Kummas was as if struck by a second thunderbolt. He reeled backwards, and would have fallen, had not Malchen supported him. "Can this be true?" he said in a low voice to himself.--"Heaven have pity on me! is he really lost?--lost beyond hope!" His head sank on Malchen's shoulder, and he stood mute as a statue.
Warring with his feelings, Mr. Dilling looked at the old man and his companion. He hemmed and coughed, but could not utter a word. At length Kummas said, in a voice of sadness, "And where is my former Christlieb, who now, it seems, neither regards God nor me?"
"How do I know?" replied the embarrassed town musician.--"I tell you he has ran away."
"Come, then, Malchen," said the old broken-hearted man; "I have now nothing to seek but a grave. There, in its stillness, I will rest my weary head; for I am desolate." With these words Kummas turned to go away, and Malchen, weeping, led him carefully and slowly down the steps from the tower. Dilling looked long after them irresolute; but the fear of blame shut his mouth, and he went back into the house, where, in his room, his wife and servant were busy washing away the marks of the blood. Half-way down the steps, Kummas paused to take breath near an open window. "Let me rest here a few minutes, Malchen; the fresh air may revive me." Both stood in silence; but without eyes for the beauty of the scene around them. After a short time they heard the voices and footsteps of persons ascending the staircase.
"I pray you, doctor, do all in your power for the youth," said one of the persons.--"He is the best player of us all."
"Which of them is it?" asked the other.
"It is Christlieb Fundus," replied the first speaker; "the best player on the violin. Show the master that there is some cause for alarm, so that he may not treat the matter as a trifle. I tell you, a stab from a dagger could not be worse than one from the sharp point of an oboe."
At the name of Christlieb, Kummas had become attentive to what was said. A ray of hope gleamed upon him, and he raised his head, awaiting, most anxiously, the appearance of the speakers, who, in a moment or two afterwards, reached the place where he was standing. He addressed them in a voice struggling with emotion. "Kind sirs," he began, "for the love of heaven, tell me where my son Christlieb Fundus is, and what is the matter with him? Has he really run away? or is he sick?"
A glance at the old man was sufficient to determine Rupel to speak the truth.
"If Christlieb is your child, then I will not disguise from you that he has received an injury, and is lying very ill in his bed. Your arrival, though not at the happiest time, is nevertheless fortunate."