CHAPTER III.
It was now night, but not dark; the moon illuminated the valley with a light almost as bright as day, and displaying every object, even in the remotest distance, in trenchant outlines of light and shade. The pinnacles of Reichenberg, of Rotund, and of the tower of "Helf mir Gott" were bathed in a mysterious splendour. Once upon a time a maiden who was wooed by a wicked knight threw herself from this last-named tower down into the valley, but fell unhurt, for the saints spread out their mantles to bear her up. This was the story that the little girl told the monks; but in a low voice, as if her prattle could wake the sleepers upon the heights, and her soft voice mingled with the murmur of the Ram which danced along in the moon-light close to their path.
"Do you know this neighbourhood?" asked Porphyrius.
"Certainly. I was here as a child when the pretty lady used to come and see me at night, and the handsome man whom I used to call father; and then mother had to fly with me to the Trafoy Thal where the Three Holy Springs are, and then, as we were never safe there, across the heath to the forests by Finstermünz. I know every road and turning far and near."
"Why had you to hide so constantly?" asked Porphyrius. "Had your mother committed some crime?"
"Oh! no, my mother never did anything wrong. But she was always afraid they would try to kill me."
"Very strange! What then did she live upon?"
"The pretty lady gave my mother money, and with that we bought food and clothing. It lasted till I was a big girl, but now it is all gone; and we wanted to work by the day, but they drove us away everywhere, and at last we were obliged to beg. Begged bread is hard bread--my mother died of it." The child wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and was silent.
"Here is some dark secret," said Porphyrius softly to Donatus.
"Poor child, when did your mother die?" asked Donatus.
"Last night, in the forest."
"Why, then she is not buried?"
"I laid her in a hole where the storm had uprooted a tree, and I covered her with branches, and I rolled some stones down on her too, as many as I could; and a little wooden cross that she always wore--I stuck that in and prayed by it."
"What was your mother's name?" asked Donatus thoughtfully.
"Berntrudis, my lord, you know her well, for she was your nurse."
"Berntrudis," exclaimed Donatus sorrowfully; "was she your mother?"
"No, she was not really, but she brought me up and I called her so."
"Alas, poor woman, and was this your end--like the beasts of the field, on the wet earth, in storm and whirlwind, and now to lie unburied like them. Could not the Church even give you Christian burial, you who reared a son for her, and why, child, did you not fetch one of us this morning, so that we might have given her a grave in consecrated ground?"
"Whom then should I have fetched? I dared not go up to your people any more since the cruel man drove me away in the night. Ah! if you had only come to her you would certainly have made her well again, and she would not have died."
"I? How could I guess it! If only you had come to fetch me."
"But I did go to fetch you, but the dark man kicked me away from the door."
"Who?"
"The pale dark man, with black eyes--"
"Correntian!" cried Donatus. "Did you tell him that it was Berntrudis that was ill?"
"Indeed I did, and I entreated him to send you to comfort her at the last. But he threatened to tread me to death like an adder."
"You!" groaned Donatus, and as if it were his part to protect her, he threw his arm round the child's shoulder, and pressed her closely to him. "Correntian!" he repeated, "may God recompense him!"
Porphyrius laid a warning hand on his companion's arm. "Donatus!" he said.
But Donatus heeded not.
"To cast out this child in the night and storm when she had come to ask for the last consolation for a dying woman! Woe to Correntian! That is not the spirit that ought to inspire us," and he held the child clasped to him as a father might. "Poor, forsaken orphan! here, here you have a home, I will make up for what the hard man did to you; I will repay to you, her nursling, all that my faithful nurse did for me, all she suffered for me! Yea! I will, as true as the spirit of Love lives in me which Correntian so outraged."
"Oh, my dear, dear master," said the child, her voice husky with blissful joy.
But Porphyrius shook his head. "What are you doing, Donatus? I am only a humble lay-brother, but it seems to me that it can be no duty of yours to pick up girls by the wayside, and offer them a home in your affections."
"The brethren picked me up by the wayside, and shall I not pity the forsaken? Rather is it well for me that I may at last know the joys of compassion."
"But you lack moderation in it, as in everything," warned Porphyrius.
