CHAPTER II.
When a brother of the Order went out on a mission he received a pair of new shoes made out of one piece of goat-skin, and a willow-staff sprinkled with holy water. The Abbot gave him his blessing and the brethren said the prayer "cum fratribus nostris absentibus" for him. For his sustentation and comfort he carried on his back a scrip with some bread in it, and a wooden flagon of wine. Thus cared for, body and soul, the wanderer could set forth cheerfully on his way. Not so brother Donatus.
He was indeed provided with bread and wine, with willow-staff and shoes, with blessings and with prayers; but that was lacking to him which the traveller chiefly needs--he had not eyes. With a hesitating step, sick and fever-stricken, he crossed the threshold of the convent for the first time in his life, excepting that short wild night-excursion. He was dazed with the thought that he must thus wander on from night to night, ever onwards without support, without any power of measuring far from near, without any dividing of the infinite darkness. Would his next step even fall on the firm earth; might he not lose his footing in space or fall over some obstacle? Would he not run up against something, find himself unexpectedly in front of a wall or be caught in the thick brushwood that he heard rustling round him and that often touched him as he passed? And he stopped again and again in involuntary terror before this or that imaginary danger. Nor could he put full confidence in his guide, for brother Porphyrius had no idea of what blindness was and led him on his way so heedlessly that the poor youth often stumbled and fell.
It was indeed a weary journey; sweat stood on his brow, his temples throbbed and many a blood-streaked tear fell from the unhealed wounds of his eyes. But he was patient; he thought of the procession to Golgatha and when his foot stumbled--was he not treading in the Redeemer's foot-steps! A number of young trees were lying about felled by the recent whirlwind and his guide dragged him across them, suddenly he picked one up in his strong arms and laid it across his shoulder.
"What are you doing with that tree?" asked his companion.
"I bear it instead of a cross, as Simon of Cyrene bore the cross after the Saviour."
"That is not right," said his guide. "You must not overburthen yourself, lest your strength should fail you before you have fulfilled your task. And this is not the Saviour's cross and it will profit you little to bear a mere profane log of wood."
"Oh, shortsighted man!" cried Donatus, with a glow in his cheeks. "If the bread which we ourselves have baked can be turned into the Lord's body, may not a tree be turned into the Lord's cross if it be borne in the name of the Lord? Truly I say unto you who doubt of such miracles, that you know not the power of faith."
"But how can it avail the Redeemer when you do such things to serve him; he is enthroned on the right hand of God and no longer bears his cross."
"But he still bears the burthen of the cross, and heavy enough it is; a burthen that each one of us must strive to lighten: the burthen of our sins that He took upon Himself in the sight of His Father, and that every act of true penance serves to diminish. Do you believe that He who died for us threw from Him at His death all that he had suffered and bled for, and that He now for ever rejoices in celestial bliss, and says, 'Let them do as they will, I have done my part. If they will not follow they may be damned, what do I care?' Do you think He would be indeed Christ if He thought this? I tell you that when He sees that He has died in vain, and that His holy teaching has no power over our sinful natures, He mourns over us, and His loving heart is oppressed with woe. And when one bears his cross in His name that he may follow Him into the kingdom of Heaven, he serves Him as Simon of Cyrene did."
"Donatus, you are indeed a Saint," cried the monk. "We truly are the blind and you it is that see."
And they went on, each lost in his own thoughts.
A light step seemed to be following them, close to them but yet invisible; Porphyrius looked round several times, but he could see nothing in the thick bush of the upland forest. It was not like a human foot-fall, but could not be the fleeting step of some forest animal, for it kept up evenly with theirs, now near and now distant; a devotional shudder ran over brother Porphyrius: it must certainly be an angel sent by the Lord to be an invisible support to the penitent, to help him to bear his burthen; and he dared to look round no more, lest he should drop down dead if he caught a glimpse of that Heavenly face. Thus they proceeded for about an hour through the damp wood; the dripping boughs flung a cooling dew on the penitent's head, the wet brambles brushed against his robe, and his parched lips inhaled the reviving freshness. But the consuming fever which was burning in the two seats of pain which he himself had made, seemed to dry up every kindly drop of dew like a red hot iron; at every pulse his arteries drove the blood more furiously to his temples, his breath grew shorter and shorter, his steps slower and slower, his tall figure was bent and panting under his heavy load. When at last they reached the hem of the forest, and stepped out on to the high road, he began to totter and fail.
"I can go no farther," he gasped, and fell to the ground under his burthen.
"I knew it would be so!" cried the monk, looking helplessly round for some succour.
