she was! + 

And she herself, most miserable! That world above was only a beautiful fable to her ever since her restless brain had begun to work behind her burning brow. Her passionate heart had once desired to possess all earthly joy as the sea receives into its bosom the streams which roll gleefully and exultingly into it, and now it was pining away like the barren desert under a sky of brass; and her vigorous form seemed made to drag the weary burden of life through the never-ending years to a far-distant, desolate grave, like some captive hero who, bending under the heavy load bound upon his strong shoulders, may not hope to break down or fall beneath the lash of his driver like his weaker companion, but must throw away his load, and turn upon his tormentors, crying, “You or I!” + 

But there was no alternative here. Death was very sure for those who did not fear it! + 

Did she fear death? + 

She! + 

With this chisel, with the first tool from off her table, she would accomplish it with her own hand, if⁠— + 

If within her deepest, inmost heart, where some spring that she had thought dried up must still be bubbling, a siren voice had not wailed and whispered: “Do not die! for so you would kill me, the last and mightiest of all the sisters. Only one moment is mine, and there is night before me and after me; but this one moment surpasses the bliss of eternity!” + 

In the next room to her had been noise and whistling and singing the whole morning, louder than usual, as the master had been absent today; and there had been much talk as to whether, when there was a Mrs. Sculptor⁠—some wit had suggested this⁠—things would be quite so lively in the studio. Now all was still, only the storm howled and raged round the silent house, and shook and rattled the tall windows. + 

How had he endured the disappointment of yesterday? Was he raging like the storm without? Was he the storm? Was it he who tapped at the windowpane, and knocked at the door? Good heavens! there was really a knock at the door! Was it possible! had he at last, at last broken the final fetter, and come here to carry her away? + 

With trembling limbs she rose, her heart beating as if it would break in joyful terror. + 

There again! at the closed window now! and was there not a cry, “Ferdinanda?” + 

With a shriek she rushed forward, tore back the bolts, flung open the door: “Bertalda! Good God! he is dead!” + 

“Not yet,” said Bertalda, “but he is not far off it.” + 

The girl’s usually laughing rosy face was pale and changed; she was breathless from the haste she had made, and could hardly bring out her words, as with trembling knees she sank into the nearest chair. + 

“He is ill! where? in your house? for God’s sake, Bertalda, speak!” + 

Ferdinanda stood before the girl, pressing her hands in hers, and putting back the ruffled hair from her brow. + 

“Speak! speak!” + 

“There is not much to say,” said Bertalda, raising herself up, “only you must come with me at once, or he will shoot himself. He wanted to do it before, and now his own father sends him a pistol to do it with! There is an officer⁠—Schönau is his name⁠—with him now; but those sort of people talk such nonsense⁠—America! I dare say! He will never leave my room if you do not come to him and tell him that you would remain with him if he had forged his father’s name for a hundred thousand instead of this miserable twenty thousand. Why, my goodness! an Englishman once offered me forty thousand, but I didn’t like him, so there was an end of it; but these men are all like children with their foolish ideas of honour. I only tell you that you may not be startled by anything, because you, too, are so absurd about such things, and if you only look⁠—There! you are just like the others; you are heartless, the whole lot of you.” + 

Bertalda said all this behind Ferdinanda’s back, as the latter after her first words was moving wildly about the studio, looking for her things, and now stood still with her hand pressed to her forehead. + 

“If only I were you,” said Bertalda, “I would go with him to the devil if he would take me. He is not wise, he would get more from me than from you. Why did I sit with him and comfort him all night long, when I was dead tired and might have been sleeping in my comfortable bed⁠—or on the sofa even, or the carpet?⁠—it would be all the same to me, if only the poor boy were at ease. And this morning again! I should like to see the woman who would go through it for her husband! That would be a fine fuss! and I, like a good-humoured fool, agree to everything, and persuade him instead of shooting himself to go to Sundin, and farther on⁠—I don’t know the name of the place⁠—and shoot Count Golm, merely to change the current of his thoughts, for he does not care one bit about his so-called betrothed⁠—and then I rush headlong here, and⁠—well, what do you want?” + 

Ferdinanda had hardly heard or understood a word of Bertalda’s rambling speech. She had been pulling out and ransacking drawers from the desk which stood in a corner of her studio near the window, and now sitting down opened her blotting-book. + 

“What are you about?” repeated Bertalda. + 

“I have enough to begin with,” said Ferdinanda, still writing; “a thousand thalers! There! take up the packet⁠—thank God! I only received it yesterday.” + 

“That is always something to begin with,” said Bertalda; “I had already offered him what I had, but of course he would not take it from me. But do let that scribbling alone. What are you doing now?” + 

“Here!” cried Ferdinanda. + 

She folded the paper on which she had been writing, and held it out to Bertalda. + 

“What am I to do with it?” + 

“Take it to my father, whilst I go to Ottomar.” + 

“Oh! I dare say!” said Bertalda. “I am not generally afraid of people, but I won’t have anything to do with your father. Just leave it there. Someone will find it and give it to him, and if not it can’t be helped.” + 

“I will give it to him,” said a gentle voice. + 

Ferdinanda started up with a cry, as she saw Cilli, who had entered as usual by the door which led from the studio into the narrow passage between the house and garden, and unnoticed by the others had been present for some minutes, and had heard with her quick ears every word of the latter part of their conversation. + 

“Oh! my better self, my good angel,” cried Ferdinanda; “you are come to tell me that I am doing right, that I may, that I ought to follow him as my heart tells me, through shame and grief, through misery and death!” + 

“And may God be with you!” said Cilli, laying her hands on Ferdinanda’s head, who had thrown herself on her knees before her;⁠—“with you both! He only asks for love, and yet again for love, the love that beareth all things. You can now⁠—you can both now prove that your love is true love! Give me the letter to your father! and farewell!” + 

She bent down and kissed Ferdinanda on the forehead, as the other rose sobbing and gave the letter into her hand. + 

“You look so pale, Cilli, and your dear hands are cold as ice. Is your father very ill?” + 

“He is very ill; but the doctor says he will get over it. He is asleep now⁠—Aunt Rikchen is with him, so I have plenty of time.” + 

She smiled her own sad sweet smile. + 

“And now, farewell! for the last time!” + 

“Come,” cried Bertalda impatiently; “come, we have lost only too much time already! Whatever you want besides I can supply you with.” + 

Ferdinanda was forced to tear herself away from Cilli. In her own passionate way she had learned within the last few weeks to love, and honour, and even worship the fair being who had come to her, as the good Samaritan came to the wounded man in the burning desert sand. An inward foreboding warned her that this was a farewell forever, that she should never again behold these angelic features. And today the face in its transparent clearness seemed hardly that of an earthborn creature. + 

Was she who seemed fragile as a breath, who was like a ray of light from a better world upon this dark sinful earth, to take this earthly burden upon her slender shoulders, to touch with her pure hands these dark sorrows. + 

“I will go to my father myself!” cried Ferdinanda. + 

“Then you may just as well stay here altogether,” said Bertalda. + 

“Go, go!” said Cilli. + 

And now again it was Ferdinanda who thought that Bertalda could not quickly enough put on the cloak which she had thrown off in the hot studio, or find the bonnet which she had flung down anywhere. + 

“I called a cab as I came,” said Bertalda; “it is waiting at the door; we shall be at my house in five minutes.” At the house door there were two cabs waiting. + 

Bertalda helped Ferdinanda to get into the first, and was in the act of following her, when the driver of the second carriage asked whether the gentleman was not coming. + 

“What gentleman?” + 

“The one who called me. Doesn’t he belong to you?” + 

“I know nothing about him,” said Bertalda, getting in and shutting the door behind her. + 

The vehicle was hardly in motion before Antonio came out of the house, with a broad-brimmed hat upon his black hair, and a large cloak over his shoulders⁠—he had brought them both from Italy, and they were the first things which he had laid his hands upon⁠—and with a small travelling-bag under his cloak into which he had thrust a change of linen. He rushed up to the driver of the second cab: + 

“I told you to wait at the corner!” + 

“I thought as there was another one at the door, and I had seen you run in here⁠—” + 

“No matter⁠—follow that cab⁠—at the same distance that we are now, not a step nearer, and when the other stops, pull up!” + 

“All right,” said the driver, “I understand.” + 

III + 

The door closed behind the retreating figures, and Cilli was left alone in the studio. She sat down on a low stool, holding in her lap the paper which Ferdinanda had given her, and supporting her head upon her hand. + 

“He will not understand it,” she murmured; “he will be very angry; no one will understand it, not even Reinhold himself; even he could not feel with me as I feel. Oh! my poor heart, why do you throb so wildly! Can you not bear it a little longer, only a little longer! Let me fulfil this, it may be your last service!” + 

She had pressed her two hands against her bosom, as with stoical fortitude she bore the fearful pain, the agonising breathlessness caused by her palpitating heart, as had so often happened in the last few days. The terrible attack passed off, but the exhaustion which followed was so great, that she made several vain efforts to rise. She succeeded at last, and feeling for the table on which she knew a jug of water and glasses always stood, drank some water. + 

“I can do it now,” she murmured. And yet she often thought she must break down, as she languidly put one weary foot before the other, and slowly, slowly groped her way from the studio, and through the narrow path between the house and garden. As she passed the door of her own dwelling, she stood still and listened at the foot of the stairs which led to their rooms above. All was still, and her father was sleeping under good Aunt Rikchen’s care. He would not miss her; her poor father did not even know that her dearest wish, that she might die after him, and so remain with him till he breathed his last, and spare him the pain of seeing his child die, could hardly now be fulfilled. Her poor father! and yet not so poor as the proud lonely man to whom she was going. + 

She had reached the house and got as far as the carpeted marble stairs. A step came down towards her, and she stood still, leaning against the balustrade and smiling up at the newcomer. + 

“Dear Grollmann!” + 

“Good gracious, Fräulein Cilli! How came you here? And how ill you look! Dear me! you ought to go to bed at once!” + 

“I have no time for that, dear Grollmann, but I do feel very weak; will you help me up the stairs?” + 

“Why, where do you want to go?” + 

“To him⁠—to Herr Schmidt.” + 

Grollmann shook his head. + 

“Dear Fräulein Cilli, you know that I would do anything in the world to please you, and particularly today, when you are in such trouble about your good father; but you really cannot possibly go to Herr Schmidt. If you want anything for your good father⁠—and he has been asking after him already, although he has so many things on his mind⁠—I will take an opportunity of saying it⁠—” + 

“It is not about my father,” said Cilli, “nor about myself, but I have such difficulty in speaking, dear Grollmann.” + 

The old servant was awestruck as she raised her blind eyes to him. He did not venture another word of reply, not even to ask her what was that paper which she had slipped inside her dress, and led her silently and carefully up the remaining steps to the master’s door. + 

“Shall I announce you, Fräulein?” he whispered. + 

“Only open the door, dear Grollmann.” + 

The old man hesitated for a moment, and then opened the door boldly, guided the blind girl across the threshold with outstretched arm, without himself entering, closed the door behind her, and dropped into a chair close by, resting his chin upon his hands. + 

“I must take the poor child downstairs again,” he muttered; “she will not stay long.” + 

Uncle Ernst, who was walking up and down the room with his hands behind his back, lost in sullen meditation, had not heard the gentle opening of the door. Now, having reached the farther end of the room, he turned and started. + 

“Cilli!” he exclaimed with a long-drawn breath. + 

“Cilli,” he repeated, as he went up to her, where she silently awaited him. + 

He was standing before her, strangely moved by the contrast between the dark and dismal thoughts in which he had been plunged, and the angelic, radiant face into which he now looked; and his hand, which had taken hers, trembled, and his voice shook, as he led her to a chair and said: “What brings you to me, my child? Is your father worse?” + 

“I think not,” answered Cilli, “although I know that he cannot last long.” + 

“That is all stuff and nonsense,” said Uncle Ernst, the gentleness of his tone contrasting oddly with the rough words. “Those three hundred pounds would not have made you happy. And what have I done to him that he should be afraid that I would not take care of him and you if it came to the worst?⁠—his Socialism⁠—pooh! He will always remain for me what he is⁠—one of the few honest men in a world of rogues.” + 

“I know how kind you are,” answered Cilli, “and I had meant to come to you this morning to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all that you have done for us, and will do for my poor father when I am gone.” + 

“I will not hear anything about that,” said Uncle Ernst. + 

The ghost of a smile flitted over Cilli’s pale face. + 

“Death has an eloquent voice,” said she; “I trusted to that when I dragged myself to you, and hoped that my voice, which comes from a heart where Death has taken up his abode, might penetrate to your heart, which, stern as it often seems, is so good and kind to the poor and desolate, to the helpless and the unhappy.” + 

Her voice was so low that Uncle Ernst had some difficulty in understanding her. What did the poor child want? she had evidently something still upon her mind. + 

“Tell me what it is, Cilli,” said he; “you know that I can refuse you nothing, however difficult it might be to me to grant it.” + 

“You ought not to refuse me this, although it will be difficult to you; for you are very proud, and the noblest of the angels fell through pride, and your pride is bleeding already today from a deep wound⁠—forgive me if I touch it⁠—I know it must be painful, but our Lord upon the cross forgave His persecutors, forgave all men, and all who sin, however wise they may be in worldly wisdom, they know not what they do. But he who sins in men’s eyes because he loves, not himself but another, to whom his whole heart and soul belong, so that he no longer feels his own pangs but suffers a hundredfold from those of another⁠—for such a poor loving soul every good man feels divine compassion; how should not a father then, who ought to stand in the place of the Father in heaven to His children on earth, and should be perfect even as the Father in heaven is perfect! Oh! have compassion upon Ferdinanda!” + 

She had slipped from her chair on to her knees, her hands crossed upon her breast, her sightless eyes turned to him who had always moved about in the darkness that surrounded her like a demon in his height and stateliness, but fearful also as a demon. Had her feeble voice reached the unattainable height where he was enthroned? or reached it only to unloose the storm, the thunder of his wrath, which she had so often heard rolling and raging above her head? Would he stoop down to her and raise her up, as he had raised so many from the dust, with his strong helpful hands? Then she heard⁠—by his long-drawn breathing⁠—that he was bending over her, and she felt the strong hands raise her and replace her carefully in her chair. She took his powerful hands in her own weak trembling ones, and guided them to her quivering lips. + 

“No, no, my child! You have spoken the truth, but I am not angry with you⁠—not in the least. And that paper there, did she give you that!” + 

“I do not know what she has written,” said Cilli, taking the paper from her bosom, “You ought not to look at the words; they are wild, perhaps bad words! but how can a poor human creature know at such a moment what she does or says?” + 

He had hastily run his eye over the lines. “Ferdinanda has eloped⁠—when?” + 

“About half an hour ago⁠—perhaps more; I do not know exactly.” + 

“Did he carry her off?” + 

Cilli, from whom Ferdinanda had long had no secrets, mentioned Bertalda’s name and residence. + 

“So even this time it was not himself!” murmured Uncle Ernst with a bitter smile. “Thank you, my dear child, thank you for your honesty. I have always thought highly of you, I see that I did not think nearly highly enough. And now let me call my sister to take you back and see you into bed; I am sure you ought to be there.” + 

“She is sitting at my father’s bedside,” said Cilli; “she has been there these two hours. I can go very well alone.” + 

“Then I will take you.” + 

“If you are really grateful to me, if I am not to think that I have been here in vain, you have something else to do now; pray let me go alone.” + 

She rose from her chair and folded her hands again upon her bosom. + 

“Go alone then, if you really wish it.” + 

She moved slowly to the door, there stood still, and turning round raised both hands with an imploring gesture to him, as he gazed sadly and gloomily after her, then felt for the handle. The door opened from the outside. Grollmann, as before, stretched out his arm without crossing the threshold, received Cilli’s groping hand in his, and shut the door behind her. + 

“They are all leagued together against me for good or evil,” murmured Uncle Ernst; “Reinhold, Rike, that old man, all, all! And she, good child, who is probably worth more than all of us, she brings me this with her pure innocent hands⁠—this!” + 

He stared fixedly at the paper which he held in his hand. + 

“I bid you farewell⁠—forever! You do not need my love, and yours I have sufficiently experienced! You have crushed my heart and broken my spirit; you have ruthlessly sacrificed my heart, my soul, my love to your pride, as a fanatical priest slaughters the lamb at the altar of his gods. And that other⁠—his father! Truly when the spirit has been killed, it is an act of mercy to kill the body! Wrap yourself then in your pharisaic virtues, enjoy your arrogant pride! For us, welcome disgrace! welcome shame! welcome death!” + 

“So be it then⁠—death!” + 

He tore the paper in half, and tore the pieces again and again, flung the fragments on the floor, put his hands behind his back, and began once more to pace up and down the room as he had been doing when Cilli came in. + 

As he thus moved, with burning downcast eyes, he set his foot upon one of the fragments which were fluttering about here and there. He tried to put it aside, but only ground it deeper into the soft carpet. “Bah!” said he. + 

But yet he turned and took another direction through the room. At that moment an insecurely fastened window was blown open by the storm, and the fragments fluttered round about him like snowflakes. + 

“They want to drive me mad,” he cried out loud; “but I will not go mad! Oh Lord, my God! what have I done that Thou shouldst so persecute me! What more can we unfortunate men do than act according to our knowledge and conscience! Have not I done so, so long as I can remember? If our knowledge and our wisdom are imperfect, is that our fault? Why dost Thou punish us for that of which we are not guilty? Surely Thou art pledged to help us in time of need! If Thou hast spoken to me by the mouth of this poor blind girl, I will sacrifice my conviction, my understanding, I will be blindly obedient as a child⁠—if Thou hast spoken to me by her!” + 

He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples; everything grew dim before his eyes; he staggered to the open window, offering to the storm which raged against him his burning forehead and his breast, from which he had torn open his shirt. + 

And through the raging storm he heard a voice crying: “Help! help!” + 

Did he only hear without, the echo of the cry within him? + 

But there⁠—in the courtyard⁠—was not that Grollmann rushing with uplifted hands from the open door of Justus’s studio towards the house? while “Help! help!” sounded clearly in his ear! + 

“That poor girl! Is it Cilli?” he cried. + 

But Grollmann did not hear him, and ran into the house; Uncle Ernst hastened out of his room. + 

“Lean well upon my arm, Fräulein,” said Grollmann, as he took charge of Cilli at the door. He would have given anything to know what she had been talking about so long with his master, but she was so fearfully pale, and her breathing was so quick and hurried, that he had not the heart to ask her any questions, even if the answer could have been given in one word. As they reached the top step she was obliged to stop, however; but she pressed his hand almost imperceptibly, it was all she could do, and smiled at him. + 

“That is as good as an answer,” thought the old man, and aloud he said: + 

“Now, don’t you speak another word, Fräulein Cilli; but if you would like me to carry you, just nod. I am an old fellow, and you might be my granddaughter.” + 

She smiled again, and shook her head; but he did almost carry her down the stairs and across the corner of the courtyard, into the narrow passage between the garden and the neighbouring house, till they came to the little back door leading into Herr Anders’ studio. + 

“Here,” said Cilli. + 

“Only a few steps more,” said Grollmann. + 

“I have already taken leave of my father,” said Cilli. + 

The old man did not know what she meant, and thought the poor child’s mind was wandering at last; but still he had not the courage to make any further objection as she pointed, with an imploring gesture, to the little door, as though wanting him to open it. He did so, and, extending her hand to him, she said: + 

“You may leave me now, and may God bless you!” + 

“And you, Fräulein!” said Grollmann. + 

But he hardly knew what he said, as, unable to tear himself from the doorway, he followed with his eyes the slender figure as, sometimes raising her arms for a moment, like a bird about to take wing, thought Grollmann, she moved amongst all the casts and models and the thousand and one things which crowded the studio, as if she really could see, thought Grollmann. + 

Near one of the two high windows, in the place where Herr Anders himself generally worked, stood a white marble bust upon a small pedestal. It was a portrait of Herr Anders’ betrothed, and Grollmann, who had lived so long among artists that he was something of a connoisseur himself, had been delighted with the portrait, as it grew more and more like every day⁠—really a speaking likeness, Grollmann had said. + 

She went up to the bust, and remained standing there, Grollmann at first thought because she could go no farther, and must rest herself there, for she was leaning against it as if she could not stand alone. Then she raised her hands and stroked the face⁠—her hands were as white as the marble⁠—and nodded to it just as if she were talking to the bust, and kissed it as if it had been a living creature, and sat down upon the stool which stood near, and on which Herr Anders used to stand when he could not reach up to his figures, and leant her head upon the pedestal, and did not move again. + 

“Poor child,” said Grollmann, “she will fall asleep there and catch her death of cold; it is quite cold now, and there will be no more fire made up till the gentlemen come back at two o’clock. I must take her upstairs.” + 

So he came into the studio, and went up to her very gently⁠—not that that was necessary, for he was quite determined to wake her if she had fallen asleep, but the nearer he came the more gently he moved. + 

And now he was standing by her. + 

“Poor thing,” he thought to himself, “she really is asleep already, with half-shut eyes, and how sweetly she is smiling! It really would be a pity to wake her. If I had a cloak or⁠—there is a rug lying there!” + 

Grollmann moved a step forward, and struck against a board, which made a sudden noise. The old man turned round much annoyed⁠—he had certainly awoke her. But her eyes were still half shut, and she was smiling as before. + 

“It is very odd,” thought Grollmann, and stooped nearer to the sleeper, and then raised himself, trembling in every limb, and ran as fast as his old legs would carry him out of the studio into the house after Aunt Rikchen, whom he had just seen going in, crying in wild terror, “Fräulein Rikchen, Fräulein Rikchen! help, help!” while yet he was saying to himself that no help could avail now. + 

But before he could get up to the good lady and communicate his terrible news, Justus and Meta had entered the studio from the other side. + 

IV + 

They were returning from a long expedition into the very heart of the town, where they had been wandering about since the morning, looking for a wonderfully-carved oak wardrobe which Justus had heard yesterday from his friend Bunzel, was to be found there in the possession of a broker. Meta, indeed, had humbly suggested that it might be wiser to go first to some large shop, there to choose and order their necessary furniture, and then to look for the fanciful part; but Justus had proved to her that the whole matter had begun with fancy, and that they could not be wrong in pursuing the same road a little further⁠—firstly, because the road, on the whole, was particularly pleasant; and secondly, because the temptation of getting, probably for a mere song, a genuine Nuremberg wardrobe of the beginning of the sixteenth century, was not to be resisted by a true artist mind. Meta’s great good sense had, happily, seen the force of his reasoning, and so they had gone joyfully on their way. + 

But unfortunately this immensely-important conversation about the unique and priceless wardrobe had taken place yesterday evening at a period of the supper when friend Bunzel’s communications had begun to be somewhat wanting in lucidity, and the broker’s direction had consequently remained in an obscurity which Justus considered to be highly appropriate to the whole affair, and which gave it quite a local colour, but which still, in the interests of art, must be cleared up, and, if they put their wits and their understandings together, certainly soon would be cleared up. + 

So they drove on, at first through broad, straight streets, then through narrower and more twisted ones, till their driver, whom they had hired by the hour, declared that he had come as far as he could with his horse and carriage, and that if his fare took the matter as a joke, as they seemed to be doing, he did not see the fun of it; and that as for the “old wardrobe” of which they were always talking as they got in and out, he believed it to be nothing but a hoax. + 

“Heartless barbarian!” said Justus, as the cab rumbled on over the antediluvian pavement. “No ray of light has illuminated his benighted soul; he has no faith in the woodcarving of the sixteenth century⁠—perhaps not even in Isaac Lobstein! How do matters stand with your heart, Meta?” + 

Meta replied that her heart was all right, but that she was beginning to feel very hungry. They had better try this one street more, and if Herr Isaac Lobstein did not live here, then she should certainly propose to beat a retreat. + 

And behold! their heroic perseverance was crowned by success; Herr Isaac Lobstein did live in the street, and was in possession of a wardrobe for sale, indeed a whole row of wardrobes, which all had the immense advantage over the cabinet that the young couple were looking for, of being brand-new; while as for oak, that was quite out of fashion, and not the right sort of wood either, as it made the furniture much too heavy, which in the changes of residence that “young couples” so often found necessary, according to all experience, was a very important matter. + 

And Herr Isaac Lobstein smiled so benevolently as he said all this in a tone of paternal remonstrance, that the “young couple,” feeling quite crushed, bought the first wardrobe that came to hand for a very considerable sum, and when they found themselves in the street again, looked at each other with very long faces. + 

“I think, Meta,” said Justus, “our driver was not far wrong. Hang that fellow Bunzel! but he shall pay me for this!” + 

And therewith he made so fearful and comically-furious a grimace, that Meta burst into a fit of laughter, in which Justus, after a moment’s consideration, joined her. + 

And during their long drive back to the studio, where Justus had to make some arrangements before spending the afternoon with Meta’s hostess, they were perpetually breaking into laughter again, although between whiles they were talking in all seriousness of the most weighty matters; Philip’s flight which was simultaneous with the breaking up of the company, and how with all the trouble which this break up had brought to so many people, it had done this good, that it had at last obtained consent to their marriage from Meta’s father, as Reinhold had foretold; and what effect the affair would have upon Reinhold and Elsa’s fate; and how poor Herr Kreisel, who had put his savings into Sundin-Wissows, had been quite off his head this morning from the shock, and trouble and anxiety for Cilli, whose future he now saw unprovided for, so that he had had to go to bed; and how foolish it was of the good old man, as he must know that his friends, and Uncle Ernst especially, would never forsake him or his dear Cilli. + 

