“You,” she went on to her lady, peremptorily, as if conscious of being herself the true mistress of the situation, “drink you of that broth and break some bread, and drink of that wine, for you have not eaten to-day. And you,” she added, turning to me, “make ready with your ladder.”
Impatiently and sternly she stood by us until we prepared to obey her orders.
We owe a very great debt of gratitude to this woman!
My wife sat down like a child, watching me, sweet heart! over every mouthful of soup as one who fears the vision may fade. As for me, appreciating all the importance of immediate action, I threw from me the perilous temptation of letting myself go to the delight of the moment—a delight enhanced, perhaps, by the very knowledge of environing danger. Opening my cloak, I unwound the length of rope from my waist, cautiously slipped out again on the balcony and fastened one end to the iron rail. Remembering the precious burden it was to bear, I could not be satisfied without testing every knot, and finally trying its strength with my own weight by descending to the terrace. It worked satisfactorily, and the distance, fortunately, was not excessive. Then leaving it dangling, in three leaps I was up again and once more in the warm room, just in time to see an exquisite gleam of silk stocking disappear into the depths of the fur boot which Anna was fastening with all the dexterity of a nurse dressing a child.
And, indeed, my sweet love submitted to be turned and bustled and manipulated with an uncomplaining docility as if she was again back in her babyhood—although in truth I have reason to believe, from what I know of her and have heard since, that not even then had she ever been remarkable for docility.
Grimly smiling, Anna completed her labour by submerging the dainty head in a deep hood; the sable-lined cloak and the muff she handed over to me with the abrupt command: “Throw them out! Auswerfen!” Anna should have been a grenadier sergeant; nevertheless, the thought was good, and I promptly obeyed. Next she gave me the lantern—she had thought of everything!—and commenced extinguishing the lights in the room. I took Ottilie by the hand, the little warm hand, ungloved, that it might the tighter feel the rope.
“Will you trust yourself, love?” said I. She gave me no answer but a shaft of one of her old fearless looks and yielded her waist to my arm, and thus we stepped forth into the snow and the night. I guided her to the rope and showed her where to hold, and where to place her feet, and then, climbing over the balcony, supporting myself by the projecting stones and the knotted ivy, I was able to guide the slender body down each swinging rung: for when the blood is hot and the heart on fire one can do things that would otherwise appear well-nigh impossible.
Safely we reached the ground. I enveloped her in the cloak which Anna’s forethought had provided, and after granting myself the luxury of another embrace I was preparing to ascend the blessed rope again for the purpose of assisting Anna, when I discovered that incomparable woman solidly and stolidly planted by our side in the snow.
“All is right, gracious sir,” she said in a hoarse whisper; “but it would be as well to take away that rope, since you can go up and down so easily without it.”
Recognising in an instant the wisdom of the suggestion—it was well some one had a waking brain that night!—I clambered up once more, and in a few seconds had flung down the tell-tale ladder, and descended again.