Far and wide there was no living creature to be seen. By the wayside stood an old picture of a saint under a weather-beaten shrine, overgrown with wild roses; the storm had half overthrown it, and no one had set it up again; not a soul could have passed that way. A few birds were perched on the roof bickering over their food. It was in vain that brother Porphyrius listened for the steps that had accompanied them through the wood, they had ceased since the monks had come out of it. The protecting angel appeared to have forsaken Donatus, and that was why his strength had failed. Porphyrius relieved him of his burden, and laid him in the scanty shade of the shrine, for the sun had risen again, and pierced very sensibly through the mists which rose from the deserted and flooded road; it could no longer dazzle the eyeless man, but it scorched his shaven head which he grasped in his hands with faint groans. There was no spring in sight whence to fetch water for the unhappy man. Should he go back to the wood? Could he leave the blind man alone for so long?
"Is there no one near," he shouted to the empty distance. "Hi, hallo, help!--help." Then again he listened to the silence, holding his hand over his eyes.
Something moved at the edge of the wood, a young girl came out of it. In one hand she held a rush basket, and in the other a hazel-rod; on her shoulders she carried a small bundle and a round wooden water-jar, such as pilgrims used. Her hair shone in the sun like flaming gold, her little bare feet showed below her short petticoat like white flowers. Her gait was as light, and she ran forward as quickly as if she were moved by some mysterious power. That must be the light step that has accompanied them so far.
Brother Porphyrius stared fixedly at the marvel as it came forth from the dim shade of the wood, so brilliant and yet so modest, simple, and maidenly--half a child and half a maiden--so sweet and yet so grave. Had the blind man's guardian angel indeed assumed a human form, so as not to reveal itself in all its glory to the unworthy eyes of the brother who could see?
Before he had time to think of all this, the little girl was by his side.
"Did he fall down, has he hurt himself?" she asked, and her large golden-brown eyes were filled with tears of unutterable anxiety; brother Porphyrius did not answer, he gazed at her, speechless; she did not wait for the answer, but knelt down by the sick man. "My angel," she said softly, "my lord and my angel, do not die and leave me." And she gently raised his head, and poured water on his brow from her flask; Donatus began to breathe again, and raising himself he asked,
"Who is that?"
"A child that has been following us," said Porphyrius. "She does not belong to our neighbourhood. I never saw her before."
"I thank you, my child," said Donatus. "You refresh the weary; blessed are the merciful."
"Let me wet your handkerchief, to cool you," said the girl, carefully taking the bandage from his eyes. He instinctively covered the wounds with his hand, but she did not heed it, for she was wholly absorbed in her helpful zeal. She wetted the linen with the water in her bottle. "It is all bloody," she said. "Have you hurt yourself?"
"Yes," he replied hardly audibly. She folded it into a square pad and laid it on his head; but he still kept his eyes covered that the child might not be frightened.
"That will do you good," said she, and then she took some of her wood-strawberries and put them into his mouth. "There, eat them; I picked them for you, and you--the other one, have some too--but the best are for Donatus."
"Do you know me then?" asked Donatus in surprise.
"Certainly I know you. You are the angel I saw that day."
"Are you in your right senses, child? When was I ever an angel?"
"Yes--don't you remember--that day when they made you a priest?"
"Oh! I never was farther from being an angel than in that hour," murmured Donatus, and he let his hand fall from his face.
"But you had wings then; why have you lost them?" continued the girl.
"Child, you are dreaming, I never had wings."
"I thought I saw you with wings. But there is something different in you now--" she studied him attentively; suddenly she started up, "Oh--now I know--you have not got any eyes?"
Donatus clasped his hands over his face; the child stood by pale and trembling, and tear after tear forced its way through her long lashes and fell on her little clasped hands. "Poor, poor man!" she sighed from the depths of her child's heart. Brother Porphyrius had to turn away his head, he was so deeply moved.
Donatus started up. "Let us go on," he said hastily.
"I will go with you," said the little girl.
"Why, where are you going?" asked Porphyrius.
"Wherever you go."
"Do you know then whither we are going?" asked Donatus.
"No."
"Then how can you know that our roads are the same?"
"Your road is my road, where you are I will be--and when you stop I will stop."
"Ruth!" exclaimed Porphyrius involuntarily.
"Child, what has come over you!" said Donatus. "What do you want with me?"
"Nothing," said the child, for in truth she herself did not know.
"But you cannot wander about the world alone in this fashion," said Donatus.
"Alone! I shall be with you," answered the girl.
"But think, what will your mother say?"
The child's eyes filled with tears. "My mother is dead," said she.
"And your father?"
"He is dead too."
"Then you are an orphan?"
"Yes."
"That makes a good pair, an orphan and a blind man. Where is your home?"
"Nowhere."
"You must have been born somewhere."
"I do not know."
"But how came you here, what were you seeking in this neighbourhood?"
"I was looking for you."
"Leave her alone," Porphyrius whispered in Donatus' ear. "Do you not perceive that she is no mortal being?"