On this topic they gradually became quite grave, especially Meta, who sat for some time quite still in her corner, till suddenly sitting up, she said: + 

“Do you know, Justus, we must take care of Cilli, for you know if she were not blind, dear thing, you would have married her, only that if she were not blind and could see what a dreadfully ugly old darling you are, she would not have been in love with you, for you know the poor thing is very much in love with you, as I am a little, you know.” + 

Herewith she threw herself into Justus’s arms, and cried as if her heart would break, and then laughed again as Justus suggested that she had better have both windows shut, so that he had much trouble in restoring her to anything like her natural self, as they crossed the court to the studio. + 

“For you see,” said Justus, “it is all nonsense, begging your pardon, though Reinhold did suggest something of the kind. You know better than other people that I am not overmodest, but as for Cilli, you see she is simply an angel. She has shown herself so more than ever lately, in the way she has borne with poor Ferdinanda, who really does not deserve it, as only an angel could. And it was not because she was blind that I did not fall in love with her, and would not have married her, but because I could only fall in love with and marry a human being, and you were the human being, and so⁠—” + 

They had by this time entered the studio. + 

“Hush!” said Meta. “Don’t speak so loud; it sounds as if we were in a church here, you know, like that time when Cilli⁠—oh! the poor dear is sitting there; I think she must be asleep.” + 

“Where?” + 

“There, under my bust.” + 

But Justus needed but one glance to see with his sharp artist’s eyes, that the sleep in which the pale angel form was lying, was the sleep that knows no waking. + 

His first idea was to spare Meta the sad sight, and he caught her hand to lead her away, but the shock which she saw expressed in his varying countenance had told her all more plainly than even the sight of the sleeping figure. She trembled all over, but she held fast the hand which he had given to her, and they went together up to the dead girl, and looked in solemn silence into the smiling face. + 

“She has been praying for us,” whispered Justus; “the last thought of her pure soul.” + 

Tears choked his voice. Meta threw herself sobbing on his breast. + 

“Oh! Justus, Justus, how we must love each other!” + 

A sound close by made them look up. It was Uncle Ernst, who had hastily entered by the open studio door, and seeing the strange group had been suddenly seized by a terrible misgiving of what had happened. He had come nearer to them, and stood now close behind them with his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes fixed upon the dead face. + 

Grollmann and Aunt Rikchen came next, Aunt Rikchen trembling, and often sobbing aloud, but valiantly struggling with her sobs and tears as often as they threatened to dim her eyes, proving the truth of what she had always maintained of herself, that in spite of everything she was a true sister of her brother, and that when there was any need for it, she would always be found at her post. + 

It was she who took all necessary measures with due forethought and decision; and only when the fair corpse had been laid upon a hastily-contrived bier to be carried into the other house, and she was about to follow, and her brother, who had let her do everything quietly, took her hand, and said with a long-drawn breath, “Thank you, Rikchen,” was the warm brave heart suddenly stirred to its depths, and she would have broken into loud weeping if Uncle Ernst had not said peremptorily, but in a kindly tone such as she had never heard from his mouth, “Let that be, Rikchen! There are so many things to be done still.” + 

“God knows there are!” thought Aunt Rikchen, but she did not say it, and followed the procession which was moving to the door. + 

But Uncle Ernst was standing again as before, with his arms folded across his breast, and looking fixedly at the spot where in his mind’s eye he still saw the same touching picture. + 

“Death was in her heart!” he murmured, “and she knew it. She said it so meekly, and I did not understand it. There are no more miracles, but there are signs given to those who have eyes to see. I asked for a sign!” + 

His arms relaxed their pressure, and two burning tears dropped from his eyelashes and rolled down his furrowed cheeks to his grey beard. He looked round timidly, but no one had seen him weep. + 

With his stately head bent low, but a step as firm as ever, he left the studio. + 

V + 

An hour later⁠—at a few minutes before twelve⁠—a carriage drove up to the departure-platform of the Berlin and Sundin railway station, and August jumped quickly from the box to assist the General. The General mounted the steps, while August looked round in vain for a porter. + 

“I told you so,” called the driver, handing the small portmanteau to August. “We ought to know!” + 

“Perhaps it is all the better so,” thought August, hastening after his master, who was standing in the empty hall at the booking-office, before the closed windows of which the green curtains had been let down. + 

“So the man was right after all,” said the General. + 

“Yes, sir,” said August. + 

A porter, who was passing by, confirmed the driver’s information. The day-train went at eleven o’clock since the first of this month. The next through train was at midnight, as before. A superior official now joined them, who had served in the regiment which the General had last commanded as colonel. + 

“If the General were in a hurry, as he seemed to be, there was another gentleman who had come too late a few minutes ago, and who had asked for a special. There would be some difficulty about it, as all the trains had been sent off today with two engines, on account of the storm which was said to be raging fearfully towards Sundin. And they were obliged to keep a few engines in reserve, in case of any accident happening, particularly as the telegraphic communication with Sundin was already broken off, and they could only get news in a roundabout way. Still something might be managed perhaps. The gentleman had just gone to speak to the stationmaster, who was out there by the goods sheds, but he would be back again directly. Would the General be good enough to wait till then?” + 

With these words the man opened the door of the first-class waiting-room for the General, who followed him mechanically. The other then said that he would himself go and see after the matter, and would bring him back word, and so left the room. August, who had followed with the portmanteau, asked if the General had any more orders. + 

The General told him to wait; he did not know yet what he should do, and August went away greatly disturbed in mind; it was the first time since he had been in the General’s service that he did not know what he was going to do. + 

The unhappy man was in fact in a state of mind bordering on madness. After the terrible reckoning with his son, all his remaining strength had been concentrated upon one idea⁠—revenge, immediate, implacable revenge upon the wily villain, the hypocritical scoundrel who⁠—he felt sure of it at heart, although his disturbed reason could not penetrate the details of the plot⁠—had now robbed him of his son, as formerly of his sister, and heaped shame and disgrace upon the proud name of Werben. At the moment when, with this one thought in his mind, he entered the carriage which was to take him to the railway, two letters arrived, one by the post in Elsa’s handwriting, and a note brought by Schönau’s servant. He had opened Elsa’s letter at once, and hastily glanced at the few lines, but without really understanding the contents. How could he? How could he have sense, feeling, or understanding for anything in the world, before he knew what Schönau’s note contained? But he knew it already! It could be but one thing! Schönau had not ventured to come himself to say, “He is dead!” + 

He sat thus a long time, with the fatal note in his trembling hand, and at last, when they were close to the station, by a mechanical impulse he tore it open and read it, only to crush the paper in his hand afterwards, and thrust it into his pocket, while he leaned back in a corner of the carriage with a ghastly smile upon his pale worn face. + 

He was walking up and down now in the great empty room, from the looking-glass between the glass doors which led on to the platform, to the door into the entrance hall, and then back again, stopping only sometimes at the centre table in front of the little box which stood there, once even stretching out his hand to it, and then with a shake of the head pursuing his walk. + 

Was there any sense in it now? Might he not just as well have left at home his pistol, the caps for which were in his pocket! Or better still have remained at home himself, let things take their course, and people have their own way? At any rate confess to himself his helplessness in regard to things or men, and that he was a broken-down old man, good for nothing but to look on idly at the battle of life as others fought it out, however melancholy, perverse, and miserable the spectacle might be! + 

Melancholy for him whose heart was crushed and broken, even where formerly he would have looked with satisfaction⁠—his Elsa’s happiness. It was not indeed the happiness of which he had dreamed for her, but to that he was resigned; it was not a brilliant lot which she had chosen for herself, but she loved the man, and, other considerations apart, he was worthy of her love. And it could not be helped either when a stranger knew her secret, that the whole world should know it at the same moment that it was confided to her father. + 

And yet! and yet! Why should it have happened just now, just today? She was not to blame, neither was he whom she would own as hers before all the world; but upon her name and his their nearest relations had heaped such shameful guilt, had so dragged both the humble and the noble name through the mire, that every beggar might tread upon them with impunity. Death would have atoned for so much, perhaps almost for all! The worst part of the disgrace would have been hidden in the darkness of the grave, and that which had been left behind on earth⁠—the whispers of malicious tongues⁠—would soon have been silenced! Had he required too much? Was death more bitter than the agony of mind which he had endured in these last terrible hours? And if it were, Ottomar must surely know how to die; he could not add to the disgrace of his forgeries, the thousand times greater disgrace of a cowardly flight. And could Schönau have given his consent to this shameful course? He had not done so with goodwill evidently; he hinted even at accompanying circumstances, which he could have wished omitted, but which appeared to have been unavoidable, though he could not take upon himself the responsibility of them. Could this man think and write so, whom he had often, and not merely in jest, called a knight sans peur et sans reproche? Had he so entirely misconceived his and the Colonel’s opinion? Did he remain the sole survivor of an earlier and better time, incomprehensible to the present generation as they were incomprehensible to him? What difference remained then between a nobleman and officer and an adventurer who runs away from his creditors, a clerk who flies with his master’s strong box⁠—what difference between Ottomar von Werben and Philip Schmidt? There was none; the bankrupt tradesman and the aristocratic forger stood on the same level, only that the former might say, “I at least had not the face to compromise an honest man’s daughter, to morally compel my father to go to the girl’s father, and put himself in the humiliating position of being refused⁠—brightly and wisely, as the result shows!” + 

To the General’s overexcited imagination the scene of that morning suddenly presented itself as if it had only happened an hour before. The day had been gloomy, like this day; the autumn wind had howled round the walls as the March wind was doing today, and the rain had pattered against the window just as it did now. It had been a terrible hour, when he had been forced to humble himself so deeply before the proud plebeian, even though the man himself bore the stamp of nobility⁠—which nature can give and which life often confirms⁠—upon his broad forehead, and on every feature of his fine and venerable countenance. If he should ever again meet this man, should have to endure the look of those deep, shining eyes, where, where could he turn his own? + 

The General, who had been standing, hardly knowing where he was, with his fixed eyes to the floor, looked up as one of the glass doors on to the platform opened with some noise, and the man whom he had just been seeing in his mind’s eye entered, and closing the door came towards him. + 

He passed his hand across his forehead. Had his senses really forsaken him? Was that the reason why this vision so little resembled the reality?⁠—why the fire in the deep eyes was extinguished?⁠—why the head, which had been held so high, was now bent low?⁠—why the voice which now addressed him was not harsh with anger and hate, as it had been that morning, but a deep, gentle voice, gentle as the words he now began to understand, and which roused him to a sense of reality? + 

“I have just heard, General von Werben, that you also wish to go to Sundin; I must suppose, for the same business that takes me there. I have been promised a special train in half an hour. Will you do me the honour of making use of it also?” + 

The General’s stern, self-controlled countenance looked so distracted and wild with grief, the clear, commanding eyes looked so bewildered, so helpless, that Uncle Ernst could not but feel, as the other had done before, that he was now the stronger and more collected. With a courteous movement he pushed forward a chair to the General, who was leaning unsteadily against the table, and when he mechanically followed the suggestion, seated himself opposite to him. + 

“I take it for granted. General, that you have received Herr von Schönau’s letter, and that your presence here is the result of that letter?” + 

The General appeared not to have understood him, and, indeed, he had only heard the words. What did Herr Schmidt know of Schönau’s letter? He uttered the question as it crossed his mind. It was now Uncle Ernst’s turn to look up in surprise. + 

“Have you not received a letter from Herr von Schönau?” + 

“Yes.” + 

“Mentioning that your son⁠—has gone away?” + 

The General nodded. + 

“An hour ago⁠—from this station⁠—to Sundin?” + 

“To Sundin?” repeated the General. Strange that he had not guessed that at once! If Ottomar intended to live, his first thought must naturally be revenge upon that scoundrel⁠—or was it rather the last thing that he wished to accomplish before his death? He might have left it to his father; but, still, here was a gleam of light in the terrible darkness⁠—a spark from the heart of the son, who was not, after all, so entirely lost, into that of the father. “It was not mentioned in the note,” said he. He had raised his head a little, and a feeble fire shone in his sad eyes; there was some look in him again of the iron soldier with whom Uncle Ernst had had that terrible passage-of-arms the other day. + 

“Not mentioned?” said Uncle Ernst; “but, good heavens⁠—” + 

He broke off suddenly; his face darkened, and his voice sounded harsher, almost as it had done that morning, as he continued: + 

“Then in his brief note. Captain von Schönau probably did not mention the circumstance that Herr von Werben undertook the journey in question with my daughter!” + 

The General drew himself up at these words, like a man who was about sharply to resent an unexpected insult. The looks of the two men met; but while Uncle Ernst’s eyes blazed more fiercely, the General’s sought the ground, as, with a faint groan, he sank back in his chair. + 

“Miserable man!” he muttered to himself. + 

“You have to thank this circumstance⁠—I mean the intervention of my daughter⁠—that he is still alive,” said Uncle Ernst. + 

“I can feel no gratitude for that,” replied the General in a hollow voice. + 

“And that the father has not the son’s death upon his head.” + 

“The father would have been able to endure that responsibility.” + 

“So I should suppose,” muttered Uncle Ernst. + 

He sat for a few moments silent, and his looks also were now gloomy and downcast; but this was neither the time nor the place to renew the ancient feud. In a composed tone he said: + 

“If General von Werben did not know where Herr von Werben was gone, and that he was with my daughter, may I ask what brought him here?” + 

“I had intended to call to account the man whom I must suppose has brought ruin upon my son, as he has already brought ruin and shame upon my family. I confess that I hardly see any sense in this project now, and that I⁠—” + 

The General made a movement as if to rise. + 

“Do not go, General,” said Uncle Ernst. “If time had permitted, I would have gone to you and asked the favour of an interview; now that chance⁠—if we may call it chance⁠—has brought us together, let us make use of this half-hour; it may spare us perhaps years of vain remorse.” + 

The General shot from under his bushy brows a dark, uncertain glance at the speaker. + 

“Yes, General,” said Uncle Ernst, “I repeat it⁠—remorse; though we have neither of us had much opportunity yet of making acquaintance with such a thing. I think we may both bear witness of ourselves, without boasting, that we have all our lives long desired to do right, according to the best of our knowledge and conscience; but, General, since that first and only interview which I had with you, the words have been constantly ringing in my ear, and I hear them at this moment more plainly than ever, that I have indeed forgotten nothing, but have also learned nothing. It was a hard saying to a man like myself, whose highest pride had been to have striven from his youth up after a better and purer experience, after truth and light; and I put it from me, therefore, as an absolute injustice. But it has returned upon me again and again, all through these dark and gloomy winter months, day after day, and night after night, and it has gnawed at my heart till I almost went mad over it, for I thought I could not believe those words without giving up myself, without denying the sun at midday, or at least admitting that that sun had dark, very dark spots, fearfully dark for one who would joyfully have laid his head upon the block for its spotless purity. And yet, General, it was so. However the tortured heart might cry out against it, the relentless words would not be silenced: ‘You, who glory in having forgotten nothing, have lost the better part, and you have learned nothing.’ + 

“This hard battle, General, in which I have nearly perished, and which has certainly shortened my life by many years, has continued till this very day, till this very hour. Even the shameless and disgraceful act of my son, with whom for years past I have lived in unnatural enmity, could not break my pride. ‘What is it to me,’ I cried, ‘if he drew poison from the honey, if, when I had made respect for foolish prejudices ridiculous to the boy, he later on lost all reverence for the sacredness of law? If my teaching that it was every man’s duty to stand upon his own feet and trust in his own strength was perverted by him into the doctrine that he who had the might had the right also to take all that his hand could grasp, and to tread under foot whatever was weak enough to allow itself to be trampled upon? He has been corrupt from his childhood,’ I cried, ‘let Nature be answerable for all that she has created in her dark recesses! What matters it to us who, out of the chaos where right and wrong, reason and folly, are wavering and mingling confusedly together, are striving after the light of absolute self-dependence? What matters it above all to the plebeian, to whom the aristocrat’s pride in his forefathers seems ridiculous? Let the children go their way! Why should the question of whither we go seem to us more worthy of inquiry than of whence we come, concerning which on principle we ask nothing? Pale spectre of family honour, write thy Mene Tekel on the walls of the prince’s palace, on the walls of the noble’s house, but attempt not to awe the free man who has no honour and desires no honour, but that of remaining true to himself!’ + 

“And then, General, as I thus strove with my God⁠—I believe in a God, General von Werben, Radical and Republican as I am⁠—there crossed my threshold an angel, if I may so call a being whose heavenly goodness and purity seem to have no trace of earth, my clerk’s daughter, a blind girl, whom you have perhaps heard mentioned in your family circle. She came to tell me that my daughter had fled⁠—fled with your son, to save him whom she loved with every fibre of her warm, passionate heart, to shield him from the death to which his own father, for what reason I knew not, had condemned him. But I had thrust the spectre from my door, I would not listen now to the angel’s soft voice, although a strange awe, which I could not account for, thrilled through me. The meaning was not long unexplained. The pure, pitiful words had been the last which that noble being had drawn from the strength only of her immeasurable love; a few minutes later the purest heart which ever throbbed in human breast had ceased to beat.” + 

Uncle Ernst pressed his hand to his eyes, and, suppressing his deep emotion by a powerful effort, continued: + 

“I cannot require of you, General, that you should share my feelings, and I will not waste the precious minutes in a detailed account of the steps which I have now taken, moved by a force which I have neither the power nor the wish further to withstand, in order to save what is perhaps not yet utterly lost. Suffice it to you to know that I have ascertained from the woman who has been your son’s confidante lately, and also, without knowing it, the tool of that dangerous man who is such an arch-enemy of your family⁠—I have ascertained, I believe, nearly all that I need know of the sad history which has been played beneath our eyes, unobserved by us. + 

“Suffice it to you that I am convinced, not of your son’s innocence, it would be a lie were I to say that, and today more than ever we must have the courage to be sternly true to ourselves and to each other, but that he is not more guilty than a combination of unhappy circumstances may make a young man who, in spite of all his apparent knowledge of the world, is absolutely inexperienced, and whose heart, though no longer sinless, is not corrupt, but capable of noble impulses. And, General, if I have made to you, in whom I have always seen the impersonation of the principles most detested and abhorred by me, to you, above whom in my own self-righteousness I stood so high, a confession which has not been easy to my pride; if I have acknowledged that the principle of unbounded liberty and absolute self-dependence when carried to its extreme consequence may lead weaker spirits into error, must so lead them perhaps, as I see my two children erring now, one irrecoverably lost, the other only trembling on the edge of the abyss, into which some mere accident may precipitate her; have you, too, General von Werben, nothing to repent of, nothing to atone for? Have not the narrow fetters of aristocratic and military routine, in which you have tried to confine your son’s easily-led disposition, been equally fatal to him? To him who in a freer and lighter atmosphere might have happily and naturally unfolded the bright gifts of his clear understanding, the powers of enjoyment of his warm heart, and who now, compressed and confined by prejudices on all sides, entangled in hopeless contradictions, has gradually accustomed himself to look upon life so completely and entirely as a series of necessary and unavoidable contradictions, that his death at this moment would be only one more? + 

“A terrible and monstrous contradiction. For would it not be one? Death by his own hand, at the moment when that hand is seized by the woman whom this self-condemned suicide⁠—from all that I now hear I am certain of this⁠—loves with all the force of which his heart is capable, and certainly far more than his own life; and this woman, who is not unworthy indeed of such love, says to him in tones which can only come from a loving and despairing heart: ‘Live, live! Live for me, to whom you are all! I have left father, and house, and home, to live for you! With you, without hoping for better days! With you, in shame and misery, if need be⁠—with you!’ ” + 

Uncle Ernst ceased, overpowered by the feelings of his noble, strong heart, choked by the thoughts which surged in his powerfully working mind. The General, who had been sitting in gloomy meditation, raised his sorrow-dimmed eyes. + 

“If need be?⁠—it must be!” + 

“Must be?” cried Uncle Ernst; “why? Because to the poor weary wayworn wanderers it seems that the farther road for them can only be toiling through the desert, through thorns and over stony ground? For them! Good heavens! They who are young and strong, who will soon in the palmy Eden of their love recognise their youth and strength, and with renewed courage and refreshed hearts go out into life, which stretches boundless and beautiful before them! Life, in whose immeasurable space there is a thousandfold room for the man who has erred, if he has but courage and can rise firmly to his feet again to resume the battle, and to conquer in a new sphere of work, a home for himself, for the woman he loves⁠—for his children! The children, General, with whom a new world is born which knows nothing of the old, which needs to know and should know nothing of the father’s sin; that sin which, if the father indeed has not atoned for by his sorrow, by his penance, by a single noble deed, they may redeem by the simple fact of living, of being new blossoms on the tree of humanity, at the foot of which we old people with our ancient griefs and troubles shall long have gone to rest.” + 

Uncle Ernst’s great eyes were glowing with noble enthusiasm; but the General’s troubled face gave not the faintest response to it. He slowly shook his grey head. + 

“I must ask you one question, which sounds very cruel, but is not meant to be so, only to bring us down from this region of bright and, to my thinking, fantastic dreams to this dark earth. Does the perspective which you open to my son, extend also to your son?” + 

Uncle Ernst started, the fire of his glance was dimmed, and some moments elapsed before his answer came. + 

“The cases are as far apart as heaven is from earth, as far as a thoughtless act intended to injure no one, which he who committed it hoped, I know, to make good, and to which he had been after all led away by fiendish suggestions, differs from a proceeding which was carried out with the most cold-blooded calculation, in the full knowledge of the ruinous consequences to thousands of others.” + 

“And for which meanwhile there can be no atonement in your eyes!” + 

Uncle Ernst moved restlessly, impatiently in his chair. + 

“What do you mean, General?” + 

“Only to remind you, that turn ourselves which way we will, we must always judge life from our own point of view, and we can only measure men’s actions by the rule which birth, education, intellect and reflection have given to us. Or do you think that the stockjobber, the speculator, the reckless adventurer, would in their hearts, if such men have hearts, condemn your son as the man of honour, the honest manufacturer does, although he is his father? And can you blame an honourable soldier because he condemns and brands the dishonourable conduct of another soldier, although that soldier is his son, or rather because he is his son? Can you suppose that I would deny my son, whom I have loved as well as any father ever loved his son, whom even at this moment I love with a love that rends my heart⁠—” + 

The General’s voice shook, and he drew a long breath, almost a groan, that echoed shudderingly in the silent room. + 

“Can you suppose that I would deny him the life which you describe, if I did not believe it to be impossible? It may be that the narrow bonds, of which you spoke just now, have so cramped my mental horizon that they have forever checked the free flight of thought. But these conditions of thought and feeling exist for the whole class, and must so exist if it is not to be swept away; and so they exist also for my son. Never, under any circumstances can he forget that he has cast a stain upon the shield of his forefathers, that he has himself broken the sword which he received from his commander-in-chief, that he has disgraced his arms, that he could not look one of his old comrades in the face even if they met in a desert, that he must carefully seek the society of obscure men whom he would formerly as carefully have avoided, he who once might stand freely and boldly before his king, whom his king⁠—” + 

And again the General drew a long, deep breath. + 

Uncle Ernst’s lips were twitching. Here again there rose before him the barrier which pride and arrogance had drawn straight across life’s bloom; the barrier which in his stormy youthful days he had thought to conquer by one effort, and which he had afterwards tried through long weary years to carry off stone by stone! And not one stone was missing after all; it stood straight and strong, unapproachable and invincible as ever! And he stood powerless on this side, and on the other side was his child who must be lost now because pride and arrogance would have it so. No, it should never be! + 

He sprang up. + 

“Then I must set to work alone.” + 

“What was your plan?” + 

The General had risen also, but the mere movement seemed difficult to the man who used to be so alert and active. + 

“Roughly this,” answered Uncle Ernst; “not to allow my child to go out unreconciled to me into a life whose varied changes no man can reckon upon, and whose otherwise too hard path I desired as far as possible to smooth by my advice and help. I gathered from the woman of whom I spoke that in the first hurried agitation of his distracted thoughts, even before his father’s message arrived, your son had intended to hasten to Warnow, to force an explanation from the traitor in the presence of his aunt the Baroness, who according to this scoundrel’s declaration had taken upon herself the material responsibility, so to speak, of these unhappy bills, at least had promised under all circumstances to make good the deficiency. Herr von Schönau even, after many objections, had agreed to this. When, therefore, the unhappy man wished to kill himself, in spite of the presence of his friend, who felt his own powerlessness and yet could advise my daughter to return home, as flight with her at this moment would make it absolutely impossible for him to intervene further on behalf of his brother-officer, when it became the first consideration for her who wished to save her lover at any cost, even that of the pitying contempt of his best friend, to escape from the influence of this very cautious friendship, no matter whither; then the adroit confidante brought forward again the idea of Warnow, merely, I believe, because the train for Sundin was the first to start. I, for my part, hoped and still hope to overtake them in Sundin, to be able to tell your son that there is no object in the continuation of his journey, as I claim for myself the right of paying the debts of the man who has eloped with my daughter, and who will therefore also marry her. Should they have gone on to Warnow I shall of course follow them there, or anywhere else until I overtake them. At Warnow too I promise myself the assistance of my nephew. He possesses and deserves my daughter’s highest respect, and I am convinced that he would add to the father’s blessing the good wishes of a friend who, in turning the pages of the book of honour, does not omit the chapters which treat of humanity.” + 