"Moderation! Who shall set the limits to loving kindness? This is the first creature to whom I have ever been able to do any good; do you know what that is?"
"A vagabond girl who herself confesses that she has been driven out wherever she went; is she worthy of your kindness?" grumbled the more deliberate monk. "Child," he shouted at her, "confess, why have you not earned your bread honestly by the labour of your hands, why were you hunted from place to place, if no evil report attached to you?"
The girl turned pale and trembled, "I--I cannot tell you."
"What, you hesitate!" cried Porphyrius. "Why do you tremble so if your conscience is clear?"
"Oh, my lord, you will abominate me and drive me away from you."
"Is it so? God preserve us! we have indeed been deceived in you," roared Porphyrius. "Confess at once, confess, are you a witch or a sorceress?"
"Indeed, my lord, I do not know. Folks say so because my brows grow together and I have little feet. I have never done a harm wittingly to any one, really and truly never, and yet the boys run after me wherever I go and scold at me because they say I oppress them in their sleep and am a witch; and the women throw the three white gifts after me, and the children throw stones, and laugh at me and hang wisps of straw about me. And so I fly from place to place, but it pursues me everywhere, and nowhere can I find peace, and the child burst into heartrending sobs.
"Now we have it!" cried Porphyrius clasping his hands in horror. But the child in her anguish clung to Donatus.
"Oh! my lord! Oh master! do not cast me out, have pity upon me. I will confess everything. Yes, indeed, it is true I have many signs about me that I myself am almost obliged to believe in. I have always been glad to creep into a hollow tree and sit and dream that I really was a night-bird and shunned the light, for by day they were always tormenting and hunting me--so how should I love the daylight? And often, often I have felt as if I must squeeze my mother to death for love; and when I have had some pet animal, a lamb or a little dog, I have hugged it till its breath was almost spent, but I never did squeeze one to death, and I was always sorry when I had hurt it at all. And often when I had no living thing I have run into the wood and bent down the little young trees till they split, and then I felt better again. Nay, my lord, I will confess to you, that even with you, who are to me so high and sacred, I have felt tempted. When I held your hand, and led you along, a feeling came over me as if I must press your hand, till I almost dropped down dead. Tell me, is that sorcery? But you know even witches can be made good, and if I am one, help me that I may fight with my nature--I am to be saved, do not let me fall away, my lord!"
Donatus felt her sink at his feet--felt her whole frame trembling with deadly anguish, and he raised her with his strong arm. "Be you what and who you may," he said, "I believe in you."
Then he suddenly felt that the slight form was flung violently to the ground, and he heard a low cry from the girl; then a strong arm gripped his and tried to force him from the spot.
"What is that?" he cried.
"Away with you!" whispered Porphyrius. "Do you think I will let you league yourself with such a being? Get thee gone, accursed witch!" and again Donatus heard a blow fall as it were on some soft body. Something was all at once roused in him, as if only in this moment he had suddenly grown to manhood. With one hand he pulled up the ill-used child from where she was lying at his feet, the other he raised against the monk.
"If you touch her again it is at the peril of your life."
"Donatus," screamed the horrified monk, "are things gone so far with you?"
"So far?" cried Donatus. "Do you dare, you miserable man, to doubt me, me the votary of death? Is the impenetrable darkness that shrouds me not too sacred for your suspicions to spot it? This child is my child; I have put myself in her father's place, and I will protect her with my heart's blood."
The poor little head had sunk wearily on his breast like a scared bird, he felt her painful breathing, and rage and grief gave him a giant's strength; still the imprudent monk ventured once more to try to part them, but the fist of his aggravated companion, though blindly aimed, hit his temple so that he fell tottering on to a stone and lay there unconscious.
"Woe is me!" cried Donatus who heard the heavy fall. "Is he dead?"
The child knelt down by the fallen foe and rubbed his brow and temples. "No, he is alive, but he has hit himself against a stone and is bleeding."
"Great God, what have I done? Raised my hand against a brother; what evil spirit possesses me? God have mercy upon me!"
