CHAPTER XIII.
On the morning of the day so momentous for Lydia, Miller Werner and his boy descended from the Kreuzgrund behind Ziegelhausen along the pattering brook to the village below. The sails of his own mills and those of his neighbours clappered merrily as if for a wager. The brook glittered as morning dew and May light. Even the meadows of the fertile valley were still adorned in the midst of summer with the green of spring.
"Thou art certain," said the miller to his redheaded offspring, "that it was Erastus' daughter?"
"Quite certain, father."
"Thou didst read the note thyself?"
"I read, that she was to be on the Holtermann an hour before sundown."
"How didst thou manage that?"
"I am not going to run errands for the Jesuits blindly. I saw that he wrapped something up in a kerchief, and he wanted me to believe, that he wished the young lady to receive back her lost property without knowing who had found it. I don't let myself be made a cat's paw of. 'Be wise as serpents,' says Grandmother."
"I don't blame thee, but only wish I could put a stop to the design of this Priest of Baal? Erastus saved thy mother's life through his skill; he however has a low opinion of our Church. I shall be glad to make him think better of our habits, and prove my gratitude to him. I am also sorry for the girl. I shall have to inform her father about this letter."
"Had I not better go up to-day and separate them? Thou knowest I can imitate all birds and animals, and the devil himself pretty well."
"No," said the miller, "this is no matter for boys." When the miller had finished all his errands in the tower, he inquired for Erastus at his house. He was told, that the Counsellor was away. He wished to speak with the young lady. She was out. The old dissenter went away shaking his head. "Nothing is left for me to do, but to try and move the conscience of the Italian Papist, if he has a conscience. Ha, it is ringing for the evening worship, which the pious man holds in the Heiligengeist Church. Perhaps I may there meet the infatuated girl, in any case the good shepherd, who would lead his own sheep to destruction. These people are a crying sin and disgrace."
When he reached the market, he entered the Church disdaining the outward visible signs of worship usually observed in God's house by the members of the congregation. The Preacher had already begun his sermon. It was his usual theme, the wickedness of the world. "A fitting subject for thee, thou scoundrel," thought the Baptist. He looked around for Lydia. In vain. He examined all the faces from the most backward to the foremost rows; she was not present. "The lost sheep is in any case better than the shepherd," he said to himself, "she at all events does not prepare herself in God's house for an assignation." He now turned his attention to the Preacher, who began to speak more warmly and more enthusiastically. He spoke of the punishments of sin, but the iron mountain and the pecking bird played no longer a part in his rhetoric. From most intimate knowledge did he that day depict the pangs of an evil conscience. He described the secret sinner, peering timorously around or continually looking behind him, whether one was not near who had seen all; no longer able to look at people straight in the face, but casting his eyes down before their scrutiny, whose evil conscience attributed everything to his hidden trespass and who thus on earth carried Hell about him in his own breast.
"Oho does it seem to thee thus," thought the Baptist, "then perhaps is there a chance of saving thee." After thinking for a time he tore from a bill which he had about him a piece of blank paper and wrote on it a few words. Then he took off his woollen neck-cloth, folded it neatly together, concealing the note within it. "That is the same post-office as invented by thee," said he to himself with a grim smile. As the last psalm was being sung, he left the Church quietly. Keenly did his piercing eye survey the passing crowd. Finally he beheld a young maiden, a member of his sect, who would be a suitable messenger. He quietly went up to her and whispered for a while with her. Silent messages, concerted watchwords, signals, and all sorts of secret communications were not uncommon among the oppressed and persecuted Baptists. The young woman accepted the charge given to her by the Baptist without the slightest hesitation. The bells sounded, the congregation left the Church, the marketplace was empty. Out of humor and inwardly ill at rest Laurenzano now came out of the porch. "What did that Dissenter want here during prayer-time," he asked himself. "Unabashed he entered in the middle of the sermon, and how insolently did he stare at me towards the end leaning against a pillar, as if I were depicting the evil state of my own wicked conscience." He sighed, and then continued angrily "I will take care that the police-magistrate pays another visit to the Kreuzgrund." At that moment a neatly dressed peasant girl came up to him, "Reverend Sir, you lost something yesterday near the Stift." Scarcely was the cloth in his hand, than the maiden disappeared round the corner. Laurenzano looked anxiously about him, to see whether he was observed. Then he undid the cloth. It contained a piece