The patience of the passionate spirit was exhausted; in the last words might be traced even suppressed wrath. He buttoned his overcoat and took up his hat, which stood on the table by the General’s little box, as the man who had before offered his services to the General entered the room from the platform with the stationmaster. The stationmaster went up to Uncle Ernst to inform him that the train was ready, while the other handed a telegram to the General. + 

“I happened to be in the office,” said he, “when it arrived, through Stettin, having been handed in early this morning at Prora. I think the contents are of importance.” + 

The General took the paper, which in the hurry had not even been folded: + 

“Come by the next train. Frightful storm. Must perhaps go to Reinhold. Aunt alone then with that wretch. Come for my sake, Ottomar’s, and aunt’s, who throws herself upon your mercy. Everything is at stake.⁠—Elsa.” + 

Uncle Ernst came forward. + 

“I must wish you goodbye, General.” + 

“I will come with you.” + 

Uncle Ernst looked in astonishment at the General, who folded the telegram, while August, who with old Grollmann, whom he had met outside, had been looking after the two gentlemen’s things, and had now returned, seized the little box to carry it after his master to the carriage in which he had taken his seat with Uncle Ernst. The two servants were in the next carriage, which with the engine made up the whole train. + 

“They seem to be of one mind so far,” said Grollmann. + 

“Whatever is wanting still will be made up before we get to Sundin,” said August. + 

“If only the storm does not blow us off the rails first,” said Grollmann. + 

“It really is A 1,” said August. + 

VI + 

Nobody had had any sleep at Castle Warnow excepting Frau von Wallbach. And even she had been repeatedly awakened or nearly so by strange noises of rolling and rattling, just as if she were at home in the Behrenstrasse and a dozen big parties were breaking up at the same moment, and an alarm of fire sounding between whiles. What could it have been? The maid who brought her chocolate to her bedside told her that it was the storm, which had been raging fearfully since her lady went to bed last night. + 

“How odd!” said Frau von Wallbach. “But why have you come in so early? I do not want to start before eleven.” + 

“It is ten o’clock now, ma’am; it will be no lighter today.” + 

“Of course not, if you do not open the shutters.” + 

“They have not been shut, ma’am; we did not dare to do it even last night. One shutter has already been torn off by the wind, as I saw from the ground-floor window.” + 

“How odd!” said Frau von Wallbach. “You have packed my things, I suppose?” + 

“Oh, certainly, ma’am; but we shall not be able to travel today. Herr Damberg has sent over to say that he is very sorry, but it can’t be done; there is no knowing what may happen, and he must keep all his horses at the farm.” + 

“Why, what could happen?” + 

“I don’t know, ma’am, but they do say that it may be something very bad. If you would only get up, ma’am, and see for yourself. One would think the world was coming to an end. Everyone is running about with pale faces, and I am dreadfully frightened, ma’am.” + 

“It is very foolish of you. Is Fräulein von Wallbach up yet?” + 

“Yes, ma’am, she has already inquired after you twice.” + 

“You may tell her that I can see her now. And then take my compliments to the Baroness, and ask her if she will be so kind as to lend me her horses to drive to Prora; I will come and see her myself as soon as I am dressed.” + 

Carla came in just as Louisa was slipping on her dressing-gown. She was already dressed for the day, and Frau von Wallbach thought her looking very pale, with deep circles under her eyes. Carla assured her that this was only the dreadful light, and besides, she had not slept quite so well as usual; but this was certainly less the result of the storm than of the communication that the Count had made to her when he rode by yesterday evening; he had only remained five minutes, just long enough to tell her this delightful story in a few hasty words. + 

“What story?” asked Louisa, sipping her chocolate. + 

“The same story,” said Carla, “which my sweet pet would not believe yesterday, but which she cannot help believing, now that the last interesting chapter has been partly played out in presence of Count Golm.” + 

And Carla gave her, with all the additions and embellishments she considered necessary for her purpose, an account of the events at Wissow Head yesterday evening. + 

Frau von Wallbach meanwhile finished her second cup, which she usually took on the sofa, and leaned back. + 

“Well, what do you say?” asked Carla. + 

“What should I say,” answered Frau von Wallbach, “since you prepared me for it yesterday? And I do not see either why you should pretend to be so very much astonished today. What does it signify after all to you or Golm? I should have thought you had both very good reason to be satisfied that things have turned out so. He could only marry one after all. It seems now that you will be the one.” + 

“But what will Edward say?” cried Carla. + 

“I do not see what objection my husband can have. It seems to me rather, the more I think of it, that he only sent us here to settle it between you. Only I think it would have been more civil of him⁠—and of you too, by the way⁠—if you had told me so beforehand instead of leaving me in the dark; and I shall tell Edward so when we get home today.” + 

Carla had sat down on the sofa by her sister-in-law, and was playing with one of the long ribbons of her dressing-gown. + 

“We, sweet pet?” said she. “I thought you meant to go home alone, pet?” + 

“And I think you are too foolish,” answered Frau von Wallbach, “and I should be ashamed of myself in your place, only I suppose you are too much in love to know what you are talking about. How can you, now that you have come to an understanding with Golm, as you seem to have done⁠—” + 

“But there is nothing decided between us!” cried Carla. + 

“It is all the same, besides⁠—begging your pardon⁠—I don’t believe it. But no matter, you cannot remain another day as a guest in the house of Ottomar’s aunt; it would be perfectly scandalous, and I will have nothing to do with it, and if you do not come with me⁠—what’s that?” + 

The remaining shutter closed noisily, and a pane of glass fell with a clatter into the room. + 

Carla jumped up with a scream of terror. + 

“Do you want us to travel in this weather?” + 

“If I can, so can you,” said Frau von Wallbach; “and now have the goodness to get ready; we shall start in an hour at latest.” + 

Fortunately for Carla, who did not know how to avert the threatened blow, the maid came back at this moment to say that the Baroness was very sorry that she could not oblige Frau von Wallbach; she was herself obliged to go out with Fräulein von Werben. But she had sent to inquire in the village; perhaps one of the peasants might provide horses, but it was not very likely. + 

“This is pleasant,” said Frau von Wallbach, “I cannot go away on foot. Where are the ladies going?” + 

The maid smiled. She could not say for certain, but Fräulein von Werben’s maid thought they might be going to Wissow. + 

“Very well,” said Frau von Wallbach; “just see that that window is put right. I will go myself to the Baroness, she will excuse my déshabillé. Come with me, Carla!” + 

Carla would much rather not have gone, but Louisa was so intolerably determined today, that she must do all she could to coax her back into good humour. Besides, if, as now appeared probable, Louisa did not go away, she had at least the pleasant prospect of seeing the two other ladies out of the house, perhaps for the whole day. She could soon talk over Louisa into not putting any insurmountable obstacle in the way of the daring, delightful scheme which she had hastily concocted with the Count yesterday. And as to the important question of her own stay, there could hardly remain a doubt. + 

“But, my sweet pet,” said she to her sister-in-law, as they passed along the corridor to the Baroness’s room, “you would not do such a thing by me as to make any allusion to Count Golm in my presence? So long as they keep silence towards us, we really need not be the first to speak.” + 

“I thought nothing had been decided between you,” said Frau von Wallbach. + 

“All the more then,” said Carla. + 

Valerie was alone when the two ladies came in, and already dressed for her drive. She, too, looked pale and tired, so much so that the good-natured Louisa exclaimed: + 

“You should go to bed again, my dear Baroness, instead of braving this storm, which really seems to be frightful. I will go with Elsa, that sort of thing does not hurt me; or, what would be the wisest thing, we will all stay here and keep you company, even if my company is not too amusing.” + 

“Certainly,” interposed Carla, “we will willingly remain with you, and pass this dull day sociably together.” + 

Valerie, without seeming to see Carla, took Louisa’s hand. + 

“Thank you for your kindness, dear Frau von Wallbach, but forgive me if notwithstanding I seem to slight the duties of hospitality. It can only be for a few hours, as I expect another visitor today, Signor Giraldi, with whom I have to speak of some most important business. He will be surprised and disappointed, therefore, at not finding me, and so I wanted to ask you to tell him that I have gone to Wissow with my niece, whose betrothed⁠—of course you have heard of it all from Fräulein von Wallbach⁠—is exposed to great danger in this fearful storm. We have waited until now for news, but in vain, as was natural under the circumstances; and have no hope of receiving any now, while we fear the worst, at least I do; for my dear niece is still trying to inspire me with courage, though hers must be inwardly failing her. Your kind heart can feel for me⁠—for us, I am sure.” + 

“Of course, of course!” said Frau von Wallbach, in whose good-natured eyes tears were standing; “go, my dear Baroness, and think no more of us; and as for your commission⁠—when do you expect Signor Giraldi?” + 

“He ought to have been here the first thing this morning, but no doubt the violence of the storm has detained him; he may arrive at any moment.” + 

“It is all the same to me,” said Frau von Wallbach; “I will do the honours to him. The chief thing is that you should set off; and here comes dear Elsa.” + 

She met Elsa, who now came in ready for her drive, with a warmth to which Elsa gratefully responded. It was a comfort to feel that all good hearts would be on the same side in this conflict which was threatening all around, and in which so many of the worst passions were let loose, so many sordid motives were mingling. And she could not help admiring the honesty with which this woman, whose insignificance had become a byword, declared herself on the side which she considered right in the decisive moment, even in Carla’s presence, following the impulse of her own heart with no thought for anything further. What Carla might think of it, as she stood apart, trying to retain her usual company smile of civility, but not venturing, in spite of her boasted self-possession and presence of mind, to join in this painful scene by so much as a word, Elsa did not desire to know; she was glad when she was in the carriage with her aunt, and they had started. + 

It was unfortunately impossible today to choose the shorter road to Wissow. The fields and meadows along the shore, through which Elsa had passed the evening before, were too wet, the coachman said, in consequence of the torrents of rain which had been falling since last night. They saw traces of this as soon as they had left the comparatively higher ground on which the castle with the park and home farm were situated, and had reached the hollow which extended along the side of the chain of hills on which the village stood, and which joined at either end the plain. The wheels sank at once almost to the axles, although the road was well gravelled and was in general quite dry; and they had some trouble in getting through it though it extended for barely two hundred yards. + 

It was dreadful, said Herr Damberg, the farmer, who met them on their way to the village, and rode a little way back by the sides of the carriage; and one couldn’t tell yet whether it might not get much worse, and if it would not be better to follow Captain Schmidt’s advice, who had sent word all round the coast yesterday that there would be a frightfully high tide if the storm came up from the east, which might reach far inland, and measures should be taken to prepare for it. Well, the castle and the home farm lay high enough, unless things got worse than bad; but the hollow here, whose bottom was on the same level as, or even lower than the marshes, would at any rate be flooded, and then at Warnow they would be on an island. And a pleasant situation that would be, particularly as inland here they had got no boats, and nobody could tell how long this state of things might last. He was only glad that he had not signed the new agreement with the Count. The wheatfields and meadows there were all very well, but they could not yield enough to carry one through a calamity such as threatened now, and the consequences of which were not to be foretold, especially when rents were twice as high as they used to be. + 

“Ah! yes, my lady,” said Herr Damberg, “your good husband was a just man. He thought of other people, and not of himself alone, like some other gentlemen. Well, my lady, I must go back now, and look after things at home, before they all lose their heads there. I hope your ladyship and the young lady will get safe to Wissow and back again, and tell the Captain that he had better keep some boats ready for us, as he may have work to do here before night.” + 

The old man said this quite seriously, and then pulled his cap, which he had taken off, well down upon his forehead, set spurs to his horse, and rode down to the farm just as the carriage reached the first house in the village. + 

Here, too, the excitement, which today had roused the most sluggish, had taken hold of the people. Although they were themselves safe from the flood in case it came, with the exception of a few cottages at the foot of the hill, their comparatively lofty position had exposed them all the more to the ravages of the storm. Both thatched and tiled roofs had been partly or entirely destroyed, windows blown in, chimneys knocked down, hedges overthrown, branches had been broken off in quantities, and even the trees themselves blown down. On the little green before the inn-door, about the highest spot in the place, lay the great lime-tree, the pride of the village, torn up by the roots. It had only happened half an hour before, and it was fortunate that the three wagons which had come down from Jasmund, on their way to Prora, had not already stood where they were waiting now, at the inn-door, for if so horses and men must all have been killed. The men would not go any farther, said the landlord, who had come to the carriage-door; they were afraid that the wagon might be blown off the road in the storm. And indeed the Baroness had much better turn back too; for though the road to Wissow ran behind the hill for a part of the way, and so was to some extent protected, it might be very bad when they got round the point and down upon Wissow itself, where they would be fully exposed to the storm again. + 

“Oh, go on, go on!” cried Elsa. + 

She had indeed summoned up all her strength, so that no one who did not feel for her like Valerie could have guessed what was passing in her mind. But now, when the fury of the elements, from which she had been sheltered in the castle, broke upon her from all sides, and appeared to her by a thousand terrible signs; when she saw written upon so many faces, the terror which she, for her aunt’s sake, had been hiding in her trembling heart, even her courage wavered, and she laid her head weeping upon her faithful friend’s shoulder. + 

“Cry as much as you will, dear child,” said Valerie kindly; “it will relieve your poor anxious heart. They are pure and gentle tears, and truly you need not be ashamed of them. You have struggled as not many could have done.” + 

“But I had promised myself and him to be brave,” sobbed Elsa; “and I always think he will find out if I am not, and then he will not be so strong himself as is required of him by his duty and by his own brave heart.” + 

A wonderful smile flitted across Valerie’s pale face. + 

“If all could rest as securely in their love and in their faith in those they love as you can do! Oh, Elsa, Elsa, how unspeakably happy you are in your sorrow!” + 

“I know it,” said Elsa, “and am doubly ashamed of myself for burdening your poor heart with fresh cares for me.” + 

“And for whom else should I care?” answered Valerie. “Certainly not for myself, I have told you all without losing your love; I want to carry your love with me to the grave, and so end my life joyfully, as a wild, fever-haunted night ends with a gentle morning dream. It might all be over then; for the day so passionately hoped for through the long, terrible years⁠—the day when your father would say to me, ‘Valerie, I have forgiven you,’ will never come now.” + 

“What if it were today?” said Elsa, taking her aunt’s hand in hers. “Forgive me for what I have done without consulting you! As I sat by you last night, and the storm raged more and more furiously, I felt that I had over-calculated my strength, that I should have to leave you today to hasten to Reinhold, and that I ought not to leave you without sending for my father. I telegraphed to him early this morning; he will come, I am sure. But he cannot be here before the evening, and that is why, my dear aunt, I have let you accompany me. Everything fits in so well with this arrangement: that dreadful man has not come as we expected, and when we go home this evening, even if you go home alone, you will not have to meet him by yourself; you will have one by you who can and will protect you better than I could do. You are not angry with me, aunt?” + 

Valerie smiled through the tears which ran down her pale cheeks. + 

“I cannot be angry with my good angel! May you have been my good angel in this case also!⁠—but I dare not hope it! Your father knows and respects justice alone; the gracious, redeeming power of mercy he does not know. I cannot but suppose that he despises it, and despises those who plead for mercy. My imploring letters, which I was forced amidst a thousand terrors to hide from spying eyes, as I hid the answers also, have never moved him. Cold and repelling was the look with which he met me after so long a lapse of time, which generally softens the sternest; cold and repelling the few words which he deigned to address to me, merely to tell me what was the first step I must take if there were to be peace between him and me. He did not see what you, my darling, perceived at the first glance, that I could not take this step as matters now stood⁠—that without the help of some compassionate heart I never could take it. Oh, Elsa, Elsa! I will not blame your father, especially before you; but, Elsa, many things would have happened differently and more happily for me⁠—for us all⁠—for your father himself⁠—if he had ever really understood that profound saying, that the proud will not enter the kingdom of heaven.” + 

“But my father has been so kind to me,” said Elsa, “although my attachment has so completely destroyed all his hopes for my future. And it was he, too, who made the first advance to Reinhold’s proud uncle, so that it was not his fault certainly that Ottomar’s affairs turned out so badly.” + 

Valerie did not answer. She did not wish to tell her dear niece how very differently the matter appeared to her; how she believed, on the contrary, that it was just his father’s intervention that had made Ottomar’s union with Ferdinanda impossible; and that even his consent in Elsa’s case was not the hearty approval of a loving father, but that of a man who unwillingly allows what he cannot prevent, without violating his highest principles of justice. + 

Elsa was silent also; her thoughts had flown forward in advance of the carriage, which seemed hardly to make any progress, in spite of all the efforts of their bold driver and powerful horses. They would have been even slower in their movements over the ill-made road, which in some places was almost destroyed by the rain, if the hill, along the side of which they were driving, had not broken the force of the gale. Two or three times only, on rising ground, they met its full power, and then it seemed almost a miracle that the whole equipage was not blown over. + 

Still it held firm, and so did the horses, who repeatedly had to stand still and stem the blast with the whole weight of their bodies. At such moments when they could see over the plain to the left, right down to the sea, the two ladies saw with terror, above the long waving line of the grey dunes from Golmberg to the point, another white line rising and falling, and here and there shooting up thirty or forty feet into the air, and falling upon the land in dense clouds. They knew that this was surf, the surf of that same sea whose waves generally rippled and splashed on the smooth sand, fifty or a hundred yards away from the foot of the dunes, as they had done on that rainy evening when Elsa stood there wrapped in her cloak, and the waving grasses on the edge of the dunes behind her seemed to entice her on farther to more delightful adventures. + 

Ah! her mind was no longer full of adventures! Whither had fled that bold and daring spirit which had thought it might defy fate? Whither the sunny cheerfulness which had then so filled her whole soul that that dark and rainy evening had seemed to her brighter than the brightest day! Whither, ah! whither, the joyous heart that knew nothing of love, nor wished to know anything excepting as the rose-scented, nightingale-haunted idea reflected back from the enchanted mirror of fancy and dreamland? Now the reality had come, in grim mockery of the bright fable of old! And yet⁠—and yet! poor tormented heart, you would not resign it for Paradise, if you could not meet him there! + 

“And if I did not meet him again!” + 

She had exclaimed it aloud, horrified at the sight which presented itself to her, when having surmounted the line of hills which now descended from Wissow Head to the sea, Wissow itself lay below them. The little peninsula, which might be at the outside a mile long and about half as wide at the foot of the headland, looked with its small houses, as seen from the moderate elevation at which they were, like a narrow plank on which children had built their toy-houses, and had then set afloat in a brawling stream. The surf, which till now they had seen only from a distance, and always partly concealed by the dunes, here rose between the open sea and the little strip of sand like a great wall, whose upper edge, torn into zigzag lines, rose and fell, and rose again, and was driven in foam and froth over the grey sand and amongst the little houses. + 

And yet, strange as it seemed, these little houses on the grey sand could still afford safe shelter! But how could she hope that he would meet her on the threshold of one of them? That his boat would be one of the twenty or thirty vessels of all sizes which were rocking at anchor immediately below them, in the bay between the little peninsula and the mainland? He would be out beyond, beyond where, as far as the eye could reach, foaming waves towered above each other; beyond where sea and sky mingled in one terrible darkness, as if they had met together for the destruction of the world. + 

“There! There!” + 

But the words died on Elsa’s trembling lips; the hand with which she had pointed seawards fell heavily beside her. + 

Valerie took the cold, rigid fingers: + 

“He will return, Elsa!” + 

But Elsa shook her head. + 

VII + 

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. Frau von Wallbach sat in the drawing-room, in her usual place by the fire, and stared at the flames, which, after many vain efforts, had at last been successfully kindled; and, notwithstanding the terrible uproar that raged round the castle, was on the point of forgetting her annoyance in a refreshing afternoon nap, when Signor Giraldi was announced, having only just arrived. + 

“He might as well have stayed away another hour,” said Frau von Wallbach. “Well, it is all the same to me; let dinner be got ready for him, François, and then ask him to come here.” + 

“Signor Giraldi particularly wishes to see you at once, ma’am.” + 

“Very well; it is all the same to me today.” + 

Frau von Wallbach had just time to turn her head towards the door as she leant back in her chair, when Giraldi entered. He was still in his travelling dress, having only thrown down his wet cloak in the hall; his black beard, which was usually so carefully arranged, was wild and dishevelled; his calm, dark eyes glowed with a lurid fire; his usually impassive face, that had seemed chiselled in yellow marble, was furrowed and agitated. + 

“Dear me, how strange you look!” said Frau von Wallbach. + 

“I must apologise,” answered Giraldi; “but I have been travelling since last night, perpetually detained by the most provoking hindrances, and I arrive here at last to learn that the Baroness, with whom I have to talk upon the most important and urgent affairs, is not at home. You can imagine⁠—” + 

“Do sit down,” said Frau von Wallbach. “You make me quite nervous by standing about like that, and talking so quickly.” + 

“I must apologise again,” said Giraldi. + 

“Not at all. I only remained here to receive you, although I tell you fairly that I had rather not have done so.” + 

“Then I will not take up another moment of your valuable time⁠—” + 

“Do sit still, and don’t make any speeches. I never make any, as you know, and am not at all inclined for them today. Oh yes, you may look at me as scornfully as you please. I dare say you think me, as other people do, half a child or a fool; but children and fools speak the truth, and the truth, my dear Signor Giraldi, is, that if you had not intermeddled and set everything at sixes and sevens, Carla would be Ottomar’s wife by this time, and everything would be properly arranged, while now she is out in this dreadful weather⁠—you must have met them I should think⁠—riding with the Count, although I told her to the Count’s face that it was scandalous, to say nothing of her catching her death of cold.” + 

“You cannot possibly hold me responsible for the irresistible impulse which makes heart meet heart,” answered Giraldi, with an attempt at his usual supremely ironical smile, which only resulted, however, in an evil grimace. + 

“Hearts!” said Frau von Wallbach; “stuff! The little heart that Carla ever had was Ottomar’s, and no one else’s; and there would have been quite enough for matrimony, at least I know some that have done very well with less. And as for the Count, good heavens! at first she was always telling me that he talked such nonsense, and my husband said so too, and old Countess Kniebreche and everyone; and then you came and cried him up to the skies, and of course what you said must be true, and so you have got your own way so far. And why? because it suited you that Ottomar should not marry, but should continue his careless way of living, and get into all sorts of troubles and scrapes, and that you should have him in your power. And you have succeeded very nicely, as Carla would say. But I don’t think it nice at all, but perfectly horrid of you; for Ottomar has always been pleasant and good-natured to me, and I like him a thousand times better than the Count; and if I had never respected Elsa before, I should now that I see she does not care one bit for the Count, but has declared honestly, as the Baroness told me and Carla this morning in Elsa’s name, that she is going to marry her sailor, although it is rather a strange proceeding for a Fräulein von Werben; but that is her affair; and she has gone with the Baroness to see him at Wissow, or whatever the name of the place is, which is quite right, I think, under the circumstances. I was to tell you this, and that they would be back in a few hours; and now I will add a few words from myself. You think, perhaps, that you have done something very fine by upsetting Ottomar’s and Carla’s engagement; and I dare say you are not less pleased at Elsa losing her inheritance in this way, but you are very much mistaken. The Baroness and Elsa are one, heart and soul; and if Ottomar chooses to marry Captain Schmidt’s cousin, the Baroness will have no objection, and she will make the brother and sister her heirs, whatever the trustees may say. If I were in her place I should do the same thing. And now here comes François to tell you, I suppose, that your dinner is ready. I wish you a good appetite.” + 

Frau von Wallbach’s last words were spoken without the least touch of sarcasm, in the same lazily comfortable way as the former ones, with her pretty head resting sideways against the back of her chair, and her eyes turned away from Giraldi and looking at the ceiling, as if it were all written up there and she were merely reading it off. + 

But not the most passionate warmth, nor the bitterest attack could have so upset the composure of the man who had sat before her gnawing his white lips, without interrupting her by a word, and who now rose to leave the room with a silent bow, as this imperturbable calmness and blunt sincerity affected him from a woman whom he had hitherto considered a nonentity, as the emptiest of all empty-headed dolls, and who now dared to tell him this to his very face; to unfold the web of intrigue which he had toiled so hard to spin with all the energy of his crafty mind, and to show him the gaps which his sharp eye had overlooked, his most watchful art had not succeeded in covering, and then calmly to tear it from top to bottom like some worn-out rag! + 

He had hardly entered the dining-room, where a place had been laid for him at one corner of the large table, before he gave free vent to the fury which had nearly choked him. He stamped, he swore, he tore his beard, like a madman, thought François, who handed him his soup as calmly as if monsieur’s wild gestures had been a gymnastic exercise which every gentleman was in the habit of practising before sitting down to dinner after a fatiguing journey and a long drive. + 

“Why don’t you speak?” shrieked Giraldi. + 

“I am waiting for monsieur’s permission.” + 

“Speak, then!” + 

“I have written all my observations to monsieur with such minuteness⁠—” + 

“You have written nothing that was worth reading! You did not write me one word about the intimacy that has sprung up between madame and her niece, and which you must have seen if you had eyes in your head. You are either a fool or a traitor.” + 

