"Judge not, judge not," murmured Laurenzano talking to himself like one possessed.
He next saw Sylvanus led forward to acknowledge before all the people his repentance, but the once so powerful speaker spoke to-day in a weak intelligible voice; then he kissed his boy who clung despairingly to him. The clergyman now pulled the child towards him, the executioner forced Sylvanus down on the block--Paul shut his eyes. He could no longer witness the horrible spectacle. "I have robbed this child of its father," he cried aloud, "I have slain this child." A cry from the crowd, a murmur among the thousands announced that the blow had fallen. When Laurenzano looked up, he saw only the fainting child being carried from the scaffold. At the same moment the band burst out anew. "Thou blessed light shine down," sang the peasants lustily. Laurenzano remained in sheer despair. "Thou, thou alone art guilty of this," resounded in his ears. "Cain, Cain," reechoed the tiles on the roofs. He scarcely noticed, how the ranks around him broke up. Without knowing it, he stood alone before the block which was being cleansed of the blood, in the midst of a group of the most villainous, and blood-thirsty ruffians. A feeling of dumb despondency deprived his limbs of their use. Crime had heaped itself mountain high over his head, whilst he had only thought to serve God. Who had spilt this blood, which the executioner was washing away? Who had driven Erastus to jail? Who had hurried Klytia to the witches' tower? He and he alone. Wherever he might turn, this Medusa grinned at him. To whatever he listened, he heard only of the misery which he had caused. The whole town spake of nothing but of himself and of his dues. Alas, why had he not had the courage that day to drown himself at Schönau.--He again heard the knell of the bell of the penitent sinners tolling in his ear, the words of the Baptist came thronging uppermost to his mind ... now, in the Hirsch yonder they are playing the beauteous Gabrielle. "Down, down to the Neckar, there is peace," he cried to himself But the shout of a drunken lout that reached his ear roused him like a clap of thunder out of his gloomy brooding.
"Come, Maier, let us go and hear the witch sing out."
"What next," replied the other, a red-haired repulsive looking ruffian, "that's not worth the trouble."
"Yes indeed it's fine when they laugh and squeal through agony."
The young Priest shook himself together, he cast a wild despairing look towards heaven, then he followed the hard-hearted youth, who quickly chose the shortest path leading to the witches' tower. A small alley led up to the old town wall, the so-called Zwinger, in which behind the Augustine monastery rose high the Witches' Tower. In front of this Paul saw various groups of people assembled who were gazing up at a window in the Tower. A shriek like that of some wild beast was heard followed by a piteous whimpering. "O, can the angelic child have come to this, to this," Paul's conscience spake in despairing tones.
"Hear how she sings," Maier said coarsely joking, and his companions laughed; the rough blackguards felt themselves suddenly pushed and jostled aside by a furious thrust, a tall man dressed in black rushes up the steps of the Tower, and shoves past the guards placed at the door with the strength of a madman. He presses forwards guided by the dolorous cry which pealed down from above. He has reached the door. All is now deadly still. He knocks--no answer,--he shakes the lock with violence. "Immediately, immediately," says a coarse voice from within. Finally the door is opened. Paul made out in the semi-dark room the half-naked figure of the executioner and his assistants. "She is innocent, I will testify in her favor, where are the judges?" stammered the breathless young man.
"Then you come too late, the Devil has just taken the witch to himself," answered Master Ulrich with a coarse laugh, and pushing the shutters open Paul was enabled to see stretched on the bench of torture a shrivelled brown corpse. The executioner roughly seized the head and turned the face towards him, Paul recognized the pale contracted features of the herb picker on the crossroads.
"Where is Lydia?" he stammered.
"She sits in the Castle near her father," said the executioner grinning. "She was too fine a tit-bit for us. The members of the commission on witchcraft are now at lunch. It is paid for out of the witches' money. If you think of testifying in favor of that bread and butter miss, wait an hour or two and then lay your deposition before them."