Donatus drew back a step. "What do you mean?"
"It is a spirit that has taken a maiden's form--your guardian spirit sent to you by God--believe me. Do not press her any more with questions or you will drive her away."
Donatus pondered on the marvel for a while, "Suppose it were a demon?" he said.
"You say that only because you are blind; if you could see you could not doubt," Porphyrius persisted. But Donatus made the sign of the cross over her and drew his missal from his breast.
"If thou art born of woman or sent by God, kiss this book; but if thou art come from the nethermost pit to lead us astray, depart--in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," and he held up the open book before her to exorcise her. She seized his hand and drew it towards her with the book to kiss it. It was still warm from the fevered heart on which it had been lying, and she pressed her lips to it long and fervently. It seemed to Donatus that the book was part of his very self, and he felt the kiss as she impressed it on the book.
"She is pure," he said, and concealed the breviary again in his bosom. "If then you will accompany me, come on. I will ask you no more questions. If you will tell me whence you come, do so unquestioned."
The girl was silent, she knew not what to say; she took up the sick man's scrip and slung it over her shoulder with her own.
"What are you doing?" asked Donatus, feeling himself suddenly relieved of the weight.
"I will carry it for you."
"Nay indeed you shall not; you are yourself but a tender child."
"Yes, let me, let me, I will do it willingly, it is for you," said the child and they set forward. But Donatus still paused for a moment. "The log that I was carrying for a cross, can I leave that?"
"Yes, let it lie, you have cross enough in your blindness."
"Do you hear?" Porphyrius said in a low awe-stricken tone. "It is God that speaks by her."
"Then break off a twig from it and give it me that I may keep it, it will bring me a blessing."
The little girl ran back and broke off a twig which she brought to him.
"If you will only wait a few minutes longer I will make you a wreath of leaves from the little tree so that the sun may not burn your head."
The two men were quite content to do everything the child wished, was not her will God's will? And with nimble fingers that moved as if by magic, the little one twined a broad wreath to give a cool shade to the wounded man's burning head; then they went on again.
"Let me lead you, I shall do it better," said the child, and she took the blind man's hand from that of the other monk. This too they agreed to, and Donatus felt as if the child's touch infused new strength into him.
"There is a blessing in your hand, it leads me softly," he said gratefully.
The little girl was silent, only her eyes told of unutterable happiness as she looked speechlessly up at him. And on went the three, now over slippery morasses, now over green hills and fields, and after taking the little girl's hand the blind man's foot stumbled no more, and the thorns no longer tore him; she carefully cleared every stone out of his path; where it was uneven she warned him by word or sign and guided his steps slowly and cautiously. No mother could guide her child, no sister tend her infant brother, no angel lead a soul to Heaven, as she watched over the blind man in his helplessness. The girl's pure breath fanned him like forest-airs when her bosom rose and fell quickly from some steep ascent or the fatigue of guiding him. He neither saw nor heard her; for her little bare feet went on by his side as softly as those of a fairy, he only felt her. He felt as if an angel of pity was walking by his side to cool his deadly pain with the waving of tender wings. They spoke no word and yet they understood each other as spirits do without any earthly speech. What they could say to each other was but little and very simple, but what they told in that dumb discourse was higher than human wit and worldly wisdom and echoed in their soul like angelic hymns.
It was by this time noon; the sun brooded hotly on the gorgeous landscape. The wanderers took their first rest outside the village of Glurns in the shade of the churchyard wall and eat their meagre meal, while far and near the solemn noontide peal was rung. The glaciers looked down kind and radiant from above the high cliffs of micaceous schist, which, turning here towards the south-east, form the opening of the gorge of the Münster-thal. Far and wide, spread a picture of blooming life and sturdy strength; villages and towns lay scattered all round while, veiled in the misty noon-tide blue, the haughty walls of the fortresses of Reichenberg and Rotund stared down from their rocky eminence like border watchers over the Münsterthal overlooking the smiling plain.
Porphyrius looked across at them with grave consideration. "I would we were only safely past Reichenberg," he exclaimed. "They can overlook the whole valley from thence and it seems to me that it is dangerous to take the road by day; our dress will betray us and we might be carried prisoners to the castle."
"Does any danger threaten you from thence?" asked the girl.
"Yes," said Porphyrius anxiously.
"Then let us rest in the wood till nightfall," the little one counselled, "and take the road at dusk."
"That will not do, we might lose our way in the dark," said Porphyrius.
"Not if I lead you; oh no! I am used to find my way in the dark," and a shadow of deep pain passed across her face as she spoke. Porphyrius looked at her much disappointed. "Do you not come from higher realms than we do?"
"Oh God knows!" sighed the child, folding her little hands across her bosom. "My foot has carried me as a fugitive about the world all the days of my life, and my eyes shun the light like a nightbird's, for the sun has rarely shone on me. I have hidden myself by day in the darkness of the wood and walked about at night."