“I am unfortunate⁠—” + 

“Don’t let me hear any of your confounded long words! I have no time for them. What else do you know?” + 

“Besides what I told monsieur on his arrival, I know absolutely nothing of importance. Ah! by the by, I had almost forgotten that!” + 

François slapped his forehead suddenly. He had not forgotten it for a moment; he had been considering all the time that monsieur was in the drawing-room with Frau von Wallbach, whether he should say it or not. He could not speak without betraying madame as he had betrayed monsieur, but for what purpose take money from both if not to betray both? So far everything had gone on well; all he had to consider was that each step to right or left should be well paid; and if he were not greatly deceived, now was the moment to take another step on monsieur’s side. + 

“Will you speak?” cried Giraldi, shaking his fist at him. + 

“I have forgotten it after all,” said François, looking with impudent coolness into Giraldi’s face, that was white with passion. + 

Giraldi dropped his arms, + 

“How much?” he ejaculated. + 

“I cannot do it cheaply, monsieur. The matter, in case I can recollect it, is one of the utmost importance for monsieur, and as madame has been lately so extraordinarily kind to me, and has given me, through Madame Feldner, so many sterling proofs of her kindness, and monsieur will of course not trust me in future, but this will undoubtedly be the last service which I shall render monsieur⁠—” + 

“How much!” shrieked Giraldi. + 

“Ten thousand francs, monsieur.” + 

Giraldi pulled out a pocketbook from which he took a handful of banknotes, and threw them on the table. + 

“Count them!” + 

“There are three thousand thalers, monsieur.” + 

“Take them and speak!” + 

François smoothed the notes carefully, put them no less carefully into one side of his pocketbook, and said, as he took a paper from the other side: + 

“Monsieur’s generosity is adorable, as usual. I should be most deeply ashamed if I were not convinced that monsieur would take this as a fully sufficient equivalent.” + 

And, with a low bow, he handed Giraldi the paper⁠—a copy of Elsa’s telegram to her father. + 

François had hoped that the terror which must now be painted on monsieur’s expressive face would produce an interesting variety in the scene; but he flattered himself in vain. Monsieur, who had been trembling all over with rage and fury, and who had gesticulated and raved like a madman, now stood, after glancing in his own rapid fashion over the paper, looking as calm and composed as François had ever yet seen him; and asked, in his usual low inquiring voice: + 

“When and where was this sent out?” + 

“This morning, at five o’clock, from Prora, by a man on horseback, whom I sent myself, after I had taken a copy of the open note.” + 

“Then your news is not worth a farthing. The telegraphic communication between Berlin and Sundin has been interrupted since four o’clock this morning.” + 

“Just so, monsieur. That was what the clerk said who received the telegram, after he had inquired at Sundin and received the answer that he might telegraph through Grünwald; there might be some chance there. Inquiry made at Grünwald. Reply, ‘Yes, and on through Stettin.’ The messenger, an old trustworthy servant, one of the late Herr von Warnow’s, monsieur, took note of everything, and reported it all to mademoiselle in my presence, adding that according to the clerk’s report the telegram would reach Berlin rather late, but certainly in the course of the morning.” + 

“In your presence, do you say? How came that?” + 

François shrugged his shoulders. + 

“Mademoiselle knows how to appreciate my knowledge in such matters⁠—an old courier, monsieur! To speak the truth, I had myself given the messenger the necessary instructions.” + 

“Why were you not sent?” + 

François smiled. + 

“The night was very stormy, monsieur; I am not fond of roughing it. I said I could not ride, and did not know the way.” + 

“But you can ride, and you know the way to Wissow?” + 

François bowed. + 

“How far is it, to ride?” + 

“If one rides fast, one may do it in half an hour.” + 

“Even through the storm?” + 

“I think so, monsieur.” + 

“And how long would the ladies be, driving?” + 

“Like the rider, they must take the longest road over the hill and through the villages, monsieur; that could not take less than an hour, monsieur.” + 

Giraldi had taken out his watch and was making a calculation. He put back the watch. + 

“It is just twenty minutes past four. You must be ready in ten minutes, at latest, to take a letter from me to madame at Wissow.” + 

“Impossible, monsieur; even this morning, at eleven o’clock, Frau von Wallbach, who was bent upon going away, could not get horses; nobody will supply them, monsieur.” + 

“There are the horses which brought me.” + 

“Impossible, monsieur; I saw them, and they are quite exhausted. It must be a good, fresh horse, monsieur, a riding horse. There are none such in the stable.” + 

“You can find one if I give you another thousand thalers in case madame is back at the castle before six o’clock.” + 

“Two thousand, monsieur.” + 

“Good. And now, paper and ink⁠—quick!” + 

François brought the required materials in a moment from the next room, and Giraldi was already writing at the table beside his untouched dinner, when François left the dining-room to prepare to earn the second sum, if possible, of which he had serious doubts. + 

Giraldi wrote: + 

“Your drive to Wissow is a subterfuge or a flight. I forgive your vacillation, even your desertion, which can only be a passing error, for the sake of the love which you bear me, and which I bear you. And if your love is extinct (mine is not!) the accompanying letter, which I copy for you (the original, which I cannot trust to the messenger, I retain in my own hands), will awake new flames from the ashes, as he has awoke to life for us, in whose death I could never believe. And as my faith was the stronger, so am I in all things stronger, and would make unrestrained and pitiless use of that strength, no longer for myself, but for our son. You know me, Valerie! As the clock strikes six, I leave the castle forever, with the Warnow property, which I carry about me to the last thaler, and which now belongs to mother and son, or to the son alone if it should appear that he has no mother. But it cannot, it will not be. I implore to this end the most holy, the sorrow-laden Mother of God. She who bore all the pangs of maternity will guide a mother’s heart! + 

He took a letter from his pocket, which he had received last night when he got home from Philip’s party, and had first found time to read in the waiting-room at the railway station, and wrote, with a hand that flew like lightning over the paper: + 

“With failing hands, and eyes darkened by the shadow of death, I write this: Antonio Michele is your son. A very aged woman in Arsoli, who has been known since she suddenly appeared in this place, seven and twenty years ago, under the name of Antonia Falcone, but whose real name is Barbara Cecutti, and who was the mother of that Lazzaro who carried off your child from Pœstum, confessed this to me yesterday on her deathbed. She was found by the woman Michele in a ravine of the hills above Tivoli, on the verge of starvation, the stolen child beside her almost at the last gasp too, the wounded Lazzaro having breathed his last an hour before, during their flight. The woman Michele took pity upon these unfortunate creatures; the two women swore, on the Host, the one never to say that she had received the child from Barbara, and the other that she had given him to the Michele, so that Barbara might wear out the end of her life undisturbed by the police, and that Father Michele might make no inquiries after the parents of the child, whom his wife pretended to have found on the hills, exposed, like Moses on the shores of the Nile, by a poor girl whom she knew well, but whose name she would not mention. She had never had any children herself, though she had longed for them, and would not part with this one at any price. She carried her secret with her to the grave. Barbara Cecutti also is now no more; and you, my dear sir, receive this legacy from the dead at the hand of a dying man. The ways of God are wonderful! Let us praise His mercies! Amen! + 

“Dear Sir, + 

“From the hand of a dying man, indeed! Our good brother Ambrosio⁠—but just returned from his charitable mission⁠—has this night departed, let us hope, into eternal blessedness, as no purgatory can be needed for him who was a saint on earth, I send you his bequest, and beg you to transfer to my poor convent the expression of your gratitude for the happy tidings which the grace of God has permitted you to receive by means of our brother who is now with Him. + 

Giraldi had just written the last word as the door flew open, admitting François, who wore a long cloak, below which appeared a pair of riding-boots. As he entered he exclaimed: + 

“Really, monsieur, I am ashamed to have doubted for an instant the luck of such a man! As I went into the courtyard, the Count’s groom galloped in, who had been sent back to fetch a pocket-handkerchief which mademoiselle had forgotten! If it had only been an umbrella! In fact, monsieur, they wanted to get rid of the man; we shall hear nothing of either of them before tomorrow morning, you may take my word for it. I know the style of thing! I explained this to the man after a fashion, and he will let me have his horse. He says that neither man nor devil shall drive him out into this storm again.” + 

“You must remain in my service, François,” said Giraldi, laying his hand on the impudent fellow’s shoulder. “And now⁠—don’t spare the horse.” + 

“Monsieur may depend upon me!” answered François, putting the letter in safety. “Au revoir, monsieur!” + 

François hastened away, and Giraldi went to the deep bow-window which overlooked the courtyard, and watched while he mounted the handsome beast, whose bridle the groom was holding, and, waving his hand towards the window, galloped out of the yard. + 

Giraldi went back to the table and broke off a piece of bread, which he washed down with the glass of wine that François had poured out for him. Then he began slowly to walk up and down the great room with his arms folded across his chest. + 

How could he have allowed himself to be so carried away by his passion just now? What had happened for which he might not have been prepared⁠—for which, in fact, he had not been long prepared? The weather was to blame for the disturbance of his nerves⁠—weather only fit for northern barbarians and those in league with them! It could only have been some unfriendly demon which in the morning twilight had driven the little steamer, that was to have brought him over to the island from Sundin, against a rudderless drifting wreck, and so had forced it to turn back; an unfriendly demon who forbade the rude sailors to take his money and to venture the passage in an open boat, till at last, at half-past eleven, the steamer was repaired, and then took an hour to do the distance⁠—half a nautical mile! Fiend against fiend! Gregorio Giraldi was the stronger. If the telegram had really reached the General at Berlin in proper time⁠—if he left Berlin by the eleven o’clock train, he could not be at Sundin before three o’clock, or at Warnow before six. An hour! Kingdoms had been lost and won in an hour; and everything, everything else was on his side: Ottomar irretrievably entangled in the net which he had cast over him, and already at deadly feud with Wallbach, whose giddy sister was now in love with the Count, to say nothing else! the proud Elsa betrothed to a man of low degree, paying for her love with her inheritance!⁠—the course clear from all obstacles, and at its goal the rich treasures, the great estates, which now fell to Valerie by law, and which she must leave absolutely to her own son, who had risen from the dead⁠—that is to say, she must leave them to himself! Could she choose to do otherwise? Did any choice remain to her? Must she not submit whether she would or no? And if she wavered⁠—one minute only alone with him⁠—here in this room, in which so often they had in fancy stood together, which she had so minutely described to him that he knew every piece of furniture, every picture on the wall⁠—this especially, the portrait of the man from whose arms he had scornfully torn her, that some day his picture might hang here⁠—the portrait of the new lord, who would pull down this barbaric edifice and build a new castle⁠—the new lord! + 

He stood before the picture, and looked at it with an evil smile. + 

“You were the last of your race, with your narrow forehead and the broad ribbon of some high order over your cold heart! and now you are mouldering in the tomb of your ancestors! And he, whom in life you could not vie with, stands still alive here, in his undiminished strength⁠—the peasant’s son, who will now be the founder of a race of princes for whom even the chair of St. Peter shall not be too high!” + 

A shock like that of an earthquake struck the castle. The windows rattled, the doors flew open and banged to again. The picture, to which he was looking up, and which had hung from its rusty nail for a generation past, shook and fell, so that the mouldered frame broke into fragments, and the picture itself, after standing upright for a moment, fell forward under his feet. + 

He sprang back. + 

“Do you still move, accursed dust? Down into hell to his accursed soul!” + 

And, as if in answer to the master’s voice, from the depths of hell to which he had called, howls and yells resounded round Castle Warnow. + 

VIII + 

They looked back after the groom as he galloped back to the castle. + 

“Carla!” said the Count. + 

He had brought his horse close up to hers; she bent towards him, and he put his right arm round her slender form and kissed her again and again on lips and cheek. + 

“Bad man!” said Carla. + 

He hastily put up his hand to remove the veil which the wind was blowing between their faces, and in so doing pulled off her hat. + 

“Axel, do be sensible!” + 

She dropped the reins on her horse’s neck and tied her veil round her hat. + 

“Sensible!” cried the Count; “when I am really alone for the first time with the prettiest girl in all the world!” + 

“You are too bad,” said she. She put on her hat again and secured it; he tried to renew the charming game. “You shall not have another kiss!” cried she, touching her horse with the whip and starting forward. + 

He soon overtook her, and for a short time they galloped on side by side, lost in each other, eye meeting eye, and often hand touching hand, unheeding the road till both horses suddenly stood still. + 

“Hallo!” cried the Count. The horses would go no farther; they had long been hardly able to lift their feet out of the swampy ground in which they had now sunk above the fetlock. They were frightened, and tried to turn back. “Pooh!” said the Count; “we know all about that! Wallach has carried me over much worse roads than this; and your horse is much lighter made.” + 

“Come along!” cried Carla. + 

They urged their horses on; the terrified brutes flew over the uncertain ground, through pools of water, over a wooden bridge, through water again, till the rising ground grew firmer under their feet. + 

“We have come across,” said the Count laughing, “but how we are to get back I do not know. We shall have to stay together for good, I believe. Would that please you, my dear girl?” + 

They were riding now at a foot’s pace to breathe their horses over the higher ground between the brook, which they had just dashed through, and Wissow Head, at the foot of which ran the long line of the railway embankment towards Ahlbeck. The gale was right in their teeth now, so that they felt its full power; and the panting horses were forced to lean forward as if they had a heavy weight behind them, while their riders let the reins hang loosely, not sorry to have their hands at liberty. + 

“I would pass an eternity with you!” said Carla, as her glowing cheek almost touched his; “but I must be back in an hour.” + 

“Then, by Jove, we should have to turn back at once; I assure you we cannot get through that brook again; I can hardly see the bridge now, though it is only two minutes since we passed it! it is extraordinary! We shall have to go round by Gristow and Damerow.” He pointed with the end of his whip back towards the chain of hills. “It is a terribly long round.” + 

“Louisa was so disagreeable.” + 

“Let her be!” + 

“She will say such horrid things of us to Edward!” + 

“Let her!” + 

“You will have a dreadful scene with Edward!” + 

“So long as I have you⁠—” + 

“And when you have me⁠—” + 

“Carla!” + 

“Hush! Swear to me that when we get back you will declare our engagement in the presence of the Baroness, of Elsa, and of Signor Giraldi, and that this day month we shall be man and wife!” + 

“Does it need an oath?” + 

“I will have an oath.” + 

She caught his hand and pressed it to her bosom. + 

“What shall I swear by? by this little hand? by that fair form? by your own sweet self, which I could devour for love?” + 

“By your honour!” + 

The voice had no longer its former coaxing tone⁠—the words came with an effort, as if the raging storm oppressed her. + 

And his answer, too, came hesitatingly and forced: “Upon my honour!” + 

His eyes, which before had been raised full of passion towards her, avoided hers; she drew her hand hastily out of his, turned her horse sharply round, and galloped away. + 

The movement had been so sudden that it was not possible for him to have prevented it. But now he even held back his horse, which had also turned and wished to follow its companion. + 

“Shall I let her go?” + 

That was his first thought, followed by a stream of others: an unavoidable duel with Ottomar, his own desperate financial position, which would hardly be improved by Carla’s hundred thousand thalers; the recollection of a cousin in Silesia, who would have brought him a dowry of a million, and a marriage with whom had been proposed to him the other day most unexpectedly⁠—he had been for years at daggers drawn with that branch of the family. And then she who was riding away really did not suit him at all; he was merely in love with her, and had never contemplated marriage. + 

The spirited horse, already startled by the storm, and seeing its companion disappearing in the distance, reared high, and as its rider forced it down, darted forward like an arrow. The Count could not perhaps at this moment have held it in, but he did not wish to do so; he dug in his spurs, and in a few seconds⁠—his hesitation had been only momentary⁠—had overtaken Carla. + 

“Carla, Carla!” + 

“Go! You do not love me!” + 

He spurred forward so that he could catch the bridle of her horse, then turned and so stopped them both. + 

“You shall not escape me so!” + 

She looked at him almost with hatred. + 

“But, Carla, this is madness!” + 

“I am mad,” murmured she. + 

“And I am⁠—madly in love with you. But what matter?” + 

His beautiful white teeth glittered as, putting his arm round her, he laughingly exclaimed: “Will you come with me now?” + 

“With you? Take me! Take me! I am yours, yours!” + 

“You foolish darling!” + 

He pressed kiss after kiss upon her burning lips, then gave back the bridle into her hand, and both turning their horses suddenly round, they rode on side by side in the teeth of the gale⁠—as his horse was the stronger and faster he could do as he pleased⁠—along the gradually sinking ground beside the railway embankment down to Ahlbeck. + 

They did not speak another word; there was no need. + 

In Ahlbeck, not far from the beach, stood an inn, which for some years had provided decent entertainment for the summer guests who could not find accommodation at the more important places along the coast, or who were attracted by the quietness and cheapness of the place; and during the last autumn, by the suggestion and greatly assisted by the money of the Count, the little inn had been turned into a fashionable hotel. It was kept by a young widow⁠—a protégée of the Count’s. In the upper story of the house were two rooms, often used by the Count as night quarters when he had stayed out shooting too late to get back to Golm or Golmberg. If the lady and gentleman chose to have these rooms no one would trouble themselves about it, least of all the landlady, who would have quite enough to do with the other guests, the two engineers who were superintending the Railway and Harbour works, the ship’s captains and revenue officers, and anyone else who might be crowding the public rooms as usual on such a day. And if, after waiting in vain for the groom, he appeared at last, having missed them as they returned home, he might just ride quietly back to Castle Warnow. + 

Immediately before reaching Ahlbeck the road, which till then had led them over the open ground, suddenly narrowed between two dunes, advanced posts of the chain of sandhills along the shore, which formed a sort of doorway, through which, on fine days, might be seen a wonderful view of the village running down to the beach; and beyond the village the beach itself, always covered with boats; and beyond again, the boundless ocean. They had gained this spot by the utmost exertion of their horses, when the panting brutes suddenly fell back, and they themselves, accomplished riders as both were, were nearly flung from their saddles. The force of the storm had closed the space between the two hills as if with iron gates. + 

“Let us turn back!” said Carla. + 

The Count did not answer at once; he saw the details of what, to the shortsighted Carla, was only confused mist; the upper part of the village lying nearest to them was half destroyed by the storm, so that hardly a house retained its whole roof, while in the lower part only here and there a house, amongst others the inn and the two great sheds for smoking the herrings, appeared out of a cloud, which at first the Count could not make out at all. It could not possibly be the foam and froth of the storm-beaten surf? If this were the surf, where were the houses which had stood there in a long line close to the beach? Where were the hundred and fifty Ahlbeck fishing smacks which had come in yesterday on account of the storm? Where the six boats laden with cut stone from Sundin which had anchored yesterday evening at the breakwater? Where the two breakwaters themselves, which had been begun last autumn and during the mild, calm winter and the unusually low tides had been almost finished? Where, above all, the million of thalers which had been also almost entirely spent in the building? Could that infernal Superintendent of Pilots, who was always coming across his path, have been right here after all? That fellow who, at this moment, perhaps, was embracing Elsa as his betrothed, whilst he⁠— + 

“Over it if we cannot get through it!” cried he, spurring his horse up the hill to the right, while between his teeth he muttered: “I will get something out of the business at any rate.” + 

Carla had followed him. + 

From above, however, the view was not much more reassuring; it was indeed so fearful that the Count himself, as they forced their horses step by step through the broken bushes, doubted whether they had not better turn back. And what seemed to him even more ominous than the raging sea, was the crowd of people which his keen eyes could distinguish swarming down below, and as he now perceived hastening in small parties up the ridge of Wissow Head, at the foot of which stood a part of the village. They might be the people who lived nearest to the beach, the navvies, perhaps, who had run up their temporary huts on the level sand. What did it matter to him? Let them help themselves as best they might. The tide had certainly not reached the inn, and that was the principal point. He had carried off Carla from her sister-in-law’s guardianship at the castle, under the pretext of showing her the full effect of the storm; it would certainly be near enough to them from the inn windows. And should he carry out his purpose amidst all this tumult? It was madness. The maddest act of his whole life, perhaps, but it should be done! + 

They were riding again now on the narrow sandy road between the first outlying houses. The Count spurred forward. He was glad that the houses hid the view below; he wanted to draw Carla on, who had again several times anxiously inquired whether they had not better turn back. The rest might be managed; it might not perhaps be so bad as it had seemed to him from above; at any rate Carla had hardly seen anything, and was only alarmed at the roar of the surf, which had been bad enough certainly from the heights. + 

But what was that roar compared to the thunder which met them now, as they turned from the narrow way between the first low huts into the broad village street, at whose lower end stood the inn, and which led directly down to the sea. It seemed to the Count strangely short; and indeed the sea, which used to leave several hundred yards of smooth sand uncovered, now flung its waves far up the street. And that street was crowded with crying, shrieking, screaming women and children, and shouting and halloing men, flinging out their goods pell-mell from the houses, rushing back to fetch more, and strewing everything wildly over the ground before the gale brought their houses down about their ears. + 

“Make way there, make way!” called the Count imperiously. + 

He did not feel particularly comfortable in this crowd, in which more than one person glared angrily at him, and hardly moved out of the way of the horses. It sounded like a curse, too, which the woman called after him, whom by accident⁠—why did she not get out of the way?⁠—he had knocked down, and who now in the door of her cottage shook both her fists at him, and then pointing her finger at him called to her neighbours; but the raging storm swallowed up the single human voice. + 

The Count could not even understand half of what the young engineer called to him, who had suddenly⁠—he could not see whence⁠—rushed up to him, as he persistently pointed down below: + 

“Breakwater⁠—tremendous breakers⁠—boats wrecked⁠—people furious⁠—get back⁠—happen⁠—” + 

“What should happen to me?” screamed back the Count in answer. + 

“Mischief⁠—the lady too⁠—unpardonable of you⁠—too late!” + 

The young man pointed no longer below, but in the direction from which they had come. + 

The Count, startled more by the look of terror in the young man’s face than by the warning itself, turned in his saddle, and at the same moment set spurs to his horse. He had seen a crowd of men and women⁠—foremost the one who had just threatened him⁠—rushing down the street, brandishing sticks, cudgels, and knives. + 

His first thought had been to take refuge in the inn, which must afford him shelter till he could speak a few words to the people, perhaps from the window⁠—fear had evidently driven them wild. And with this purpose, dashing on before Carla, he had almost gained the little open space in front of the inn, when he suddenly discovered that he was only going from bad to worse. + 

In the middle of the square, lying on its side, the keel turned towards him, lay one of the Sundin boats, which some huge wave must have flung up here, and around the stranded vessel, with the surf at their feet, whose storm-beaten foam was blowing in clouds of spray over them, were dancing and raging⁠—as only madmen or men who had drunk to madness could have raved⁠—a crowd of navvies and sailors who had taken possession of all the provisions the inn could give them, before the approaching flood engulfed everything. + 

The idea flashed through the Count’s head that it was his duty, if any man’s, to interpose here, and at least to attempt by his authority to avert the terrible evils that must be brought upon the unhappy village by these madmen, but he had already repeatedly had the most violent scenes with these ruffians, who were always increasing their demands; he would be torn to pieces if the men who were now pursuing him, urged on by that miserable woman, should join these. + 

All this passed like lightning through his bewildered brain, but he never thought of Carla for a moment; he was even astonished when, having turned aside from the main street, and dashing at a venture down a side lane to the left, he found himself galloping along the meadows behind the dunes, he suddenly saw Carla again at his side. + 

“That was done in the nick of time!” cried he; “those scoundrels would have murdered us.” + 

Carla answered not a word. Notwithstanding her extremely short sight, she had been able to form a tolerably correct idea of the danger they had escaped; she knew from the gestures and shouts of the people she had dashed past that it was a matter of life and death to escape them, and she knew also that the man at whose side she now rode had deserted her at the critical moment, and that she had to thank only the speed of her horse and her own powers of riding for her life. Would Ottomar have dashed forward in such a way, careless whether she succeeded in following him or not; whether she escaped from the narrow lanes and little gardens, to do which she had at last been forced to leap a hedge, amidst the shower of stones and sticks which were hurled after her? “He is a coward,” her heart whispered to her; “he only cares for himself; I should only have been his victim.” + 

“This is a bad business,” thought the Count. “She is affronted of course, though after all, anybody else would have done the same in my place.⁠—You don’t know how those fellows detest me!” + 

He spoke the last words aloud, by way of saying something at any rate. + 

Carla answered not a word. + 

“An infernal business,” thought the Count, relapsing into silence. + 

So they galloped on, side by side, through the sand, which the unceasing rain had fortunately somewhat hardened, along the inner edge of the dunes, which were now the only barrier between them and the sea, which thundered and roared on the other side, often tossing up the broken edges of its waves high enough to shower down upon them in torrents, Fortunately the wooden bridge still stood over the brook which ran into the sea close by Ahlbeck, through a sharp cut in the dunes; the brook even had not overspread its banks so much here as above, where the lower ground offered no opposition to the water; but the Count thought with a shudder of what might happen when they got to the Pölitz farm, on the edge of the broad hollow which extended to the sea almost entirely unprotected by the dunes. Behind the farm, towards Golmberg, was a still broader and deeper hollow, but he did not trouble himself about that. If once they reached the farm, which itself stood on higher ground, they would find a road leading from it along the back of the hills straight to Warnow. The Count knew the ground well, he had ridden over it fifty times while hunting. + 