of paper. It was certainly from Lydia. She was perhaps appointing a safer place than the Kreuzweg. He quickly turned up a narrow street opposite, stopped and read the words: "Fly, all is known." Terrified he looked behind him, and suddenly a loud voice above him roared out: "The man deserves that a fox's tail be hung from his collar, and himself be flogged out of the town," It was the landlord of the Hirsch, talking about the opposition host, of the Ox. Paul knew the voice well, and thought the words referred to himself, for he remembered the habitual evening guests of the Hirsch, whom he had caused to be imprisoned in the great tower. For that reason he had daily been treated with great coolness in the Hirsch. So now it was known that he was acting under orders of the Jesuits, it was known that he had been the cause of the wretched fate of the four parsons, a stranger warned him. Did he mean the betrayal, did he mean the appointment with Lydia, or the affair with the daughter of the former court fool? or perhaps--a shudder passed over him. In any case he was discovered. Madly did he rush forwards. He only came back to his senses on reaching the Speyer gate. Pigavetta is at present with the Reichstag, he thought in his fear. Father Aloysius' name came back to him as a deliverer from his inward and outward troubles. He alone could advise him and the Bishop protect him. As if hunted by evil spirits he hastened onwards. On the way to Schwetzingen was a tavern. A band was playing a new gavotte composed by the jovial Henry of Navarre, and introduced by the French into Heidelberg. "Beauteous Gabrielle," began the words of the text thus set to music. In his indefinite fear it sounded like mockery. As if pricked by spurs, he hastened his pace, whilst the merry tune pursued him for some time across the silent fields. He breathed more freely, when he had left the "beauteous Gabrielle" entirely behind him. Only when the sun was setting, and a cool breeze from the Bergstrasse fanned his neck, did he question within himself whether he had not been rather premature in thus taking to flight? He pulled the note out of his pocket. It was a coarse piece of paper, a large bold handwriting, evidently a man's. With a shake of the head he once more concealed the mysterious words about him. Under any circumstances he must consult Pigavetta, and more calmly did he continue his journey along the stubbly road between the waving cornfields.
The Baptist left the market-place the moment that he perceived from afar the effect of his message. He saw how the Magister slipped up the narrow street, how he trembled, and how finally he hastened away, but not at all in the direction of the rendez-vous. "I have the greatest mind," thought the old man laughing "to send the same message to all these priests of Baal, I bet, that the following morning all the pulpits in this sinful town would be empty." Some of his errands were not quite finished; he was only free as night came on. "The deluded maiden must be home by this time," he said, as he left the home of his last customer; "perhaps she is sad and ashamed, I will try and touch her better feelings, and thus spare the good Physician a great sorrow--" and although tired and hungry he once more climbed the Schlossberg. He found there only Erastus' housekeeper in an anxious state of mind at the young lady's absence. "I have specimens of wheat," said the Miller, "and a message besides, she will not stay out much longer and I have already climbed up here twice to-day." The old Barbara delighted at having some one to keep her company in her solitude, set a bowl of millet soup before him chattering away in praise of her young mistress. He answered shortly, and listened in great distress of mind to every sound. Midnight was approaching and still the two sat on waiting near the hearth by the burnt out fire. Finally the old servant could not contain her anxiety any longer. She wanted to rouse the people in the castle to search for Lydia, but the Miller stopped her. "A scandal won't do. A girl's reputation is like the bloom on the peach, or a frost flower on a pane of glass. Touch them, they are gone. Therefore keep quiet. I fancy I know where she is, but you must promise me to be silent. If to-morrow by mid-day I have not found her, I shall come back here. Till then do not mention a word of this to any one." Old Barbara gave her promise. She felt relieved at his taking the responsibility on himself. When the Miller reached the town once again, he turned down one of the narrow side streets leading to the Neckar. He knocked three times in a peculiar manner at the shutters of a house. "Immediately," answered a gentle female voice. The Baptist entered and asked whether his boy was still there? "He sleeps," was the answer. "Wake him and give us both a couple of stout sticks." After a time the boy appeared looking very drowsy, but determined to accompany his father without a word of complaint, who grasped in his strong hand the knotty thorn lent to him. After giving their names they were allowed by the guard to cross the bridge. "We are going by way of the Holtermann to the Kreuzgrund."
"That is it," said the boy. "I thought that was the reason why thou didst remain out so long."