The girl meanwhile had sprinkled water on the unconscious man and he opened his eyes; Donatus stood by wringing his hands and helpless. The monk pointed up in the direction of Reichenberg. "Look there!" he exclaimed.
The little girl looked up--lights were glancing in the castle, and just above a low copse they could see the heads of men on horseback who were riding quickly down the road.
"Those are the Count's men--we are lost!" groaned the wounded monk, "If you are not wholly a child of hell, save him, in God's name."
"And you? can you not come with us?" she asked.
"No, my strength fails me, I cannot stand; leave me, it matters little; but everything depends on him, save him and God will show you mercy for his sake."
The riders were already turning the corner of the copse. "Away, away!"
The child seized the blind man with supernatural strength and dragged him, half springing half tumbling, down the bank into the thick willow-scrub that at this spot bordered the deeply excavated bed of the river. "Lie still and do not stir," she commanded him in a whisper, and she hid him as much as possible among the bushes; she herself crouched down beside him, and the tepid waves washed round the couple, softly and soothingly, like the downy cushions of a cool, freshly made couch.
"Here lies a priest!" cried one of the horsemen, pulling up his horse. "That is a good find, for the Count has promised us a gold piece for every monk of Marienberg that we take him."
And they dismounted to examine the wounded monk.
"You have had a blow. Who has been beforehand with us?" asked one with a laugh.
"No one," said Porphyrius. "I fell over a stone."
"Were there not a couple more with you? I thought I saw something of the kind as we came round the corner."
"Yes, yes, it was like a shadow that slipped down into the water," cried another.
"You saw rightly," said Porphyrius quietly. "It was my cloak; I lost it when I fell down." The horsemen leaned over the edge of the road-way, but could perceive nothing. "It is washed down the stream long ago. Wait a bit, friend monk, we will take you to a place where you will be hot enough even without your cloak! Your time is come, you fat monks; in seven days we are to have a jolly butchery up at Marienberg. Now you may ride with us to bid the guests to the feast." And they lifted him on to one of their horses and rode off with shouting and laughter.
Their hoofs sounded for a long time in the distance; at last they died away and deep silence reigned on the lonely road. Donatus and his companion still listened for some time in their hiding-place; at last the lights were extinguished in the castle and they were safe once more.
The girl helped the blind man up the steep bank with much difficulty--again and again he slipped back on the sandy declivity in his wet robe. But she was as clever and resolute as she was slight and supple, and she succeeded in getting him to the top. There they stood, the two of them alone, a blind man and a defenceless child; but they feared nothing, they had each other and they asked for nothing more.
"Child, what am I to call you? My soul would fain utter your name to the Lord in praise and thanksgiving. My heart is full of you, let it know your name that it may overflow in praise of you."
"My name is Beata."
"Beata! you have saved me--God is with you. Now lead me on that I may rescue my brethren. We must not lose an instant, for the danger is pressing."
"Come my lord--my Angel! Here below I will lead you, you shall lead me above! But in order to guide you I must know where you are going? I should never have dared to ask while that stern brother was by, but now you must tell me everything, for now you have no one else to take care of you."
"I am sent to St. Gertrude's, the convent of nuns, with a message to the Duchess; lead me thither by the nearest way."
"Good--you shall soon be there. Ah! do not be sad; it is so delightful now I have you all to myself." And she pressed the hand by which she led him so tightly in the extremity of her joy that he started involuntarily; but she released it as if in alarm. "No, no, I will not squeeze you--no, I will not indeed!" she said, controlling herself.
"Poor child, I know just how you feel--there was a time when I too used to clasp the wooden cross to my breast, and kiss the cold earth in my impetuous and unspeakable longing; when I could have exhaled my very soul in one single embrace, in my thirst for love."
"Yes, yes--that is it," whispered the child, quivering with excitement.
"But I have found what will quench that thirst and that longing; the water of which Jesus spoke: 'Whosoever shall drink the water that I give him shall never thirst.' I will teach you to draw that water and peace will be with you."
The girl walked by his side in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground so that no stone might hurt the blind man's foot, for the road was rough and ill-constructed. So they went on together without speaking.