And now they came to the first hollow. On the right, where the hills opened out, was a wall of surf, whose crest threatened at any moment to topple over. More than one wave must have broken through already, which had left smaller and larger pools in the lowest parts of the ground; evidently not a moment was to be lost. But the Count saw that the passage might be ventured, which was fortunate, as in any case it must be tried. + 

“Follow me boldly, Carla!” he cried, as he again rode forward. + 

Carla answered not a syllable. + 

“It is all over between us,” said the Count to himself; “she will never forgive me as long as she lives.” + 

They rode on quickly, and had already reached the middle of the hollow, when the Count saw to his horror that the wall of surf, which had stood in the opening of the dunes, was in movement and seemed to be advancing towards them. For one moment he thought it was a delusion of his excited imagination, but only for a moment. + 

“On! for heaven’s sake, on!” he cried, urging his exhausted horse to its utmost speed with whip and spur. He did not look round, he dared not look behind him; he knew from the fearful roar that the wave had flung itself far inland⁠—behind him! + 

The panting horse staggered up the slope⁠—saved! + 

He had no need to pull his horse up; it stopped of itself. Carla stopped by his side. How had she got through? He could not tell, and took care not to ask. + 

And now he looked back. + 

For a hundred yards at least of the hollow they had crossed, a single stream now carried its dark waters foaming and roaring far inland. The Count saw it with a shudder; there could hardly be a question that the same wave must have broken through above also, on the other side of the Pölitz’s farm, and then in all probability the waters would have united behind the farm. If this were the case, only two places of refuge remained⁠—the farm itself, or the lofty dune⁠—called the White Dune⁠—between the two hollows. The dune stood higher, but was farther off, and it was doubtful whether they could reach it as lower fields lay between it and the farm; besides, what would become of them up there? + 

“We will go to the farm,” said he, “if it were only to give the horses a rest in some sort of shelter; they can’t get on any farther.” + 

He rode slowly on in front, Carla followed. Her silence made him furious. + 

“Little fool!” he muttered between his teeth; “at the very moment when I am risking my life for her! And now to go to Pölitz⁠—after the scene we had yesterday!⁠—a pretty wind up to the whole affair⁠—possibly to spend the whole night there!⁠—I thought so!” + 

He had reached the highest point behind the farm garden, and for the first time could see beyond; the whole immense space between the farm and the Golmberg was one sea of wild waves! The sea must have broken through here even earlier. + 

He could see now too how the stream behind him had joined on the left with the sea before him. There was no communication possible now between this place and Warnow; they were on a long, narrow island, one end of which was lost in the waters towards Warnow, and whose highest point was the White Dune, though it was probably divided again between the farm and the hill. + 

The Count did not consider the position to be absolutely dangerous, but it was confoundedly disagreeable; and all on account of this mute, perverse young lady, who apparently honoured him with her hatred as thanks for all that he had done for her! + 

The Count was in a desperate frame of mind, as they now turned the corner of the outhouses towards the entrance to the farmyard. A man, whose rough hair was being blown wildly about his head by the wind, was vainly exerting his giant strength to shut the great wooden gate, the left half of which⁠—the right was already bolted⁠—was fixed to the wall as if by iron clamps by the force of the gale. + 

“I will help you, Pölitz!” called the County “only let us through first!” + 

The farmer, who had not heard them coming, let go the door which he had just freed, and sprang into the gateway, where he stood with his gigantic form in his torn clothes, his dishevelled hair, his face convulsed with despair and now with furious anger, and his bleeding hand clenched⁠—a terrible vision to the Count’s guilty conscience. + 

“Come, be reasonable, Pölitz!” he cried. + 

“Back!” cried the farmer, catching hold of the horse’s bridle. “Back! we will die alone! Back with your mistress! I have got one of yours already here!” + 

The man had thrust back the horse with such violence that it almost fell. The Count pulled it up by a tremendous effort, so that it sprang forward. Pölitz started back to seize the pickaxe with which he had been working, and which lay behind him on the wall of the outhouse. At the same moment the unfastened half of the door was shut between him and those outside with such appalling violence, that the whole door was shattered as if it had been made of glass, and as its splinters fell, the beams of the falling roof of the barn crashed down just in front of the horses, who started back in mad terror, and turning short round, dashed across a fallow-field to the pollarded willows which used to stand at the edge of the common, but behind which now eddied the turbid waters of the invading flood; then turning off to the right, led by their instinct, they followed the field to the dune which rose in dusky whiteness before them. To have guided them would have been impossible, even if the terrified riders could have thought of such a thing. They were carried as if by the storm itself to the foot of the hill. The panting horses climbed and climbed, and pressed deeper into the sand, which gave way under their hoofs and rolled down into the stream, which rushed from one hollow to the other where a moment before had lain the fallow field between hill and farm. + 

Carla’s horse fell. The Count urged his on a few paces farther, and threw himself from the saddle at the instant when the animal under him fell like a lifeless thing⁠—perhaps really lifeless⁠—into the depths below. With hands and feet he worked his way up, up! cursing his ill luck that had led him to the steepest part, and yet not daring to turn farther to the left, since here at least there was grass and scrub to cling to, while there the smooth sand offered no hold. Drops of anguish trickled from his brow into his eyes⁠—he could see nothing more, could only hear the roaring of the sea as it broke on the other side of the hill, as a confused ringing in his ears. He gained the summit and staggered forward, as his groping hands found no resistance, gathered himself up again, and looked wildly round him. + 

There, not far from him, lay a dark object. + 

Was it Carla? How came she here? Dead? + 

The dark object moved. He tottered forward to her side. + 

“Carla!” + 

She raised herself to her knees and stared fixedly at him, as he bent down to lift her up. + 

But hardly had his hand touched her, than she started up and away from him. + 

“Wretch!” she shrieked, “I too will die alone! Back to your other mistress! You have one already at the farm!” + 

She laughed wildly, and the wind, which had carried away her hat, blew her long hair about her, some locks crossing her deadly-white face, distorted now to a ghastly smile. + 

“She is mad!” muttered the Count, drawing back as far as he could. He could have wished it had been farther. They were on a miserably small strip of ground, which in the centre was shaped like a trough, with sides which yesterday had been at least five feet high, with sharp clear edges, and which the storm had already reduced to two or three feet of smooth surface. How long would it be before the last hand’s breadth of sand remaining would be blown into the trough, and they would be left without the smallest shelter, even supposing that the flood did not rise above the summit? + 

And should neither of these things happen⁠—should this point remain unsubmerged⁠—the Count shuddered again and again. How could poor human nature endure it all⁠—the driving storm, the torrents of spray which were unceasingly flung up over the hill, the long long night which now began to close in? Already his keen eyes could only just distinguish through the grey mist the dim outlines of the Golmberg, which was hardly a mile off. Wissow Head had entirely disappeared; the farm itself, barely three hundred yards from him, seemed every moment to sink deeper in the water, which, as far as his eye could reach, covered fields and meadows far inland, perhaps even as far as Warnow, which only appeared at intervals out of the mist like a phantom castle. To the right, the thundering, raging, roaring sea, around him the surf creeping higher and higher up the dune, and here and there sending up columns of spray over the already covered line of hills. And there⁠—now seeming so close to him that he drew back in terror, and in the next moment so far off that she might have been on the Golmberg⁠—the dark, motionless figure of the woman whose lips had clung to his only an hour before⁠—no, no! no living, loved woman, but a spectre risen from depths of horror, and sitting there, crouched together, immovable, only to drive him mad! + 

And the wretched man cried aloud in his agony, and clasped his hands before his face and sobbed and whimpered like a child. + 

IX + 

“It is half-past four,” said Elsa, “we must go.” + 

“You might remain here.” + 

“I am not sure whether my father will have arrived yet; indeed, supposing he came by the midday train, he could not be at Warnow yet; but that terrible man is certainly there, expecting you, and perhaps may go away again without waiting for you⁠—” + 

“I must speak to him,” murmured Valerie. + 

“And you must not speak to him alone; I will not allow it; and so we must go.” + 

“Without taking with us any comfort for you, my poor child!” + 

“I am comforted, I am quite calm; you can surely perceive that by my voice and manner.” And Elsa bent down and kissed her aunt’s pale lips. + 

They were sitting at the window of Reinhold’s study, on the right hand as you entered the one-storied house, which was imposing compared with its neighbours, which were still smaller. + 

Elsa had entered almost all of them; the houses of the two chief pilots, and some of those amongst which the four and twenty other pilots were distributed; that of the chief revenue officer, who shared his house with his subordinate; and she would have gone into the other pilots’ houses and the fishermen’s huts, of which there might be perhaps a dozen, only that it was not necessary, as the people were all standing at their doors wherever she passed, and stretching out their hands to her⁠—the rough, hairy hands of two or three invalided old sailors who crept out from the warm chimney-corners; powerful sunburnt hands from strong, sunburnt women; hard little hands from ruddy, flaxen-haired children, who looked up curiously with their blue eyes to the beautiful strange lady, and could not believe what their mothers told them, that she was no princess, but the Captain’s betrothed, who was coming to live here always, and was so pleased with everything! And the Captain would come back, the women all said, though the storm was very high⁠—the worst that Clas Rickmann remembered, and he was ninety-two years old, and so might be allowed to know something about it! The Captain knew what he was about, and he had got six men with him who knew what they were about; and last time they had been out three times in the new lifeboat without being upset once, and it was not likely to upset now, especially when his own sweetheart had come here to receive him when he returned. + 

So spoke all the women, in almost identical words, as if they had settled them together beforehand; and then they all had something pleasant to say about the Captain, who was even better than the last Superintendent, though he had been a good man too; and here again they all said pretty nearly the same thing, almost in the same words, with the same hearty expression and the same monotonous voices; but Elsa could have willingly heard it all repeated a thousand times, and thanked each one separately as if she heard it for the first time, and as if it were an announcement from heaven. + 

And then quite a crowd of women and girls accompanied her, with a still greater crowd of children running beside and after them, to the spot nearly at the end of the peninsula, where, on a high dune, signal-posts and beacons were erected, and behind the dune which still afforded some shelter⁠—stood a close group of men in high seaboots and sou’westers, looking out over the raging sea, who, as the young lady came up to them, pulled off their hats, while Clas Janssen, as the eldest, took upon himself to be spokesman, and to tell the young lady all about it; and all bent their heads eagerly to listen, and nodded, and when they turned away to spit, took great care to do it to leeward. + 

Then Clas Janssen related that this morning, as soon as it was light, a vessel, which was now at anchor round there in the bay, had come in and brought word that close to the Grünwald Oie a ship had run aground, and was flying signals of distress. There was so much surf at the spot, that only the mast was altogether visible, and the stern occasionally, and they had seen men clinging to the yards. The vessel⁠—a small Dutch schooner⁠—seemed well built, and might hold out for another hour or two, as it was on smooth sand, if only the heavy sea did not wash off the crew. From the Oie no one could get at them; an ordinary boat would be swamped at once by the waves. Half an hour later the lifeboat had been launched, with the Captain on board, and for three hours they had kept it in sight, as it worked against the wind, and had seen it at last in the surf near the Oie; but the sea was too high there, and the weather very thick, and so they had lost sight of it, even from the lookout above, and with the most powerful glass, and could not tell whether the Captain had got on board; anyway, it must be a tough job, as it had taken him so long; but the Captain would be sure to pull through. And now if the young lady would go in and let Frau Rickmann make her a cup of tea, they would bring her word when the boat came in sight; and as for their coming back again, she might make herself quite easy⁠—the Captain knew what he was about, and the six men who were with him knew what they were about. + 

Elsa had smiled, not because the man had repeated again in the same words what the women had said to her, but because this confirmation from the mouth of an experienced man brought sweet peace to her heart; and she had shaken the man’s rough hand and the hands of the other men, and had gone back to the houses with her escort of women and children; and while she talked to them⁠—the storm blowing away half their words⁠—she had always repeated to herself, “He knows what he is about, and the six men who are with him know what they are about!” half as a prayer which she durst not utter with her lips, half as a song of joy which she was ashamed to sing aloud. + 

Then she had gone to his house, which was soon to be hers; had drunk tea with her aunt, and had made her lie down to rest⁠—for she was quite exhausted⁠—in a small room, where as little as possible might be heard of the storm, and with a beating heart, like a child whose mother is leading it to the Christmas-tree, had gone over the whole house with Frau Rickmann, old Clas Rickmann’s elderly granddaughter, the childless widow of a pilot, who managed Reinhold’s house for him. It was a modest house, and modestly furnished; but she admired everything, as if she had been wandering through an enchanted palace. And how clean and tidy everything was! And how tasteful, when Frau Rickmann’s province of kitchen and storerooms was passed, and that of the Captain himself began! The furniture, as if she herself had been consulted in the choice of every article; the large writing-table, covered with books and carefully-arranged papers and pamphlets; and the handsome bookcase, with glass-doors, full of well-bound books, another case of mysterious nautical instruments, and a third with splendid shells, corals, and stuffed birds! Then Frau Rickmann opened the door of a little room which adjoined the study, and Elsa nearly exclaimed aloud: it was her own little room next to the drawing-room⁠—the same carpet, the same blue rep covering to the sofa, the same chairs, the same corner looking-glass with a gilt console! And it had only one window too; and in the window was a small armchair, and in front of the chair a little worktable⁠—all perfectly charming! And Elsa had to sit down in the chair because her knees shook under her, and to lean her head on the little table and shed a few joyful tears, and kiss the table for love of the man whose tender care seemed enfolding her here like a mantle, and who was now tossing about on the stormy sea which she could see from the window, and risking his precious life for the lives of others! + 

Meanwhile four o’clock had struck⁠—although it was already so dark that it might have been six⁠—and Frau Rickmann gave it as her opinion that it was high time to see about the Captain’s dinner, if the ladies really would have nothing but tea and cakes. She said it as quietly as if the Captain were only rather late in returning from a quiet row on smooth water, though the storm at that moment was raging more wildly than ever, and the little house was shaken to its foundations. + 

Aunt Valerie, who could not sleep, came out of her room in terror, to be assured by Frau Rickmann that there was no cause for alarm, as the house would stand a good shaking, and Wissow Head sheltered them from the worst; and as for the flood, they stood like the other houses, fifty feet above high-water mark, and they might wait some time before the tide came up there! + 

Therewith Frau Rickmann went into the kitchen, after again ushering the ladies into the Captain’s study; and here they now sat at the window, which also looked out to sea, each trying to turn her thoughts to that of which she knew the other’s heart was full, from time to time exchanging a loving word or a pressure of the hand, till Elsa, noticing the growing uneasiness on her aunt’s pale face, pressed for an immediate departure, if only on the ground that the darkness was gathering rapidly, and they could not possibly take the perilous journey back by night. + 

Frau Rickmann came in with her honest face glowing from the kitchen fire, and took her modest part in the deliberations. The ladies might as well wait another hour; it would not get darker now before sunset, and the Captain must come in now soon, if her dinner was not to be done to rags. + 

And Frau Rickmann had hardly spoken, when a finger knocked at the window, and a rough voice outside called: “Boat in sight!” + 

And then, it was in a bewildering, delicious dream, that Elsa ran down to the beach beside a man in high seaboots and a curious-looking hat, who, as they ran, told her a long story of which she understood not a word, and she reached the place where she had gone on her arrival under the shelter of the dunes, and then went up on to the dune, where the beacon was now glimmering through the evening mist, amongst a number of other men in high waterproof boots and odd hats, who pointed to the sea and then spoke to her, without her again understanding a single word, and one of whom hung a great pea-jacket over her shoulders and fastened it securely, without her asking him for it or even thanking him. Then suddenly she saw the boat, which she had been looking for persistently, heaven knows where in the misty air, quite close to her; and then she was in another place where the beach was flat and the surf did not roar so fearfully, and she saw the boat again, which seemed now twice as big as it had been before, and the whole keel was lifted out of the white foam and sunk again, and rose a second time, while some dozens of the men ran into the foam which closed over their heads in spray. And a man came up through the ebbing waves, in high boots and just such another odd hat, and she gave a cry of joy and rushed towards him and threw her arms round him, and he lifted her up and carried her a little way, till she could set her feet again upon the sand; and whether he carried her again, or whether they flew, or walked on side by side, she never knew, and only saw him really when he had changed his clothes and was sitting at his dinner-table, while she poured him out glass after glass of wine, and her aunt sat by smiling, and Frau Rickmann went in and out and brought in mutton chops with steaming-hot potatoes, and ham and eggs, and he, though he never turned his eyes from her, ate everything with the hunger of a man who had not tasted food since seven o’clock that morning. There had been no time for that; it had been a nasty bit of work getting to the stranded vessel, and still worse to take off the poor men through the surf; but it had been successful; they were all saved, the whole eight of them. They had to be put ashore at Grünwald then, which was another difficult job, and had kept them a long time; but it could not be helped, the poor fellows who had been clinging to the rigging all night were in such a deplorable condition, but they would be all right now. + 

Intoxicated with the bliss of that flower of happiness which they had plucked from the edge of the abyss, they remarked now for the first time that Aunt Valerie had left them. Elsa, who had no secrets from her Reinhold, explained to him in a few words the poor thing’s position, and that they had not now a moment to lose in starting on their disagreeable journey homewards. + 

“Not a moment!” cried Reinhold, rising; “I will give the necessary orders at once.” + 

“They have already been given,” said Valerie, who had heard the last words as she entered; “the carriage is at the door.” + 

The noise of the wheels had been inaudible in the deep sand to the happy lovers, as had been also the approach of the rider, whom Aunt Valerie had seen from the window, and to receive whom she had left the room. + 

He was there; he ordered her to come! She knew it before she opened the letter which François handed to her. She had read the letter⁠—in the little room to the left, standing at the open window, while François stood outside⁠—and then the enclosure; and as she read the letter she had laughed aloud, and torn the paper into fragments, and thrown the fragments scornfully from the window, out into the storm which in a moment whirled them away. + 

“Madame laughs,” said François, speaking French as he always did when he wished to be impressive; “but I can assure madame that it is no laughing matter, and that if madame is not back at the castle before six o’clock, something terrible will happen.” + 

“I will come.” + 

François bowed, swung himself into the saddle again, and⁠—to the breathless astonishment of the village children who had been attracted by the unusual spectacle of a horseman⁠—set spurs to his horse, and, with his head bowed almost to the saddle, dashed off, while Valerie begged Frau Rickmann to send for the carriage which had been put into the head pilot’s barn up in the village, and then with a heavy heart went to separate the happy pair. But if she made up her mind to a last meeting with her dreaded, hated tyrant, it was only for the sake of those she loved, and for whom in the threatening catastrophe she would save whatever might still be possible to save! It would not be much⁠—she knew his rapacity⁠—but enough perhaps to secure her Elsa’s future, to free poor Ottomar from his difficulties. And she smiled as she thought that even Elsa could believe she was thinking of herself in this matter, of her future!⁠—Good God! + 

Elsa was ready at once, and Reinhold would not detain her by word or look. He would have dearly liked to go with her, but that was not to be thought of. He must not leave his post now for a single hour; at any moment duty might call upon him again. + 

And before Elsa had got her cloak on a pilot came in to bring news of the boat which had gone out at two o’clock after the steamer that had been signalled from Wissow Head, asking for a pilot. They had got out to sea in ten minutes and round the Head in half an hour; but the steamer was no longer there, and must meanwhile have doubled the Golmberg and got out to sea, as they had seen for themselves when they had passed the Golmberg. On their way back⁠—about half-past four⁠—they had been alarmed at seeing so much surf on the dunes between the Head and the Golmberg, and had kept inshore as much as possible, to make out if the sea had broken through there as the Captain had foretold. They could not make quite certain at first, just on account of the heavy sea; but when they went in closer still, so as to be sure, Clas Lachmund first, and then all the rest too, had seen two people on the White Dune, one of whom looked like a woman and had not moved, but the other⁠—a man⁠—had made signs to them. They could not reach them, however, try as they would, and might think themselves lucky that they got off again even, for they had run aground close by the White Dune, and had seen then for certain that the sea had broken in⁠—north and south of the White Dune, and probably at other points too⁠—for they could see nothing but water far inland. How far they could not say; the weather was too hazy. They must be in a bad way at Ahlbeck too; but they had not gone nearer in there, for the people there, with Wissow Head hard by, could be in no danger of losing their lives; but the two people on the White Dune would be in a very bad case if they could not be brought off before night. + 

“Who can the unfortunate people be?” asked Valerie. + 

“Shipwrecked folk; what else could they be!” answered Reinhold. + 

“Goodbye, my Reinhold,” said Elsa; and then clinging to him, half laughing, half crying: “Take six more men with you who know what they are about!” + 

“And you will pledge me your word,” said Reinhold, “that the carriage shall not drive down from the village to the castle, if from the height above you cannot see the road absolutely clear through the hollow!” + 

The two ladies were gone, and Reinhold got ready for his second expedition. It was not exactly his duty, any more than the morning’s work had been; only none of the men⁠—not even the best of them⁠—quite knew how to handle the new lifeboat. + 

Those two people on the dune, however⁠—he had not liked to say so to Elsa⁠—but they could not be shipwrecked people, for any vessel that had gone ashore there would have been signalled long ago from Wissow Head. They could not well be from Pölitz’s farm either, though that was close by, for Frau Rickmann had told him when he went to change his clothes, that Pölitz had sent back word by the messenger he had despatched to him, that he would send little Ernst and his men with the livestock to Warnow; but he could not go away himself, neither could Marie, and still less his wife, who had been confined last night, of a boy. Things could not be so bad with them either. + 

But things were serious now⁠—very serious⁠—and even if the head pilot Bonsak had a little exaggerated, as he did sometimes in similar cases, there was danger any way; danger for poor Frau Pölitz, who was kept to the house by the most sacred of duties; greater danger still for the two of whom he asked to know nothing but that they were fellow-creatures who without him must perish. + 

X + 

The large room at the Warnow Inn, filled with the smoke of bad tobacco and the odour of stale beer and spirits, was crowded with the noisy wagoners who had arrived that morning, and who had been joined in the course of the afternoon by two or three drovers, who also thought it pleasanter to remain here. The landlord stood near, snuffing the tallow-candles and bawling even louder than his guests, for he must be the best judge whether a railway from Golm direct by Wissow Head to Ahlbeck, without passing by Warnow, were a folly or not. And the Count, who had ridden in that afternoon, would pull a long face when he saw what havoc had been made; but if a man wouldn’t hear reason anyhow, he must suffer for it. There were terrible doings at Ahlbeck, he heard, and murder and fighting too; it served the Ahlbeck people well right, they had been bragging enough lately about their railway station, and their harbour, and their fine hotels; they might draw in their horns again now! + 

The landlord was so loud and eager in his talk, that he never noticed his wife come in and take the keys of the best rooms upstairs from the board on the door, while the maid took the two brass candlesticks from the cupboard, into which she put candles, and then lighted them and ran after her mistress. He only turned round when someone touched him on the shoulder and asked where he could put up his horses, the ostler said there was no more room. + 

“No more there is,” said the landlord; “where do you come from?” + 

“From Neuenfähr; the gentlefolks I brought are upstairs now.” + 

“Who are they?” asked the landlord. “Don’t know; a young gentleman and a young lady; something out of the common I should think. I couldn’t drive quick enough for ’em; but how’s a man to drive fast in this weather? We came a foot’s pace. Two horses or one made no difference. A one-horse carriage that was behind us might easily have got ahead. It must have been a Warnow trap, it turned to the right as we came to the village.” + 

“Jochen Katzenow,” said the landlord, “was at Neuenfähr this morning; he’s got a devil of a horse! Well, come along; we’ll see what can be done; but I don’t think we can manage it.” + 

The Neuenfähr man followed the landlord into the hall, where they encountered the gentleman whom he had brought, who took the landlord on one side and spoke to him in an undertone. + 

“They won’t have done in a hurry,” thought the driver, and so went out, unharnessed his horses, and, leaving the carriage standing for the time, led them under the overhanging roof of a barn, where they would be sheltered at any rate from the worst of the storm. He had just spread some horse-cloths over the smoking animals when the gentleman left the house and came up to him. + 

“I shall probably not remain long here,” said the gentleman; “perhaps not more than an hour, and then shall continue our journey.” + 

“Where to, sir?” + 

“To Prora, or back to Neuenfähr; I do not know yet.” + 

“It can’t be done, sir.” + 

“Why not?” + 

“The horses couldn’t do it.” + 

“I know better what horses can do; I will give you my orders by-and-by.” + 

The Neuenfähr man was irritated at the imperious tone in which the gentleman spoke to him, but he did not venture to contradict him. The gentleman, who now wore a greatcoat with metal buttons⁠—during the drive he had worn a plain overcoat⁠—turned up the collar as he passed round the shed towards the street. The light from the taproom fell full upon his face. + 

“Aha!” said the Neuenfähr man; “I thought as much. One doesn’t forget these things, however long one has been in the reserve. Where the devil is the Lieutenant going to?” + 