Silently, continuing his sleep as he best might whilst walking, the weary boy plodded in a mechanical manner behind his father. The crickets chirped around them, and fire-flies flew among the bushes. When they reached the brow of the hill near the old beech tree, the father ordered his son to shout his loudest mountain call. The boy did this at first with a tired husky voice, then louder and louder, but all remained mute. A bird rose here and there from its bush, and a cock crowed an answer from the Siebenmühlenthal. "There is no one here any longer," said old Werner sadly, "why should she be? Let us go to our beds."
"It seems to me as if I saw a fire there, Father," said the boy.
"You are right. What means a fire in the middle of the Kreuzweg?"
Quietly did the old man and his son steal up to where the light shone. "Go thou round that way, I go this way, so she cannot escape us, should she be there."
By the Kreuzweg sat in the seat from whence she had been disturbed by Lydia, the old witch of the Kreuzgrund. Before her lay the bleached skull of a child, around which she had placed three lights. Over a coal-fire was swung a vessel containing a strangely smelling water. Near wriggled the bodies of three snakes whose heads had been cut off. All kinds of magical implements were scattered around. The witch herself had fallen fast asleep. "Mother Sibylla," shouted the Miller loudly in her ear, "what has become of the maiden, who was waiting here this evening?"
The witch started up and stared at Werner. "The fair Ly----," murmured she half asleep, and then became silent.
"Where is she?" repeated the Miller.
"I know nothing about the matter," murmured the old woman, now thoroughly aroused.
"You know all, the name was even on your lips. Do you confess everything or else to-morrow I tell the magistrate that I have already found you twice at midnight on the Kreuzweg, and the previous week before sunrise by the Linsenteich."
The witch grinned. "They will burn you as well as me, if I say, what I know about you."
"I however die for the Lord Jesus Christ and you for Satan." The old woman would have laughed mockingly but suddenly the forest immediately behind her seemed alive. A cock crowed, then the grunting of swine was heard together with an outlandish neighing.
"Be quiet, George," said the Miller angrily. The witch stared at him in fear, then looked behind her, thinking to see in the thicket a man breathing out flames. "What do you wish to know," she tremblingly asked.
"What has become of the maiden?"
"The sons of the host of the Rose, and the red Maier frightened her away from here. She flew towards the cloister, I heard the three shouting after her. What they have done to her, I know not."
The old man's heart sank within him, then he said sternly: "When was that?"
"It may have been four hours ago, the moon had just risen."
"Then are we too late. May God have mercy on your soul, if you have caused this. And now quit this foolery," and he gave her kettle a kick, causing it to tip over, so that the coals flamed up with the fat of the snakes. "Come out, George, and show her, what sort of devil has frightened her." The boy came out and stood before the fire looking at the old woman mockingly. "The plague seize thee and thy father."
"Yes the plague, always the plague," quoth the old Miller, "but if ever it comes you will have wished you had not called upon it. I tell you, you will yet end badly, although your foolish witchcraft is not worth a straw." With that he took his boy by the arm and hastened towards the seven mills.
"We must find out the red-headed Maier and make him confess," said he. After a sad pause, he began anew in a serious tone: "What thinkest thou does the old woman yet earn by her nightly arts?"
"The rack or the stake."
"Good, my boy, therefore do not be tempted to play at being the devil, for he who calls on the devil, is already in the devil's claws."
"But nevertheless we have often frightened with such jokes people who wished to disturb our meetings."
"I have never sanctioned it, and thou least of all shouldst help in such iniquity." The boy walked on ahead much mortified, as he felt certain that the old witch had only been induced to confess through his magic arts.
"Dost thou think, father, that she can bewitch?" asked he after a while.
"To wish and to do, are different things," replied the old man.
"But the neighbours assert that she can produce mice, prevent cows from milking, and cause women's hair to fall out."
"Yes especially when they have taken no precautions against vermin, fed their cattle poorly, and themselves acted immorally, then it is always witchery."
"But the peasant woman on the Hang relates, that Sibylla herself told her 'if you do not take in your hay on Sunday, the devil will carry it off.' Monday morning the hay was still there but when they came to rake it together, a storm arose and sent it all to the devil."
"Accident, George, accident. She must have felt that a storm was brewing. The evil spirit is a spirit, and has only power over spirits, not over bodies, otherwise he would long since have prevented thee from mocking him. But take care that he does not come into thee. There is he powerful."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1]: Wegewarte, Chicory (Cichorium Intybus z).
[Footnote 2]: A play on the name, here meaning quarrelsome.
[Footnote 3]: Nothing at all.
[Footnote 4]: Eryngo.