"Your hand is as hot as fire," said the girl at last, "and it throbs and beats as if there were a little hammer inside; and your step is uncertain. Do your wet clothes hinder you, or are you ill?"
"Oh! child--ask me no questions."
"But you frighten me. Trust me and let me know about your troubles."
The blind man stood still for a moment and pressed his hand over his eyes.
"They burn and ache like live coals! My God, my God! grant that I may not be discouraged."
The little girl was overcome with grief at seeing him stand thus wringing his hands in a convulsion of pain, as he pressed them to the aching sockets.
"Oh! poor, poor man--and I cannot help you. If I could cure you by tearing out my heart, oh! how gladly would I do it."
"Your words are balm, they have a wondrous healing power. Come, now I can go on again."
"Wait a little while--I will fetch some water and bind you up afresh," said the child, and she would have gone to the river, but he held her firmly.
"No--not an instant more. Let us hasten onwards--every moment is of importance. Think of my poor brethren."
"I can think of nothing but you and your suffering!" cried the child--but she had to obey and to lead the blind monk forward. He pulled her on without farther delay.
They were now passing by the foot of the fortress of Reichenburg, and the little girl looked anxiously up at the blank and towering walls.
"God be thanked!" she sighed, when they were past, "Reichenburg is behind us! now we have nothing more to fear."
"How long will it be before we reach Saint Gertrude's?" asked Donatus.
"Before sun-down we shall be there. What shall we do then?"
"There I shall beseech the Duchess to grant me an escort and an efficient force to protect my brethren at Marienberg, and I shall hasten back with them. I shall give you into the noble Lady's charge that she may obtain your reception among the brides-of-heaven who dwell in the cloister of Saint Gertrude, for that is the path-way of the blessed in which I promised to lead you, and there flows the well of living water of which you must drink."
"Jesu Maria!" shrieked the child. "You will shut me up in a cloister!"
"What else could I do with you that would be pleasing to the Lord?"
"Oh!--no, never, never!--" the child groaned under her breath.
"Beata--is this your obedience?"
"I will follow you, as faithful as a dog, for that is my destiny--but free--of my own free will. I will not be imprisoned, I will not be shut up, if you mean to rob me of my freedom, I will fly from you--and no one will ever be able to find me again."
"Woe to you, Beata! will you spurn the salvation that I offer you? Unhappy child. To-morrow I must go home to my convent and then you will see me no more. What then will be your lot? You will wander about homeless as before, and hunger and freeze, while there you would find food and nurture for soul and body."
"Do you think I am afraid of hunger and cold? I--the homeless, the vagabond? Offer a wild dove the handsomest cage under a roof, the Host for food and holy water to drink--it will sooner creep into a hollow tree in the hardest winter, and starve rather than be captive. And the Lord will have pity on the wild bird and will forgive it, for it is He himself that has made it so that it cannot live except in freedom."
Donatus stood still in astonishment and drew his hand out of hers.
"Child! what spirit is this that speaks in you? What power possesses you? You fear not that which man fears--that which tempts others does not tempt you; nothing earthly has any influence over you and you are sacred in your innocence. The beasts of the forest spare you, and sin cannot touch you. Yes, your simplicity has vanquished me, and I bow before your childish wisdom. I will lead you on, wild dove, according to your destiny. Perhaps, indeed, God has called you to bear the olive leaf to some lonely and erring soul that it may be reconciled to humanity." He took her hand again and walked on. "Now lead the blind traveller to his goal and then spread your wings and fly away--my soul will know where to find you, flee where you will. And when storms rave round our towers and a feeble wing beats against my window, when the snow covers the land and the starving birds crave their crumbs of us--then I will think of my wild dove out in the wood--God preserve her!"
He was suddenly silent; a strange and unfamiliar pain overcame him, and the words died on his lips. The child looked up at the stars with moistened eyes and an expression of immutable faith on her innocent brow. Those stars above could never purpose that they should part--it could not be--nay, it would never happen.
They neither of them spoke again till the towers of Saint Gertrude's were visible through the darkness. The little girl's heart beat faster for all her confidence, and she involuntarily slackened her pace as they neared the spot. But at last they had reached it, they stood at the gate--the moment of parting was come.