Ottomar had obtained full directions from the landlord, and indeed the road which led straight down through the village could not be mistaken. He walked slowly, and often stood still; sometimes because the storm which met him full would not allow him to continue, and sometimes because he had to try and recollect what he wanted to do at the castle. His head was confused with the long drive in an open carriage through this fearful storm, and his heart felt dead within him; he felt as if he had not energy left to tell the villain to his face that he was a villain. Besides, it ought to be, it must be done in his aunt’s presence, if the scoundrel were not to be able to deny everything afterwards, and entangle his aunt again in his web of lies as he had entangled them all. Or was it all an arranged plot between him and his aunt! It looked suspicious that she should have left the castle so early today, when he must have been expected to come to call the villain to account. She had gone with Elsa, it was true; but might not the affection which she seemed to bestow upon Elsa⁠—in secret, like all the rest of these dark mysteries⁠—be affection after the pattern of Giraldi’s? Perhaps his aunt had undertaken to allure and befool Elsa as Giraldi had done by him; and they had both fallen into the snare, and the crafty fowlers were laughing at their foolish prey. Poor Elsa! who had also no doubt put her faith in these fair promises, and now would have to try how she could get on as the wife of a Superintendent of Pilots with a few hundred thalers, and her home in that miserable fishing hamlet. “That was not what had been looked forward to for her, poor Elsa! That was to have been our inheritance, the castle by the sea, as we called it when we used to lay plans for our future; we were to live there together, you in one wing and I in the other; and when you married the prince and I the princess we were to draw lots which should have it to themselves; we could not continue together because of all the suite. + 

“And now, my dearest and best of sisters, you are far from me, waiting for your lover who is out in the storm, perhaps, to save the precious lives of a few herring-fishers; and I⁠—” + 

At the spot where the road, leaving behind it the first houses in the village, turned downwards through a narrow gorge which led to the hollow whence it again began to rise towards the castle, he sat down upon a stone which projected from the extreme edge of the gorge towards the hollow, and was only held in its hazardous position by the roots of a magnificent fir-tree, which must once have stood much farther from the edge, and which now creaked and groaned as it bent backwards under the pressure of the gale, as if trying to avoid falling into the depths. + 

“There is no help for either of us,” said Ottomar, “it has all crumbled away bit by bit; and we are hanging with our roots in the air. The stone that would gladly have held us up cannot do it; rather the reverse. And if there come one great storm, such as this, we must both fall. I wish to God we lay there, and that you would fall upon my head and kill me, and that the flood would come and wash us out to sea, and no one should know how we came to our end.” + 

And she? She, whom he had just left in the miserable, dreary inn-room, she, whose kisses he still felt upon his lips, and who, as he went out at the door⁠—thinking, no doubt, that he could not see her⁠—threw herself upon the sofa, and leaning her head upon the back covered her face with her hands, weeping he was certain. For what? for her miserable fate that bound her to a man weaker than herself. She was strong, she would endure it all, come what would. But what could come for her? She had repeated to him a hundred times on the road, that he was not to trouble himself any more about that miserable money; that her father was far too proud to refuse her entreaty, the first she had made to him since she could remember, the last that she would ever make to him. And she had written to her father from Neuenfähr, where they had had to wait half an hour for the carriage. “The thing is done,” she had said, as she stroked his hair from his forehead as a mother might have done to her boy, who had been playing truant from school. + 

She was the stronger; but then what did she lose? her father?⁠—she seemed never to have really loved him; her comfortable life in her beautiful luxurious home?⁠—what does a girl know of the things that make up her life!⁠—her art? that she could carry with her everywhere; had she not said with a smile, “It will support us both.” Of course! she would have to support him now, the disgraced soldier! + 

The fir-tree, against which he leaned, creaked and groaned like some tormented creature; Ottomar could feel how the roots heaved and twisted, and the soil showered down the steep gorge, while in the branches the wind whistled and howled and crackled like grapeshot or musketry fire, and from the sea came a roar and thunder as if from an endless line of batteries, whose fire was incessantly kept up. + 

“It would have been so simple then,” said Ottomar; “my father would have paid my few debts and would have been proud of me, instead of sending me a pistol now, as if I did not know as well as he that it is all over for Ottomar von Werben; and Elsa would have often and lovingly talked of her brother, who fell at Vionville. Dear Elsa, how I should like to see her once more!” + 

He had learned from the landlord that the carriage with the two ladies, if they returned this evening as the driver had told him, must pass this way, it being the only road still practicable; the shorter road through the lower ground was no longer passable. Ottomar wondered what the man meant by the lower ground. The situation was so entirely different from what he had heard described; the sea seemed to be breaking immediately behind the castle, though in the wet, grey mist which was driving in his face he could no longer distinguish individual objects. The castle itself, which must surely be close under his feet, seemed to be a mile off; he could hardly have seen it sometimes, if lights had not been constantly flickering in the windows. In the indistinct masses of building to the left of the castle, which must belong to the farm, lights also glimmered occasionally, shifting their places as if people were running about with lanterns; and once or twice he fancied that he heard men’s voices and the lowing of cattle. It might be all a delusion of his senses, which were beginning to fail him, as he sat there unsheltered from the raging storm which was freezing the very marrow of his bones. He must go on, if he were not to die here like a straggler behind a hedge on the roadside. + 

And yet he remained; but through his bewildered brain wilder and more confused images chased each other. There was a Christmas-tree with lighted candles, and he and Elsa came to the door hand-in-hand, and their father and mother stood at the table, on which there were dolls for Elsa, and helmet and sword and sabretache for him, and he threw himself joyfully into his father’s arms, who lifted him high in the air and kissed him. Then the Christmas-tree changed into a lofty pine, and the crest of the pine was a blazing chandelier, under which he was dancing with Carla, in defiance of the Count, who looked on with furious glances, while the double bass boomed, and the violins squeaked, and the dancing couples whirled in and out: Tettritz with Emilie von Fischbach, that tall Wartenberg with little Fräulein von Strummin. Then it was a bivouac fire with the trumpets sounding to the attack at Vionville, against the batteries which thundered in return, and he called laughingly to Tettritz and Wartenberg, “Now, gentlemen, a bullet through the heart, or the cross on the breast!” and set spurs to his charger, which dashed straight forward with a wild neigh. Ottomar started to his feet and looked round him in bewilderment. Where was he? at his feet there foamed and hissed a broad eddying stream, and now he heard distinctly a horse neighing⁠—close by him⁠—in the hollow way, at the edge of which he stood, and below him was a carriage which was being backed by the resisting horses against the bank. + 

With one spring he was behind the carriage and helping the coachman to turn the snorting horses; there was just room left. + 

“Where are the ladies!” + 

He had seen that the carriage was empty. + 

“They got out⁠—above⁠—in such a hurry, by the causeway in the meadows to the park. Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! if only they can get across it! Lord have mercy upon us!” + 

A wave of the stream which had broken through between the hill and the castle, and which the coachman had nearly driven into, poured into the hollow way, and eddied up under the horses’ feet, who could no longer be restrained but dashed up the road, the coachman running by them, having fortunately caught up the reins, and doing his best to stop them. + 

Ottomar had only understood so much from the coachman’s confused words, made almost unintelligible by the storm, as to gather that Elsa was in danger. What was this causeway? Where was it? He ran after the coachman, calling and shouting to him, but the man did not hear. + 

XI + 

As Giraldi moved with restless steps up and down the deserted rooms of the castle, there was added to the grey spectres of fear and anxiety which lurked around and followed him, another, that as the twilight deepened grew and grew, and seemed to come nearer and nearer with every movement of the minute-hand of the watch that he never put down. Not merely seemed. He could see it advancing from the windows which looked towards the sea, from the roof of the round tower to which he had made the old servant show him the way; he could see the tide advancing like storming columns which, step by step, slowly but irresistibly, gained ground, following up the skirmishers, which as soon as the main body reached them were swallowed up in it. Over there, where an hour ago he had seen a narrow line of water running through the lower ground⁠—it was the brook, the old servant said⁠—the foaming waves of a broad gulf were now tossing; there, straight before him, where, to right and left of the little farmyard, he had seen half an hour before dark masses of water in the hollows which he had at first taken for large ponds, was a great lake out of which the farm appeared like a little island. And ten minutes later the foaming lake had joined the gulf, and if this went on for another half hour we should have the flood up here, and not a mouse could creep out of house or courtyard⁠—so said Herr Damberg. + 

This was said in the courtyard itself. Giraldi had seen the farmer there from the window of the dining-room, and had gone out to question the man. + 

“For you see,” said Herr Damberg, “there is rising ground certainly between us and Pölitz’s farm, which reaches from the Golmberg almost up to the brook right across the hollow; but behind it⁠—towards us⁠—the ground sinks again pretty rapidly, to the height opposite where the village stands, and between which and us again is the lowest part of all. If the flood rises above that higher ground which has checked it as yet the hollow will be filled to the brim like a basin; and I shall think myself lucky if it does not get into my stables and barns, particularly those on the park side, for that will go too. It is very fortunate that the ladies are away; what could they do here? I told Frau von Wallbach too that she had better go up to the village, but she won’t. My goodness! there goes another roof!” + 

The farmer rushed off to the endangered building, from whose thatched roof the gale had torn off whole bales of straw and whirled them like chaff over the courtyard. The terrified farm-servants came running up from all sides, while the farmer grumbled that they had better keep their wits about them now; what was to happen later if they had lost their senses already? + 

Giraldi looked at his watch, it wanted twenty minutes to six. François, who had returned half an hour before, had sworn that he was convinced that madame would start immediately after him. The road was not so bad as he had thought; they might very well be at the castle at six o’clock. + 

Giraldi went into the house to question François once more. François was not to be found; someone had seen him a short time before go through the garden-door towards the park, with a cloak round him. + 

“The fellow is prudent,” said Giraldi to himself; “he has got his money and takes himself off. I am in the same position, I ought to follow his wise example.” + 

He must come to a decision; if Valerie came too late, or not at all, he would find himself in about half an hour face to face with the General, who must have heard this morning at any rate⁠—perhaps from Ottomar himself⁠—of the affair of the bills, and, his suspicions once aroused, would certainly make inquiries, and learn from the banker, to whom he would of course apply first, that the Warnow money had been withdrawn, from the bank. Elsa’s telegram too! All these things coming together would rouse the most sluggish of men, how much more one so active and energetic! And yet everything was not lost, everything might still be won, was won already, if Valerie were on his side; the half million of mortgage money, which he had withdrawn from Lübbener’s yesterday, belonged to her by rights; and for himself, without overstepping by one hair’s breadth the powers given him by the other trustees, he could withdraw the half million of purchase-money from Haselow, and keep it in his desk, or carry it on his person if he did not think it secure elsewhere; but Valerie must give her consent⁠—she must, she must, she must! + 

He cried it aloud, stamping his foot on the wet ground, while in the branches of the trees overhead the wind whistled and howled, and louder and louder grew the roar of the sea breaking against the barrier which it only needed to surmount to fill the hollow like a basin. Even the park would be swept away then. + 

He hardly knew why he had entered the park; perhaps to look for François, perhaps because he had been told that from the balcony of the summerhouse in the south corner a long stretch of the road to Wissow over the hills could be seen. If indeed in the darkness, which seemed deepening at every moment, anything could be seen at a distance! And where was this south corner? As if between the brambles of these rustling hedges, and in the gloom of these creaking boughs, a man could find his way as one would between the laurel bushes and the pines of the Monte Pincio! + 

In this howling northern wilderness the image of the Eternal City stood suddenly before his mind, as he had seen it that night when, for the first time after years of separation, he saw Valerie again⁠—by no effort of his, against all expectation or hope⁠—at a fête given by the French Embassy in the enchanted gardens of the Villa Medici. There, when a jealous husband had carried away his beautiful wife only too soon, he himself had left the festive crowd, and ascended the stone steps in the shade of the evergreen oaks till the lights of the festival below him had been lost and the sounds had died away; there, in the darkness and silence which surrounded him, he had mused as he went yet farther and higher, and reached the Belvedere, where his beloved Rome, bathed in moonshine, lay at his feet; there he had sworn by St. Peter’s, on whose gigantic dome streams of soft golden light were pouring down from the blue heavens, that the love of this fair northern woman should be the golden stepping-stone to his power, which he, the layman, in the service of St. Peter’s, and yet free⁠—free as an eagle here above the world⁠—would extend over the whole earth. It had taken him longer than he had then hoped⁠—much too long; he had held fast to his once formed plans with too obstinate tenacity; he might have attained more brilliant results, quicker and more surely, by other ways such as had a thousand times offered themselves; but it was the star of his fate which he had followed, in which he had always trusted, and would trust still when⁠—at the last moment⁠—everything seemed to conspire against him to snatch his prey from him, the fruit of the arduous labour of so many years, the noble fortune which he carried about him close to his body, as if it were a part of himself, as it was indeed a part of his life which he would give up only with that life. + 

He looked at his watch⁠—he could no longer distinguish the numbers on the dial-plate; he sounded the repeater⁠—he could not hear the faint stroke through the roaring of the storm which crashed and howled around him. He would count five minutes more; if she did not come then⁠—so be it! + 

And there was the summerhouse for which he had been looking so long, a wooden erection on four slender columns, to which a narrow steep staircase led up, at the extreme edge of the park, some ten or twelve feet above the enclosing hedge, high enough as he could see from the balcony to overlook the ground outside between the park and the hill; a long trough-shaped bit of ground, some fifty or a hundred yards broad, through which, from the hill to the park, a dark winding causeway led, formed apparently of large stones arranged at even distances to facilitate the crossing of the low-lying meadow-land. + 

He examined the position narrowly. In the meadow-land below he could see larger and smaller pools of what must be water already accumulated there; but the stone pathway was decidedly passable. In the comparative lightness of his post of observation he could see his watch now; it wanted ten minutes to six, and there was not a moment to be lost. He would go back through the park to the castle and find out if Valerie had arrived, or perhaps the General. Then, if necessary, back through the park over the causeway to the village; he would hunt up a carriage of some sort, and then⁠—to the devil with this miserable country of barbarians, he would leave it forever! + 

He glanced once again over the hills without, along whose edge he ought to have seen the carriage coming. Folly! who could have distinguished anything there now, when over all a dark veil had spread itself which was growing more dense at every moment! Even the stepping-stones in the meadow were hardly visible, he should have trouble in finding them; the dark line waved up and down, the stones seemed in movement. Something was really moving there⁠—that was not the stones. There were people there⁠—women⁠—two⁠—coming across the stones⁠—she, no doubt, with that detested girl⁠—no matter! she was coming, obedient as ever! to tell him that she would obey him in future as she had always obeyed him! What else should she come for? For fear of him? For love of her newly-found son? no matter!⁠—no matter!⁠—she was coming! + 

He would not need now to steal away like a thief with the stolen treasure; he might lift his head proudly, he who always and everywhere was master of the position which his ruling spirit had created. He rushed down the steep steps, through the beech avenue, where it was almost completely dark, to the little door which he had noticed before at the entrance to the avenue, and at which he supposed the causeway must end. And at the moment when with a powerful effort he shook the locked or warped door from its rusty hinges, they stood without. + 

Valerie started back with a shudder, as she so suddenly saw before her the terrible man, who seemed to belong to the darkness and the raging elements. But he had already caught her hand and drawn her into the path, while Elsa, at her aunt’s entreating “Let me be alone with him!” unwillingly obeyed her, and remained standing at the shattered door, following with her keen eyes their retreating figures through the dark pathway, ready and determined to hasten to the poor woman’s assistance; straining her ear through the rustling and crackling of the bushes, and the roaring and creaking of the trees, and the raging and howling all round her, for any cry for help. + 

She stood there gazing, listening⁠—for some fearful minutes, of which she could have counted each second by the beating of her heart. Now she could see them both walking quickly up and down at the lower end of the path; she thought she could catch a few broken words in Italian⁠—an entreating “Il nostro figlio” from him⁠—a passionate “Giammai! giammai!” from her. Then again the wild raving of the storm and the tide drowned every sound; the figures vanished into the darkness. She could bear her anxiety no longer, she hurried down the path⁠—past something that glided by her⁠—past him, the traitor! the murderer! + 

She shrieked it aloud, “Traitor! murderer!” The wild scream sounded no louder than an infant’s cry. She rushed down the path to the summerhouse, crying: “Aunt! aunt!” though she expected to find nothing but a dead body. There⁠—at the foot of the stairs⁠—was her aunt, her dear aunt! + 

She crouched on the lower steps of the staircase, and lifted upon her knees the fallen form, from whose icy forehead a warm stream trickled. But she still lived! she had attempted to press with her slender fingers the hand which had grasped hers; and now, now! thank heaven! there came a few low words, which Elsa, bending low over her, tried to catch. + 

“Do not be alarmed! It is nothing⁠—a fall against the railing as he flung me from him; free⁠—Elsa, free!⁠—free!” + 

Her head sank again on Elsa’s bosom, but her heart still beat; it was only a swoon, the result of the terror and loss of blood; she tried to rise and sank back again. + 

Elsa did not lose her courage; as she bound up the wounded forehead with her own and her aunt’s handkerchief and a strip torn from her dress⁠—she had had plenty of practice in the hospitals during the war⁠—she considered whether she should try to carry the slender figure to the castle, or whether it would be better to hasten home alone and procure assistance. She would lose a great deal of time either way; but in the first case she would remain with the sufferer, and need not leave her alone in this terrible situation, without, perhaps, being able to make her understand that it was necessary to leave her. + 

Still she decided upon the second alternative as the safer. The bandage was arranged; she was just about to raise her aunt gently from her lap and arrange her as comfortable a couch as possible, when through the bushes, through the hedges, between the trees, there came upon her what seemed like thousands and thousands of serpents, whose hissing sounded even through the howling of the storm, with a strange and horrible noise that made Elsa’s blood run chill. For a moment she listened breathlessly, and then with a wild shriek started to her feet, snatching up her aunt, and with the strength of despair dragging her up the steps to save the helpless woman and herself from the flood which had broken over the park. She had hardly reached the last step before the water was pouring through the lower ones, and seeming to be everywhere at once, foaming and roaring through the hedge which ran from the summerhouse to the castle, as if over a weir, rushing into the hollow, which was no longer a valley but the bed of a broad stream whose waters, pouring in from either side, met with a crash like thunder, throwing up jets of water to the balcony, over the edge of which Elsa leant with a shudder. + 

A bench ran round the inner side of the balcony. Elsa laid her aunt here, who was falling from one fainting fit into another, after wrapping her up as warmly as possible, for the greater part with her own clothes. + 

And there she sat, with the poor thing’s head again in her lap, as the storm howled and the flood roared around her, and shook the frail slender wooden edifice in every joint of its worm-eaten planks, praying that God would send someone to them⁠—the only man who could save them in their fearful need. + 

XII + 

As Ottomar’s steps died away upon the creaking stairs and across the hall, Ferdinanda sprang up, and wringing her hands, paced two or three times up and down the little room; then she threw herself down again as Ottomar had last seen her⁠—her face in her hands, her head leaning against the back of the sofa. But she had not cried then, neither did she cry now; she had no tears to shed; she had no hope left, no wish save one⁠—to die for him since she could not live for him, since her life could only be a burden and a torment to him. Why had she not believed his brother officer, with the clear brow and keen, pitiful eyes, who had said to her: + 

“You deceive yourself, my dear young lady! Your flight with Ottomar is no deliverance for him from his difficulties, but another complication, and that the most fatal. The worst point for Ottomar is the terrible wound to his honour as an officer. Appearances at least must be saved here, and this is still possible according to the arrangements I have made. At the best his life can only be half a life, one which I do not know how he will bear. I doubt even if he can bear it; but in such a case as this one may perhaps stifle one’s better judgment. There can be no doubt, however, that if you now fly with him, and the circumstance becomes known⁠—as it must be⁠—there will be no longer any possibility for us, his friends, to save even appearances. That an officer should be forced to retire from the service on account of debts, that his betrothal should on this account be broken off, that he should even in his delicate position neglect to call to account the gossips and scandal-bearers⁠—all this may occur, does occur unfortunately only too often. But at the same time, forgive me for saying so, the door is open wide for scandal. A man who at such a moment can think of anything but of saving what still is possible out of the shipwreck of his honour, or, if there is nothing left to save, of giving up with dignity perhaps even life itself⁠—who instead of this drags down with him another person whom he professes to love, a stainless woman, a lady who has always been highly respected⁠—that man has thrown away every claim to sympathy or fellow-feeling. Ottomar himself must see this sooner or later. This journey of his to Warnow is, in my eyes, absolute folly. What does he mean to do there? Call Giraldi to account? The Italian will answer, ‘You are no child, you must have known what you were about.’ Call out the Count? For what cause, when he travels with you? But let him go if he will, only alone! only not with you! I conjure you, not with you! Believe me, the love in whose power you trust to save Ottomar from all his difficulties will prove itself absolutely impotent, even worse; it will finally break down the remains of the strength which Ottomar might otherwise still possess. For his sake⁠—if you will not think of yourself⁠—do not go with him!” + 

Strange, when he had drawn her on one side at the last moment, while Ottomar and Bertalda in the next room were arranging a few last things, and spoken to her thus⁠—hastily, yet so clearly⁠—his words had passed by her like an empty sound; she had hardly known what he was speaking of; and now it all came back upon her memory word for word! It was all coming true already, word for word! All-powerful love! Good heavens, what a mockery! What answer had he had for the pictures of the future which she had painted for him in colours whose glow was drawn from her overflowing heart, but a sad, gloomy smile, or monosyllabic absent words, evidently only spoken because he must say something, while his spirit was weighed down with the burden of his thoughts about his angry father, his pitiful or scornful brother officers, and of the possibility of forcing a duel upon Herr von Wallbach or Count Golm. His very caresses when, with a heart full of unutterable fear, she put her arms round him⁠—as a mother round her child whom she is carrying from the flames⁠—his very caresses made her shiver as she thought, “He treats me like a lovesick girl, who must be humoured, like a mistress whom he has taken on his journey, and from whom he wishes to hide that he is weary of her before their first station is passed.” + 

She! she! who had once dreamed that her love was an inexhaustible spring, and had blamed herself that she had been so chary with it, and had turned away her suitor from her door, had left him without in the barren wilderness of life to despair and perish without her! She who had been so proud! so proud, because she knew that she had boundless wealth to give; that her love was like the storm now raging without, throwing down all that was not stronger than itself⁠—like the flood rushing by, destroying, devouring all that did not rise into the clouds! + 

That had been her fear all this time, that he too, even he, would never quite understand her; there would always remain a gaping breach between the real and the ideal, and she ought not therefore to sacrifice the ideal, however yearningly her heart might throb, however stormily the warm blood might rush through her veins. She had but this one best thing to lose, to be forever after poorer than the poorest beggar, she for whom inexorable experience had once for all destroyed the fair dream of so many years⁠—that of being an artist by the grace of God! + 

How she had fought! how she had struggled through so many weary days, so many wakeful nights passed in gloomy brooding, in writhing despair! days and nights whose terrors would long since have brought even her strength low, if his beloved, fascinating image had not flitted through her feverish morning dreams, alluring her on to other weary days, to other tortured nights. + 

It was no longer his image now, it was himself; no longer fascinating, but still beloved as ever! + 

And oh, how dearly loved! more than ever! immeasurably more in his helpless misery than in his brighter days. + 

If she could only help him! For herself she had no wish, no desires; God was her witness! And if tonight she lay in his arms, and he in hers, she could think of it without one more heartbeat, without for a moment losing the despairing thought that weighed down her heart: “He will breathe no new strength, no new life from my kisses! He will rise from his bridal couch a weary, broken-down man!” How could she maintain strength and courage to live⁠—no longer for herself alone⁠—for both of them now? + 

If not strength and courage to live, then at least to die! + 

If she could die for him! could say to him with her dying lips: “See, death is bliss and joy to me, if I can hope that from this hour you will despise life, and because you despise it, will live a noble and beautiful life, like one who lives only that he may die nobly and gloriously!” + 

But to his weak soul even this would be no spur, no check, only one more dark shadow amongst all the dark shadows that had fallen upon his path; and upon that gloomy path he would wander feebly on, inactive, inglorious, to an early and an inglorious grave! Thus she lay, sunk in the depth of her grief, heedless of the howling of the storm, which perpetually shook the house from roof to cellar; deaf to the noisy uproar of the drunken guests just under her room, hardly raising her head as her landlady now came in. The landlady came to ask her ladyship⁠—as the gentlefolks must mean to spend the night here now⁠—how she would like to have the beds arranged in the next room; but at the strange expression of the beautiful pale face, which raised itself from the sofa and looked at her so oddly, the question died away on the tip of her tongue, and she only succeeded in bringing out her second question: whether she should make a cup of tea for her ladyship? Her ladyship did not seem to understand the question; at any rate she did not answer, and the landlady thought to herself, “She will ring if she wants anything,” and went into the bedroom with the candle which she had in her hand, half closing the door⁠—which always took several efforts to shut it⁠—so as not to disturb her ladyship, and then took the candle to the windows, to see if they were properly fastened. One of them was not, the upper bolt had stuck fast, and as she pulled up the lower one, the wind blowing through the narrow opening put the candle out, which she had set upon the windowsill. “I can find my way, however,” thought the landlady, and turned in the dim light towards the beds, but stopped as she came near the door, and heard the lady give a faint cry. “Good gracious!” thought the landlady, “it is almost worse with these fine people than it is with us.” For the gentleman, who had come in again, had begun to speak at once, not loudly but evidently warmly. “What could be the matter between the two young people?” thought the landlady, and glided on tiptoe to the door. But she could understand nothing, whether of the many words spoken by the gentleman, or the few interposed by the lady; and then it struck the landlady that it was not the gentleman’s clear voice, and that they were neither of them speaking German; and she put her eye to the keyhole, and to her astonishment and terror saw an absolutely strange man standing by the lady in the next room, who as she looked let his brown cloak fall from his shoulders without noticing it, while he violently gesticulated with both arms, and talked faster, and louder and louder, in his incomprehensible jargon⁠—like a madman, thought the terrified landlady. + 