"God preserve us!" cried Porphyrius, signing himself with a cross.
"That is a hard lot," said Donatus.
"Oh, it was well that it should be so, for thus I am able to guide you wherever you must go in the dark."
"But, you poor child, you were not born merely to be my guide," said Donatus compassionately.
"What for then?" asked the child.
"That I do not know," replied Donatus. "But you must have some purpose and some end. What will become of you when our journey is ended and we must part?"
"Oh! no," said the child, "we shall never part."
"Child, you are talking foolishly, we must part, I shall return in two days to the convent, and unless you have the art of making yourself invisible, you cannot follow me there."
"Then I shall go to the blessed maidens up on the heath and ask them to set you free--or I will ask them to let me find the blind worm that makes folks invisible. Then I will go into the convent and stay with you."
"What folly are you talking, child, in the name of all the Saints! The blessed maidens and the blind worm! who put them into your head?"
"Did you never hear of the blessed maidens?"
"No--of such blessed maidens as those--certainly not."
"Don't you know that--not even that? Oh, the folks that brought you up can have very little sense if they did not tell you that. Up there on the heath--going towards Nauders--there is a cave which is called the way to the blessed--that is the entrance to their country. You must have a wishing-rod made of a white hazel stick which has grown where cross ways meet and that was cut with a pure heart at the new-moon; then the door will fly open. Take hold--here is one," and she gave him the hazel wand she held in her hand that he might feel it; but he fell into a fit of righteous rage and broke the rod into pieces and flung it away.
"Oh, folly, folly! Woe to you if you carry on such night-magic and witches arts--we can never go on together, for these are not the ways that lead to the Light."
The girl had cried out with alarm when she saw him break the hazel-rod that she had been searching for all her life and had never found till the last new-moon; with that wand all she had ever hoped for had fallen into ruins--all the splendour of the kingdom of the blessed that it was to have opened to her--the help of the beneficent phantoms--all, all was gone. But worse even than the loss of her joys was her "Angel's" wrath and the words he had spoken; their ways could never lie together. The child threw herself at his feet crushed with despair, and wept bitterly. "Forgive me--I only meant to do it that they might release you from the convent and so I might always stay with you. Only tell me what I am to do so that you may never be angry with me again. I will do anything in the world that you tell me. If you wish that I should hunger and fast, I will do it, and if you wish that I should die, I will die--only be kind to me again, I beseech you."
The blind man laid his hand lovingly on the child's innocent head, and a strange emotion came over him as he felt her trembling beneath his touch. "Do not tremble, young soul! You have had pity on me and I will have pity on you. I will save you from the ways of error and darkness; I will show you a path to the blessed--but to the truly blessed. It opens not to wishing rods nor spring-herbs--only by penance and prayer may it be found."
"Aye, my lord, teach me to act according to your will, as I guide your blindness do you guide me where you see while I am blind."
"Amen!" said Donatus, and he felt as though the tears which he could no longer shed fell back like heavenly dew on the drought of his lonely heart. God had sent him this soul to be saved by him for Heaven. For the first time in his life he had found something he could call his own, and he felt that she was wholly his, absolutely given up to him, and that her salvation was in his hand. Thus must a father feel when a child is born to him.
He clasped the girl's head as if he wished to grasp this new-born joy, and said only one word; "My child!" but in a tone like the soft melodious ripple of the newly melted snow as it trickles down from the cliff under the beams of the first spring-sunshine; and the girl bowed under the touch of her "Angel's" hand, speechless and motionless, as though she feared to disturb the miracle even by drawing breath.
The soft breath of noon bore the perfume of lilies and roses from the graves in the churchyard, and the little screech-owl[[3]] shouted from the wood his cry of "Come here, come here." The girl listened to the call knowing what it betokened, but she only smiled at it; for her life had but just begun--a life in which there is no death. And as soon as Donatus released her she sprang up, and her shout of joy went up to Heaven like the song of the lark, and she ran through the little gate in the wall into the church-yard and flung herself down by the first grave to pray in front of its wooden cross. But she could not pray--could not think; she flung her arms round the cross and pressed her cheek against it as against her mother's breast. Brother Porphyrius meanwhile, sitting under the wall, shook his head.
"We have been deceived in her, Donatus, she is not a spirit, but a child of man like us, and God only knows whence she came, for her paths lie through the darkness as she herself told us--"
"But I shall lead her to the Light!" interrupted Donatus.
"Be not presumptuous--to me there is something uncanny about her since I have learnt that she is of this world; she is too fair for an earthly maiden and I am uneasy about you." Donatus smiled in melancholy but proud calmness as in the morning.
"What is there to fear?" he said. "Am I not blind!"