“I will not turn back,” cried Antonio, “after I have run almost all the way like a dog after his owner who has been carried away by robbers, and the rest of the way have been lying crouched in the straw in a cart like a beast led to slaughter. I will no longer be a dog, I will no longer suffer worse than a beast. I know all now⁠—all⁠—all! how he was faithless to you, the dishonourable coward, that he might go to another, and again from her to you, and lay at your door whimpering for mercy while they settled it for him⁠—his mistress and that accursed Giraldi, whose neck I will wring when and wherever I meet him again, so surely as my name is Antonio Michele! I know all⁠—all⁠—all! And that you will give your fair self to him, as you have given him your soul already!” + 

The miserable man could not understand the half-scornful, half-melancholy smile which curled the beautiful girl’s proud lips. + 

“Do not laugh!” he shrieked, “or I will kill you!” And then, as she half rose, not from fear, but to repel the maniac: “Forgive me! oh, forgive me! I kill you!⁠—you who are my all, the light and joy of my life; for whom I would let myself be torn in pieces, limb from limb! for whom I would give every drop of my heart’s blood, if you would only allow me to kiss the hem of your garment, to kiss the ground upon which you have trod! How often⁠—how often have I done it without your knowledge⁠—in your studio, the spot where your fair foot has stood, the tool which your dear hand has touched! I ask for so little; I will wait for years⁠—as I have waited for years⁠—and will never weary of serving you, of worshipping you, like the blessed Madonna, till the day comes when you will listen to my prayers!” + 

He had fallen on his knees in the place where he stood, his wild eyes, his quivering hands raised to her. + 

“Rise!” said she. “You do not know what you say, nor to whom you say it. I can give you nothing; I have nothing to give. I am so poor, so poor⁠—far poorer than you!” + 

She was wandering about the little room and wringing her hands, passing by the kneeling man, who, as her dress touched his glowing face, sprang to his feet as though moved by an electric shock. + 

“I am not poor,” he cried; “I am the son of a prince; and more than a prince⁠—I am Michelangelo; and a greater than Michelangelo! I see them coming in moving crowds, singing hymns in praise of the immortal Antonio; bearing flowers, twining garlands, to adorn and encircle the wonderful creations of the divine Antonio! Do you hear? do you hear! There! there!” + 

From the broad village street there rose up the confused, tumultuous cry of the people, who had been alarmed at the news of the advancing flood, and were hastening to the scene of the catastrophe; from the tower of the neighbouring church there rang out, broken by the storm, the clang of the bells, now threateningly near, and again in trembling distance. + 

“Do you hear!” cried the maniac. “Do you hear?” + 

He stood with outstretched arm, smiling; his eyes, lighted with joy and triumph, fixed upon Ferdinanda, who gazed in terror at him. + 

Suddenly the smile changed to a fearful grimace, his eyes glared with deadly hatred, his outstretched arm was withdrawn with a shudder, his hand convulsively clutched at his breast, as immediately under the window a voice rose, clear and commanding, above the raging of the storm and the shouts of the crowd: + 

“A rope, a strong rope⁠—the longest that you have got! And thinner cord⁠—as much as possible. There are some people there already! I shall be there before you!” + 

A hasty step, taking three or four stairs at once, came up the creaking staircase. The maniac laughed wildly. + 

The landlady, too, had heard the clear voice below, and the hasty step on the stairs. There would be an accident, for sure, if the gentleman came in now, when that strange, disagreeable man was with the lady! She burst into the room at the moment when the gentleman opened the door on the other side. + 

Uttering a howl of rage, and brandishing high his stiletto, Antonio rushed upon him. But Ferdinanda had thrown herself between them before Ottomar could cross the threshold, shielding her lover with outspread arms, offering her own bosom to the fatal thrust, and falling without a groan into Ottomar’s arms, as the murderer fled past them in cowardly, mad flight at sight of the crime that he had never intended, and that had broken through the night of his insanity as if by a flash of lightning⁠—fled down the stairs, through the crowd below, who had been summoned by the clang of the alarm-bell and the cries of terror of the hasty passersby from the taproom and all parts of the house, and who now drew back in terror from the stranger with the wild black hair, brandishing a knife in his hand⁠—out into the village street, overthrowing all that came in his way in the confused, shrieking, shouting crowd without⁠—out into the howling darkness! And “Murder, murder!” “Stop him!” “Stop the murderer!” rang through the house. + 

XIII + 

“Heavens and earth!” cried the Neuenfähr man, “I must go in here! One moment, sir!” and he ran into the house. + 

The gentleman who was just getting into the carriage drew back, and stamped his foot furiously. + 

“Is hell itself let loose against me?” he cried, and gnashed his teeth. + 

As he had made his way cautiously through the darkness a few minutes before to the inn, of which he had taken note as he drove through the village in the afternoon, and where he hoped to find some vehicle to convey him farther, he had met the Neuenfähr driver, who was just harnessing his horses again, for which the landlord, with the best of goodwill, could find no stable-room, at any rate not before a part of the outhouse was cleared out. + 

“The horses will catch cold,” the man had said to himself; “the best thing after all will be to drive back.” + 

He was still busying himself in the dark over the harness, which had got twisted, when someone who suddenly appeared beside him asked: + 

“Will you give me a lift, my man?” + 

“Where to, sir?” + 

“To Neuenfähr.” + 

“What will you pay, sir?” + 

“Anything you like.” + 

“Get in, sir!” said the Neuenfähr man, delighted to find that instead of taking his carriage back this long distance empty, he had found a passenger who would pay him anything he liked to ask. He would not take him for nothing, but he must see about this alarm of murder. + 

“He will not come back in a hurry,” muttered the gentleman; “and I shall run the risk of meeting him again; it is almost a miracle that he did not see me.” + 

He had been standing close to Ottomar as the latter gave his orders to the people, and, to give more authority to his words, mentioned his name, and that it was his aunt and sister who were in danger, and that there was not a moment to lose or it would be too late. + 

The stranger moved farther into the shadow of the barn before which the carriage stood. He would make sure of not being seen in any case. But just then the Neuenfähr man came back in a state of great excitement. + 

The young lady had been stabbed and killed, whom he had brought here with the young gentleman! Heavens and earth, if he had known that it was Herr von Werben! and that the beautiful young lady, his wife, would so soon be murdered by a foreign vagabond⁠—the same no doubt whom he had seen hanging about in Neuenfähr, when he drew up at the inn by the bridge⁠—a young fellow with black hair and black eyes; and he had noticed the black hair again as the fellow rushed out of the house⁠—plainly⁠—he could swear to it. The fellow might attack them on the road; he was not afraid for himself⁠—he did not fear the devil; but if the gentleman preferred to remain here⁠— + 

In his excitement the brandy he had been drinking before had got into the man’s head; he would have willingly remained; he was evidently a person of importance here, and the gentleman had quite staggered back when he spoke of the foreign vagabond, and had muttered something in his black beard which he did not understand. + 

“Shall we remain here, sir?” + 

“No, no, no! Drive on! I will give you double what you ask!” + 

So saying he sprang into the carnage. The Neuenfähr man had meant to ask five thalers, now he would not do it under ten, and so he should get twenty. + 

For that one might leave even a murder behind one! + 

“Make way there! Make way!” cried the Neuenfähr man with an oath, cracking his whip loudly over the heads of the dark figures who were running towards him down the village street, and more than one of whom he nearly ran over. + 

For twenty thalers it was worth while running over somebody⁠—in the dark too! + 

In the darkness and the storm! It really was worse than before, though then it had been bad enough, and he had said a dozen times, “We had better stop at Faschwitz, sir;” and then as they came to Grausewitz, “We had better stop at Grausewitz, sir;” but the young gentleman⁠—Herr von Werben⁠—had always called out, “Drive on, drive on! Farther, farther!” If he had only known that half an hour later the lady would have been dead as a doornail! and he had taken the horse-cloths too to cover her feet, here in this very place! + 

The fact seemed so important to the Neuenfähr man that he stopped to show the gentleman the very spot, and to breathe his horses a little too, for they could hardly make way at all against the storm. To the right of the road was a steep clay bank some five or six feet high, at whose edge stood two or three willows wildly tossed about by the wind; to the left was level marshy ground reaching down to the sea, which must be about a mile or so off, although they could hear it roaring as if it were close by the roadside. + 

“On, on!” cried the gentleman. + 

“Are you in such a hurry, too?” said the Neuenfähr man, and grumbled something about commercial travellers, who were not officers so far as he knew, and need not snap up an old soldier of the reserve in that way; but he whipped his horses up again, when suddenly the gentleman, who had been standing up behind him in the carriage, clutched his shoulder with his right hand, and pointing with the other to the left, cried: “There, that way!” + 

“Where to?” said the driver. + 

“No matter where! That way!” + 

“We can pass it,” said the Neuenfähr man, thinking only that the gentleman was afraid that in the narrow road they could not get out of the way of a carriage which had just appeared coming towards them through the grey mist, and might still be a few hundred yards from them. + 

The gentleman caught him by both shoulders. + 

“Confound it!” cried the Neuenfähr man. “Are you mad?” + 

“I will give you a hundred thalers!” + 

“I’ll not be drowned for a hundred thalers!” + 

“Two hundred!” + 

“All right!” cried the driver, and whipped up his horses as he turned them to the left from the sandy road down to the marshes. The water oozed up under their feet, but then came firmer ground again. It might not be so bad after all; and two hundred thalers! He called to his horses, and whipped them up again. + 

They dashed forward as if the devil were behind them; he could hardly keep them in hand. And meanwhile he had gone much farther than he had intended; he had meant only to turn off a little way from the road, and then come back to it again. But when he looked round, the road and the trees had alike disappeared, as if all had been wiped out with a wet sponge. And from the thick, dark atmosphere the mist was falling so that he could not tell at last whether he ought to go straight on, or turn to right or left. Neither could he trust his ears. Along the road the roaring of the sea had been on his left hand, then in front of him; now there was such an infernal din all round him⁠—could they be already so near the sea? + 

The fumes of the brandy suddenly vanished from the Neuenfähr man, and instead of them a terrible fear took possession of him. Who was the mysterious passenger who was sitting behind him in the carriage, and who had promised him two hundred thalers if he would avoid the other carriage which was coming towards them? Was he an accomplice of the foreign vagabond? He had just the same black eyes and black hair, and a long black beard too, and just such a curious foreign accent! Was it the devil himself to whom he had sold his miserable soul for two hundred thalers, and who had meant to wring his neck just now when he took him by the shoulders, and who had enticed him out into the marshes this fearful night to make an end of him in the storm and mist? And there were his wife and children at Neuenfähr! “Good Lord! good Lord!” groaned the man. “Only let me get out of this! I will never do it again, so help me God! Oh Lord! oh Lord!” + 

The carriage was driving through water; the man could hear it splashing against the wheels. He flogged his horses madly; they reared and kicked, but did not move a step forward. + 

With one bound the man was off the box beside his horses. There was only one means of safety now⁠—to unharness them and dash forward at their full speed. He had said nothing; the thing spoke for itself. He had thought, too, that the man in the carriage would help him. He had just got the second horse out, and raised his head, when⁠—his hair stood on end, as if all that had passed before were child’s play to what he saw now! There had been only one person in the carriage, and now there were two; and the two were taking each other by the throat, and were struggling and shouting together⁠—one of them, his passenger, as if he were asking for mercy, and the other yelling like the very devil himself⁠—and the other was the murderer of that afternoon. + 

The Neuenfähr man saw no more. With a desperate spring, he threw himself on to the near horse, and dashed away, the other horse galloping beside him. The water splashed over him, and then he was up to his waist in water, and then up to his neck and the horses swimming; and again he had dry land under him, and got on to firm ground, and the horses stopped because they could go no farther, and the one on which he sat had trembled so that he had nearly fallen off. And he looked round to see what had happened and where he was. + 

He was on rising ground, and before him lay a village. It could only be Faschwitz; but Faschwitz was two or three miles in a straight line from the sea, and there behind him, from where he came⁠—it was a little clearer now, so that he could see some little distance⁠—was the open sea, rising in fearful waves, which roared and foamed, as they rolled farther and farther⁠—who could tell how far inland? + 

“They have been drowned like kittens, and my beautiful new carriage. May the⁠—” + 

But the Neuenfähr man felt as if he could not swear just then. + 

He dismounted, took the horses by the bridle, and led them, almost exhausted, at a foot’s pace into Faschwitz, his own knees trembling at every step. + 

XIV + 

“That won’t do,” cried the village Mayor; “haul it in again!” + 

“Ho! heave ho!” cried the thirty men who had hold of the rope. “Ho! heave ho!” + 

They had hurriedly constructed a kind of raft from a few beams, boards, and doors torn from the nearest houses, and let it go into the stream experimentally. Instantly it had been whirled round and upset, and the thirty men had enough to do to haul it on shore again. + 

For what had been the side of the hill was now the shore of a rushing, foaming stream. And on the hillside half the village was already collected, and others were ever breathlessly joining the crowd. There was no danger for the village; the nearest houses stood ten or fifteen feet above the water, and it seemed impossible that it should rise so much, more especially as in the last few minutes it had already gone down about a foot. The gale had shifted more to the north, the incoming flood would be driven towards the headland; and although the storm still raged with unabated fury, it had grown a little lighter. The first comers had no need now to point out the place to the new arrivals; everyone could see the whitewashed balcony on the other side, and the dark women’s figures⁠—once there were two, then again only one, who at first, said the first comers, had waved her handkerchief constantly, but now sat crouched in a corner, as if she had given up all hope, and was resignedly awaiting her fate. + 

And yet it seemed as if the work of deliverance must succeed. The distance was so small; a strong man could throw a stone across. They had even⁠—foolishly⁠—tried it, the best thrower amongst them had flung a stone, fastened to the end of a thin cord; but the stone had not flown ten feet, and with the cord had been blown away like gossamer. And now a huge wave from the other side rolled through the park, broke over the balcony, and, joining the stream, ran up to the top of the bank. The women shrieked aloud, the men looked at each other with grave, anxious faces. + 

“It won’t do, boys!” said the Mayor; “long before we can get the raft across, the thing over there will have given way. Another such wave, and it must be knocked to pieces; I know it well, the pillars are not six inches across, and worm-eaten besides.” + 

“And if we got to the other side and ran against it we should go to pieces and be upset ourselves,” said Jochen Becker, the blacksmith. + 

“And there would be ten of us in the water instead of two,” said Carl Peters, the carpenter. + 

“There is no good talking like that,” said the Mayor; “we can’t let them be drowned there before our very eyes. We’ll take the raft thirty yards higher up, and the men must go off at once; I’ll go with it myself. Haul away, my men. Ho! heave ho!” + 

A hundred hands were ready to drag the raft up stream. But thirty yards were not enough, it would require twice as much. Half-a-dozen courageous men had been found, too, to make the attempt; the Mayor might stay behind; who else was to command those who held the ropes? And that was the principal matter! + 

With long poles they steadied themselves on the raft. “Let go!” The raft shot out like an arrow into the centre of the stream. + 

“Hurrah!” cried those on shore, thinking the object already attained, fearing only that the raft would be carried into the park and driven against the trees. + 

But suddenly they came to a standstill; not a foot farther would it go, but danced about in midstream till the six men on board were forced to throw themselves down and cling fast, then darted down like an arrow against the near shore, to the spot where they had stood before. It took all the strength of the fifty men there assembled to hold it in, and it was only by the greatest exertion and with much apparent danger that the six men got safely off the raft and up the steep bank. + 

“This won’t do, boys!” said the Mayor. “I wish the Lieutenant would come back; they are his relations. He drives us down here, and then doesn’t come himself.” + 

The slight increase of light they had had, when the driving mist was partly blown aside, had disappeared again. Hitherto the leaden sky and dense storm-driven mist had made the evening seem like night; but now the real night was drawing in. Only a very sharp eye could still distinguish the black figure on the balcony, and even the balcony itself was not visible to all. At the same time the gale decidedly increased in violence, and had again veered from northeast to southeast, while the water rose considerably in consequence of the backward flow from Wissow Head. Now might have been a good opportunity, as the velocity of the stream was thus diminished; but no one had the heart to renew the hopeless effort. If there were no means of getting a rope over to the other side and fastening it there, so that some men might pass over the frail bridge to guide the raft over from that side, there was no hope. + 

So thought the Mayor, and the rest agreed with him. But they had to shout it into each other’s ears; no word spoken in an ordinary tone could have been heard through the fearful uproar. + 

Suddenly Ottomar stood amongst them. He had taken in the whole position at a glance. “A rope here!” he cried, “and lights! The willows there!” + 

They understood him at once; the four old hollow willow-trunks close to the edge! Let them be set on fire! It was true, if they could succeed in doing it, there would be danger to the village; but no one thought of that. They rushed to the nearest houses and dragged out armfuls of fir-wood and pitch, and thrust it all into the hollow trunks, which fortunately opened to westward. Two or three vain efforts⁠—and then it flamed up⁠—blazing, crackling⁠—sometimes flaming high, sometimes sinking down again⁠—throwing shifting lights upon the hundreds of pale faces which were all turned with anxious gaze upon the man who, with the rope round his body, was fighting with the stream. + 

Would he hold out? + 

More than one pair of rugged hands was clasped in prayer; women were on their knees, sobbing, wailing, pressing their nails into their hands, tearing their hair, shrieking aloud madly, as another fearful wave came up and rolled over him, and he disappeared in the billows. + 

But there he was again; he had been thrown back nearly half the distance which he had already won⁠—in another minute he had recovered it. He had been carried down some way, too; but he had chosen his point of departure well, the summerhouse was still far below him; he was traversing the stream as if by a miracle. + 

And now he was in the middle, at the worst place; they had known it to be that from the first. He did not seem to make any progress, but slid slowly down stream. Still the summerhouse was far below him; if he could pass the centre, he might, he must succeed! + 

And now he was evidently gaining ground, nearer and nearer, foot by foot, in an even, slanting line towards the balcony! Rough, surly men, who had been at enmity all their lives, had grasped each other’s hands: women fell sobbing into one another’s arms. A gentleman with close-cut grey hair and thick grey moustache, who had just arrived, breathless, from the village, stood close to the burning willows, almost touched by the flames, and followed the swimmer with fixed gaze, and fervent prayers and promises⁠—that all, all should be forgiven and forgotten if he might only receive him back⁠—his beloved, heroic son. Suddenly he gave a loud cry⁠—a terrible cry⁠—which the storm swallowed up, and rushed down to the bank where the men stood who had hold of the rope, calling to them to “Haul in, haul in!” + 

It was too late. + 

Shooting down the current came the great pine-tree, at the foot of which the swimmer had sat half an hour ago, torn up by the storm, hurled into the flood, whirled round by the eddying waters like some monster risen from the deep, now showing its mighty roots still grasping the stone, now lifting its head, now rising erect as it had once stood in the sunshine, and the next moment crashing down over the swimmer⁠—upon him⁠—then, with its head sunk in the foaming whirlpool and the roots raised above, it went out from the realm of light down into the dark night. + 

Strangely enough, the slender cord had not been broken, and they drew him back⁠—a dead man, at whose side, as he lay stretched on the bank, with only one broad, gaping wound upon his forehead, like a soldier who has met his death gallantly, the old man with the grey moustache knelt and kissed the dead lips of the beautiful pale mouth, and then rose to his feet. + 

“Give me the rope now! He was my son! And my daughter is there!” + 

It seemed insanity. They had seen how the young man had battled⁠—but the old one! He threw off coat and waistcoat. He might be an old man⁠—but he was still a strong man, with a broad powerful chest. + 

“If you feel that you can’t keep up, General, give us a signal in good time,” said the Mayor. + 

And now there happened what, to the people who in this one hour had seen such strange and terrible horrors, seemed a miracle. The blazing willow-stumps, which were burning now from the roots to the stiff branches, threw a light almost like day over the bank, the crowd, the stream, and the summerhouse opposite⁠—far into the flooded park up to the castle, whose windows here and there gave back a crimson reflection of the flames. + 

And in this light, floating down the narrow stream, on whose grassy bed the village children were wont to play, down the foaming current which had just now whirled along the branching pine-tree, like a sea-monster stretching out a hundred feelers for its prey, there came a slender well-built boat, that had just landed a strange cargo at the back entrance of the castle, as if at a quay. They had heard there how matters stood, and the man sitting at the helm had said: “My men, she is my betrothed!” And the six others, had shouted, “Hurrah for the Captain! and hurrah for his betrothed!” And now they shot past with lowered mast, and the crew holding their oars erect, as if they were bringing the Admiral on shore in his own boat. And the flag fluttered behind the man who sat at the helm, and with a light touch of his strong hand guided the willing vessel through the eddying foam to the goal which the clear keen eyes held fast, as the eagle his prey, however wildly the brave heart might beat against his bosom. + 

So they shot past⁠—past the crowd who gazed breathlessly at the miracle, past the summerhouse, but only a few yards. Then the man at the helm turned the boat suddenly like an eagle in its flight; and the six men took to their oars, at one stroke⁠—and “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!”⁠—the oars were withdrawn again, and the boat lay alongside the balcony, over which and over the boat an immense wave reared its foaming crest towards the bank, and there breaking threw its spray up into the burning trees, covering the breathless lookers-on with a cloud of moisture. + 

And as the cloud dispersed, they saw in the dim light of the decaying fire that the summerhouse was gone, and there was only left a shadowy boat that vanished into the darkness. + 

They drew a long breath then, as if from a single oppressed spirit relieved from a weight of fear. And “Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” resounded as if from a single throat, rising above even the howling storm. + 

The boat might disappear in the darkness, but they knew that the man sitting at the helm knew what he was about, and the six men who were with him knew what they were about; and it would return in safety, carrying the rescued from storm and flood. + 

XV + 

The setting sun no longer stood high above the hills. In the magic glow were shining the calm pools of water which covered the immense semicircle between the Golmberg and Wissow Head. The slanting golden rays shone dazzlingly in Reinhold’s eyes, as he steered his boat from the lake into the broad gulf close by the White Dune, against whose steep sides the long incoming waves were washing, while the boat glided over its broad surface, and the blades of the oars as they rose and sank in regular cadence almost touched the edge. + 

The eyes of the rowers were turned towards the dune as they glided by, while the scene of deliverance on the night of the storm must have recurred to every man’s memory, but no one spoke a word. Not because it would have been a breach of discipline. They knew that the Captain would always allow talk that was to the purpose at the right time, even when as today he was in full uniform, with the Iron Cross on his broad breast; but he had pulled his cocked hat low down upon his forehead, and if he occasionally raised his eyes to see the course he was steering, they did not look gloomy⁠—they had never seen him look gloomy yet, any more than they had ever heard a bad word from his mouth⁠—but very grave and sad. They would not disturb the Captain’s meditations. + 

Grave and sad meditations⁠—graver and sadder than the honest fellows could imagine or comprehend. + 

What to them were the two people whom they had rescued from death on this sand-hill, with untold efforts and at the repeated risk of their own lives; what were they to them but a couple more fellow-creatures, saved as a matter of duty, and added to the others whom they had already saved that day? As to how Count Golm and the young lady had got there, and the relation in which they stood to each other⁠—what did they care about that? But he! + 

He had shuddered when he found the brilliant Carla von Wallbach, whom he had seen a few days before flirting and coquetting in the light of the chandeliers, in the drawing-room at Warnow⁠—now cowering on the storm-beaten dune, a picture of utter misery, her clothes soaked through with wet, her tender limbs shaken by icy cold, half out of her senses with terror, and hardly resembling a human creature; as he carried her to the boat, and at the moment when he laid her down, she woke from her stupor, and recognising him, shrieked wildly: “Save me from him! Save me!” and clung terrified to him⁠—a stranger⁠—as a child might cling to his mother, so that he had to use force to free himself! + 

The Count was in a hardly less pitiable condition, when two of the men carried him into the boat and laid him down near Carla; but then he suddenly started up, and at the risk of falling overboard staggered to the bow of the boat, and there sat lost in gloomy meditation, taking no notice of anything that passed, till they had worked their way to the Pölitz’s farm, and prepared to take the poor wretches there into the boat through the window of the attic in which they had taken refuge. Then he had sprung to his feet, and shrieked like a madman that he would not be packed in together with those people! he would not! and had laid violent hands on the men, till he was cowed by the threat that they would tie his hands if he did not implicitly obey the Captain’s orders; and then, covering his face with his hands, he had devoured his wrath in silence. + 

There was the attic, there was the window opening⁠—they had been obliged to tear out the window and knock down a bit of the wall to make room. It seemed to Reinhold himself almost a miracle that he had been successful, that he had been able to save the poor creatures from this abyss of misery, and carry the most fragile human blossom through night and storm and darkness to the safe harbour of the castle where all danger was over. + 

The passage from the submerged farm to the castle had only lasted a few minutes⁠—the gale had driven the boat before it like a feather⁠—but this was the only time when even his heart had trembled, not with fear, but with tender care. His eyes grew wet as he recalled the memory now of the mother as she lay in the boat, her little one in her bosom, her head on her husband’s knee, while poor Marie, full of compassion, supported in her arms the senseless Carla. What would the wretched man in the bow of the boat have thought of this sight if he ever raised his eyes? When they laid the boat alongside the back entrance of the castle, he sprang out and rushed away in furious haste, to hide himself anywhere in the darkness⁠—like Cain fleeing from the body of his murdered brother. + 

And sadder and sadder grew Reinhold’s thoughts. He had succeeded even in his highest hopes⁠—he had rescued his beloved from certain death, and with her the unhappy woman who loved them both as if they had been her children, and whom they both loved and honoured as a mother. So far was all the deepest happiness; and yet! and yet! + 

How dearly had that happiness been bought! Could it be happiness that cost so high a price? Was there still left any happiness on earth, when sorrow in pitiless shape lay so close at hand⁠—even as the purple shadows yonder between the battlements and projections of the castle lay close against the patches of sunlight? Did not the most apparently firm ground quake, just as the waves here were dancing over the field where the countryman used to drive his plough, over the meadow where the shepherd had tended his flock? Must they needs die⁠—so young, so beautiful, so richly dowered with the noblest gifts and qualities? And if they must die, since they could no longer⁠—would no longer live, since death was to them only a deliverance from inextricable entanglements⁠—what a doubtful good seemed life which brought with it even the possibility of so terrible a fate! How could the two fathers bear it? Nobly, no doubt. And yet! and yet! + 

They rowed round the castle and the park, and drew near the shore at the spot where the willows had been burnt that night, and where the blackened stumps still rose above the bank. Several large and small boats lay there already from Ahlbeck, and even from villages farther distant along the coast. From all parts⁠—from miles around⁠—they had come, for everywhere for miles around had the story been repeated from mouth to mouth, with many variations, yet always the same⁠—the touching story of the youth who loved a maiden; of how the two had fled from home, but could find no happiness or peace; and now both were dead, and were to be buried today. + 

Reinhold turned his steps from the shore to the village. The President had written to him that he should be at Warnow at the appointed time, and wished to speak to him before he met the family. He knew the worthy man’s punctuality; and, indeed, he had hardly reached the open space in front of the inn, where a whole army of vehicles was already assembled, before a carriage drove up, from which the President alighted, and the moment he saw him came towards him with extended hand. + 

An expression of almost fatherly goodwill lay in his silent greeting; for the good man was too much moved to be able to speak at once, until, after walking a few steps side by side, he began, with a melancholy smile: + 

“Prophets both of us! Yes, my dear young friend; and what would we not give to have been found false prophets, and that our storm-floods had never come! But here they are, however. Yours, thank God, has quickly exhausted its fury; mine⁠—God help us!⁠—must rage for a long time yet. I wish such another valiant St. George might arise there too, to fight the dragon so boldly and save the poor victims! I am proud of you, my dear friend; there can be few people who rejoice so heartily in the gallant deeds which, by God’s good help, you have performed. To have saved so many human lives⁠—even if your betrothed had not been of the number⁠—how happy you must be! It will not add to your happiness⁠—I mean it will not increase the joy with which your heart must be full⁠—but it is right and proper that such good service should meet with its proper recognition in the eyes of the world. Neither has your former conduct, which roused so much ill-feeling at the time, been forgotten. Had your advice been followed, the unfortunate harbour works at least would never have been begun, and millions and millions would have been spared to our poor country, to say nothing of the damage done. The Minister thinks that such heads should not be left idle; he has telegraphed to me, in answer to my brief report of the events here, desiring me to offer you, in his Majesty’s name, the medal and ribbon of the Order of Merit given for saving life, and to ask you, in his own name, whether you are disposed to enter his office in any capacity⁠—as Naval Councillor, I imagine; but of that you would hear from himself personally; or possibly in the Admiralty Office⁠—the two gentlemen seem inclined to dispute over you. I think I know your answer⁠—you would like to remain here for the present⁠—and I should most reluctantly lose you just now. But keep yourself disengaged for the future; you owe it to the public good and to yourself. Am I not right?” + 

“Perfectly so,” said Reinhold; “it is my warmest wish and firm resolve to serve my king and country, by land or water, wherever or however I can. Any summons that comes to me will always find me ready; although, indeed, I do not deny that I should most reluctantly leave this place.” + 

“I can believe that,” said the President. “A man like you puts his whole soul into everything, and is absorbed by his duties, be they small or great; and you have proved that great things can be done in comparatively insignificant positions. But the matter has its social side too, which it would be false heroism to overlook. The thorough appreciation of your services in the highest places will be gratifying to your poor father-in-law, and he would feel himself, besides, terribly lonely in Berlin without his daughter near him.” + 

“How kind you are!” said Reinhold, much touched. “How you have thought of everything!” + 

“Have I not!” said the President, responding warmly to the pressure of Reinhold’s hand. “It is wonderful! But I have the honour of being a friend of the family; you yourself acknowledged me in that capacity, when, at the same time with the official report of the events of the flood, you sent me a private account of what had concerned yourself and the family to which you now belong. I feel myself honoured by your confidence; I need not say that it will all remain buried in heart. But you did right; in such complicated affairs it is better not to trust to oneself, but to make use of the experience and judgment of one’s friends. And who could be better placed than I to give advice and assistance in this case? I have thought over everything already, and settled a good deal in my own mind, and have even taken some preliminary steps, which have met with the readiest concurrence on all sides. We will speak of this more at length when you come to see me at Sundin, which you must do shortly. For today, as I must return immediately after the funeral, I will only say this: I am certain that the estates of your aunt the Baroness may be saved, as both Golm and the Company are bankrupt, and must be satisfied with any reasonable conditions. I shall not offer them favourable ones, you may be sure! These men, who have brought such untold misery upon thousands, deserve no mercy! Even so there will remain only the ruins of a magnificent property, for the principal part is lost forever, I fear, with that terrible man Giraldi. Or do you not think so?” + 

“Indeed I do,” said Reinhold. “I supposed so from the first; and the account given by the man who drove him, and whom I afterwards thoroughly questioned and examined, confirmed my supposition. The influx of the tide between Wissow Head and Faschwitz was so frightfully violent that the waters that first entered the so-formed gulf must have been emptied out by the succeeding waves as out of a basin, with everything that was floating in it. The water thus forced out would join the immense stream running westwards into the open sea between the mainland and the island, and if the corpse should ever, weeks hence, perhaps months hence, be carried to some distant shore⁠—” + 

“It is a pity, a great pity,” said the President; “such a magnificent property! According to my calculations, and the expressions used by that dreadful man in his last interview with the Baroness, not less than a million. How much good might have been done with it! And in your hands, too. But then it would be a terrible thing to come into such an inheritance. And the Baroness, too; are the dreadful details known to her?” + 

“She knows that Antonio was the murderer of my poor cousin; and she knows also that the two Italians met in their flight, and were drowned together. I hope the unutterable horror that the man’s account reveals to us will remain forever hidden from her.” + 

“She does not believe in the son?” + 

“Not in the least! It is as if God in His mercy had blinded her usually quick eyes on this point. She takes the whole thing for an invention and sheer lie of Giraldi’s. You may suppose that we strengthen her in this idea, and thank the fates on this ground at least for the darkness that has swallowed up what never ought to see the light of day.” + 

“True, true!” said the President; “that is a comfort, certainly. The unhappy lady has suffered enough already. The fates have not been so merciful to your poor uncle. It is terrible to lose such a daughter⁠—so beautiful and gifted⁠—in such a way; but for a man such as your uncle from all I hear must be, so high-minded and upright, to be haunted by the vision of a son who is pursued whichever way he turns by warrants and detectives; for such sorrow as that I think no greatness of mind, no philosophy can be of any use; it is utterly horrible, without the least hope of consolation. Such grief cannot be alleviated by even time, which cures most troubles; death alone can bring relief; but the man will not let himself die.” + 

“I do not know,” said Reinhold; “he is one of a family who do not fear death. However differently in some points the poor man may see life, I can easily imagine that even to him the question may present itself in a form which he understands, and that he may then not hesitate for a moment in his decision.” + 

The faintest glimmer of a sarcastic smile played round the President’s delicately-cut lips; he was about to say, with some courteous periphrases, that he quite understood family pride, even when as in this case it clearly overshot the mark; but a loud shout from a rough voice close by them left him no time. The shouter was Herr von Strummin, who with Justus came so quickly down the lane which led from the High Street of the village to the parsonage, that Reinhold, who had already received notice of his friend’s arrival early that morning, had no time to explain to the President the connection between the two men. However, before Herr von Strummin had offered his hand to the President, he called out: + 

“Allow me the honour, President, to introduce my son-in-law⁠—Herr Justus Anders⁠—celebrated sculptor! Gold medallist, President! Came this morning from Berlin with my daughter, in company with your aunt, Captain Schmidt. Has already by desire of the Baroness taken the arrangements into his hands, cleared out the whole of the big ground-floor saloon; looks like the church at Strummin. Yes, my dear President, an artist you know; we must all give way to him. And now, only think, President, the clergyman cannot, or rather will not, say the last words over the grave! declines doing so at the last moment! We⁠—my son-in-law and I⁠—have just come from him; he would not receive us⁠—can’t speak to anybody⁠—can’t speak at all! Conveniently hoarse! The parsonage of Golm, which the Count has promised him, sticks in his throat, I dare say! And it is a good mouthful⁠—three thousand thalers a year, without the perquisites. But I should think the authorities would refuse their sanction; the toad-eating, hypocritical⁠—” + 

“But, my dear Herr von Strummin!” said the President, looking round nervously. + 

“It is true enough!” cried Herr von Strummin; “the Count has forbidden him; the Count and he are always laying their heads together. My son-in-law⁠—” + 

The two friends could not hear what Herr von Strummin, who at last, at the President’s repeated request, moderated his loud voice, brought forward in further support of his views. They had dropped behind a little way, to clasp each other’s hands again and again with tears in their eyes. + 

“Yesterday at the same hour we buried Cilli,” said Justus. “Ferdinanda’s Pietà, which I will finish, is to adorn her grave, and to make known to the world what a treasure of goodness, and love, and mercy lies buried there; and I will erect a monument to the two here. I told Meta my idea for doing it on the way here; she says it will be splendid; but how gladly would I really break stones for the rest of my life, as my father-in-law used to say of me, if I could awake to life again the good, the beautiful, the brave.⁠—Your naval uniform is wonderfully becoming, Reinhold! I ought to have taken your portrait so; we must repeat it some day; the large gold epaulettes are splendid for modelling. And that parson won’t read the funeral oration because the General and Uncle Ernst have determined that the two shall rest in one grave! He implored the General to alter the arrangement; they had not even been publicly betrothed! only think! But the General stood firm, and has asked your uncle to say a few words. Even that the parson won’t have; but the two old gentlemen will not give in; they hold together like brothers. A telegram came just now for your uncle; I was with him when he opened it, and saw how he started; I am certain it has something to do with that unfortunate Philip, he has been arrested probably. It is terrible that your uncle must have that to bear too, on such a day as this; but he has said nothing to anyone excepting the General. I saw them go aside together, and he showed him the telegram, and then they talked together for some time, and at last shook hands. Uncle Ernst, who had vowed that the hand which pressed the General’s should wither! And today he has asked me half-a-dozen times if I believe that Ottomar’s brother officers, who are expected, will really come⁠—we have made the funeral so late on their account⁠—it would be too sad for the General if they stayed away! As if he had no sorrows himself! He is really heroic! But your Elsa is admirable too. She loved her brother dearly, but how quietly she moves and speaks now, and arranges everything, and has a willing ear and a kindly word for everyone. ‘I could not do that, you know,’ says Meta; ‘there is only one Elsa, you know.’ Of course I know it! But there is only one Meta too; don’t you think so?” + 

“My dear son-in-law!” cried Herr von Strummin, looking back. + 

“He has called me that at least a hundred times already today!” said Justus with a sigh, as he hastened on, lengthening his short steps. + 

They had reached the upper end of the deep narrow cutting, and saw the castle now immediately in front of them. It was a strange sight to the President, who had formerly known the place well, and whom Reinhold now led a few steps forward to the precipitous edge of the bank. For the stream had so washed and torn away the soil that here and there the bank positively overhung, and Reinhold could no longer find and show to the President the spot where the pine-tree had stood, whose fall had been fatal to Ottomar. Below them, between the steep bank and the castle, the stream still ran, no longer with the foaming waves and roaring whirlpools of that night of terror, but in calm transparent ripples, which met and joined together to form fresh ripples that plashed against the keels of the five large boats on which had been laid the temporary bridge that connected the head of the gorge with the old stone gateway of the castle yard. The battlements of the gateway and the great shield above, bearing the Warnow arms, shone in the evening light, as did the round tower of the castle and the higher roofs and gables, down to the sharply-cut line of the blue shadow thrown by the hillside over the receding portion of the building. And farther on to the right shone the tops of the trees in the flooded park, and beyond castle and park the still water which filled the whole immense bay, and seemed to flow without interruption towards the open sea. Under the brilliant slanting rays of the sun, the few points of the dunes still above water vanished even from Reinhold’s sharp eyes; he could hardly distinguish the roofs of the Pölitz’s farm, and here and there on the wide expanse the branches of a willow which formerly stood by the side of a ditch. + 

The President stood lost in thought; he seemed to have forgotten even Reinhold’s presence. + 

“The day will come,” Reinhold heard him murmur. + 

They crossed the bridge of boats, with the water gurgling and splashing against the sharp keels; through the wide gateway sounded a subdued hum of voices. + 

Now for the first time as they passed through the gate, they saw why the village had looked deserted. The immense courtyard was filled, particularly at the end nearest to the castle, with a crowd of nearly a thousand people, standing about in large groups, who as they respectfully made way for the gentlemen advancing to the door, took note of them curiously, and made whispered remarks upon them behind their backs. “The one next to the Captain was the President!” said those who knew him, and they were the majority, to the others. “If the President, who was the principal person in the whole province, and such a good gentleman too, who was sure to act for the best, had come here and was going to be present at the funeral, why then the parson could not possibly stay at home. And if the parson had known that the President would be here, he would never have been ill. He wouldn’t get the parsonage at Golm for a long time yet, and if the Count liked to make him his domestic chaplain, why he might please himself; but whether the Count and his chaplain would be any richer than the mice in the chapel at Golm was another question. And if the Count meant to play the master here, they would soon put him out of conceit with that; but Herr Damberg said there was no chance of that; he might think himself fortunate if he came off with his life, and at any rate his property would be sequestrated!” + 

The four gentlemen had entered the castle. A more numerous and brilliant group which now appeared on the bridge, attracted the attention of the multitude. It was a party of officers in full uniform, followed at a little distance by a larger number of noncommissioned officers⁠—belonging to Herr von Werben’s regiment, said those who had been in the army and who had seen Ottomar in his coffin. “And the Colonel, who came first, he commanded his regiment too, and anyone who had served under him in France could see that he knew how to command, by the look of his eyes and nose; and the Captain, who came next to him, was one of the Staff who had been sent here by Field Marshal Moltke himself; and the tall Lieutenant, also in the uniform of Herr von Werben’s regiment, was the young Herr von Wartenberg of the Bolswitz Wartenbergs; and as for the old Bolswitz people, they had arrived more than an hour ago in their carriage with three outriders from their place ten miles off. And so how could a word be true of all the nonsense talked about young Herr von Werben, that he had not been taken to Berlin because he would not have had an honourable burial there, and now here were people coming the whole way from Berlin to assist at his funeral!” + 

Justus, who had readily undertaken the direction of the simple funeral ceremonies, and who now saw the officers crossing the courtyard, waited in the hall long enough to receive them, and to conduct them into the room on the right hand where the company was assembled. Then he made a sign to Reinhold to follow him, and led him through a door at the end of the hall which he opened cautiously and immediately shut behind him. “No one is allowed to enter now,” said he. “What do you say to it, Reinhold?” + 

The lofty and handsome room had its shutters closed, but was filled with the soft light of innumerable wax candles in chandeliers and branches on the walls, and in candelabra between masses of evergreen plants and young fir-trees, which were beautifully arranged in a semicircle opening towards the entrance to the room, and surrounding the two coffins which stood on a high dais, carpeted and covered with flowers. The walls around were adorned with old armour which Justus had rescued from the lumber-room, and fine casts from the antique, even some originals collected by a former art-loving possessor of the castle, and which he had brought together from the various rooms, and also with bouquets of leafy plants and fir-trees, between which lights were burning. + 

“Have not I made it splendid!” whispered Justus, “and all in these few hours this morning! How they would both have liked it⁠—he the armour, and she the statues! But the most beautiful things here are themselves. I must call the family now, Reinhold, before we close the coffins; do you take your farewell now. You have not had so much opportunity yet as the others.” + 

Justus disappeared through a door which led to the inner apartments; and Reinhold mounted the steps and stood between the coffins, in which they slept the sleep that knows no waking. + 

Yes, they were beautiful! more beautiful than they had been in life. Death seemed to have purified them from every earthly taint, that their noble natures might show themselves in all their grandeur. How grand, how fine was this maiden’s face! how exquisitely sweet the youth’s! And as if in dying the union of their souls had been truly accomplished, and each had lovingly given to the other what best adorned them in life, on her lips that had been so proudly closed was a tender, happy, humble smile, while from his delicate pure features death had wiped away with the restless glance of the nervous eyes and the impatient quiver of the delicate mouth, all that was imperfect and unfinished, and left nothing but the expression of heroic determination with which he had gone to his death, and to which a solemn seal was set by the broad red scar on the white forehead. There was a slight rustle in the leaves behind him; he turned and opened his arms to Elsa. She leant against him weeping: “Only for a moment,” she whispered, “that I may feel your dear heart beat, and know that I have you living still, my comfort, my help!” She raised herself again. “Farewell, farewell! For the last time, farewell, my dear, dear brother! Farewell, my beautiful, proud sister, whom I should have loved so dearly!” + 

She kissed them both on their pale lips; then Reinhold took her in his arms and led her down from the side of the dais, where he saw Justus and Meta standing hand in hand a little way off between the shrubs, while from the back appeared upon the dais the General, Valerie, and Sidonie, Uncle Ernst and Aunt Rikchen, to take leave of the dead. It was a solemn yet exciting moment, the details of which Reinhold’s tear-filled eyes could not seize or retain, while to Justus’s keen artist’s eye one touching and beautiful picture followed another⁠—none more touching or beautiful to him, who knew these people and their circumstances so well, than the last which he saw: the General with tender care almost carrying down the steps of the dais the utterly exhausted Valerie⁠—she had only left her sickroom for this moment, and had covered her head with a thick lace veil⁠—while Uncle Ernst’s powerful figure, still standing above, bent down to good little Aunt Rikchen, and he passed his strong large hand soothingly over her pale, sorrowful, tear-stained cheek. + 

“Do you know,” whispered Meta, “they are feeling now just what we did when he stood by our sleeping angel, that they must love one another very much now, you know.” + 

Half an hour later the funeral procession moved from the gateway, from whose battlements floated in the soft evening breeze on one side the German flag, on the other a black flag, and passed over the bridge of boats, up the gully, and from there turning to the right, entered the gradually ascending road to the churchyard, which lay on the highest of the hills that had now become the shore, a few hundred paces from the village. It was a long, solemn procession. + 

First came village children, strewing with fir branches the sandy road before the coffins, the one adorned with palms, in which lay hidden the virgin form of the beautiful and heroic maiden, carried by sturdy pilots and fishermen from Wissow, who insisted upon bearing their Captain’s cousin to her last resting-place; and the other with the warlike emblems of the man for whom she had died, and whom a merciful fate had permitted to die the death of a brave man, worthy of the decorations he had won in presence of the enemy, and which the sergeant of his troop carried behind him on a silk cushion, worthy that the gallant soldiers who had known him in his brightest days, whose shoulders his kindly hand had so often rested on in the heat of battle, by the blazing campfire, on the weary march, should carry him now on his way to answer to the great roll-call. + 

Behind the coffins came the two fathers, then Reinhold leading his Elsa, Justus with his Meta⁠—Sidonie and Aunt Rikchen had remained with Valerie⁠—the President and Colonel von Bohl, Schönau and the brilliant company of other officers, the neighbouring gentry with their wives, Herr and Frau von Strummin, the Wartenbergs, the Griebens, the Boltenhagens and Warnekows, and all the rest of the descendants of the old, long-established families; the innumerable following of landsmen and sailors, the gigantic form of the worthy Pölitz, and the stalwart figure of the head pilot, Bonsak, at their head. + 

A long, solemn, silent procession, accompanied step by step by the monotonous sound of the tide washing against the steep banks, and now and then the shrill cry of a gull, as skimming over the dazzling water, it seemed curiously to watch the strange sight, or a whispered word from some man to his neighbour, that even those nearest before or behind could not hear. + 

Such was the word that the General spoke to Uncle Ernst, as the head of the procession reached the graveyard, “Do you feel strong enough?” and that which Uncle Ernst answered, “Now for the first time I feel myself strong again.” + 

But even Reinhold and Elsa, who walked behind them, would not have understood it if they had heard. Uncle Ernst had not shown to anyone yet, excepting the General, the telegram of which Justus had spoken, the fateful message, in the dry hard style of a police official. + 

“Philip Schmidt, on the point of embarking tonight on board steamer Hansa, from Bremerhaven to Chile, recognised, and shot himself with a revolver in his cabin; misappropriated money recovered untouched; will be buried tomorrow evening at six o’clock.” + 

Under the broad hand which he had thrust into his overcoat lay the paper, and against it beat his mighty heart, beat in truth stronger and with revived pride, now that he might say to himself that his unhappy son was not at least one of the cowards who prized life above all things; that even for him there had been a measure of infamy which could not be over-passed, since at that moment he had spilt the cup of life⁠—a draught too insipid and miserable for even his dishonoured lips. + 

The coffins had been let down into their common grave. At the head of the grave stood Uncle Ernst bareheaded, and bareheaded stood the crowd in a wide semicircle around him. + 

Bareheaded, silent, looking up to the stately man whose figure stood out giant-like from the hillside in the rosy evening light. + 

And now he lifted his great eyes, which seemed to embrace the whole assembly in one glance, and now he raised his deep voice, whose bell-like tones carried every word distinctly to the extreme edge of the circle: + 

“My friends all! I may call you so, for in the presence of a great sorrow all men are friends, and in this lies the healing and saving power of a tragic fate, and also its necessity. As my shadow falls here upon you, so does everyone stand between other men and the sun of fortune, and each envies the other his portion, which should, he thinks, belong to him; and he forgets that it is only an outward show that he so eagerly desires, a glittering show without warmth, and that the warmth which he should indeed desire dwells in the heart of every man, and is that alone which makes life worth having, or even possible. Woe to us poor human creatures, that we forget this for long, loveless years, forget the sublime words that love is above all, and drown the pleadings of the heart that longs for love with the hollow tinkle of our meagre knowledge and our paltry wisdom! Woe to the individual, and woe to the nation! + 

“Woe to the nation that forgets it, and exists for generations and centuries in crass selfishness and blind hatred, till the hereditary foe breaks into its fields, and, waking the people from their dull dreams, reminds them at length that they are brothers; and as brothers they stand by one another, as we have done on innumerable battlefields in the most glorious and most righteous of all wars, only on returning home to begin anew the struggle over mine and thine⁠—the wild, desolating struggle of self-advancement, that feels no shame and knows no mercy, desires no peace and gives no pardon, and respects no right but that of the victor, who scornfully tramples the conquered under foot. Oh, my friends! we have experienced this! These last years will remain noted as the most shameful, following immediately upon the most glorious in our history⁠—a melancholy memorial and sign how low a great nation can sink. + 

“But our great German nation cannot, will not sink deeper. + 

“Let us, my friends, take this fearful storm with its desolating horrors, which have now exhausted themselves and upon which this sublime peace has come down from heaven, as a token that the storm which is now raging through German society will sweep away the poisonous vapours of self-love, and make the glorious German sun shine brighter than before; that the barren waters which now cover so many acres of young green grass will pass away, and offer a new land for fresh honest labour and honest golden fruits. + 

“May this hope and this assurance soften the grief for the beloved dead whom we now commit to the sacred bosom of the earth⁠—this hope, this assurance, and the certainty that they have not died in vain; that they were blossoms struck down by the storm to warn the gardener that he must tend and cherish the noble tree more carefully. + 

“The call comes thus to us the elders and old men. As they died gladly and joyfully, without asking whether they might not still live, hastening to death as to a feast, so must we live without asking whether we had not rather die. + 

“The call comes thus to you who are younger, to you all the louder and more urgently, the longer the road stretches before you, the more powerful are the obstacles that rise in your path. + 

“Oh! thou bright star of day, whose last ray now shines upon us, and thou holy sea, and thou reviving earth, I take you all to witness the vow which we make at the grave of these too early dead: to renounce from this hour all littleness and meanness, to live henceforth in the light of truth, to love each other with the whole strength of our hearts! May the God of truth and love overrule all to the honour of man, and the glory of the German name!” + 

The voice of the speaker died away, but the echo of his words reverberated in the hearts of the hearers as they pressed silently round to offer the last honours to the dead, bathed in the reflection of the rosy glow which the sun, now set, threw up to the sky, and which the sky lovingly returned to the earth. + 