Instantly all hastened to the spot which the frightened peasants described. This time the dog did not growl. He whined, and crept to the forester's feet; it was Wolf, his watch-dog, and there lay Bertha, apparently lifeless. She was bleeding profusely from a wound in her head, and her face was as pale as death.
The forester did not speak, he shunned the sympathetic glances of the by-standers; anger and pain strove for the mastery in his features. He raised Bertha from the ground, and carried her into the first house in the village; it was the poor weaver's. Then he sent a messenger for Sabina. Fortunately, the Waldheim physician was with one of his patients in the village. He was sent for, and soon brought the poor girl to herself. She recognized him, and asked for water. Her wound was not dangerous, but the physician shook his head and looked meaningly at the forester, who was anxiously watching him.
The doctor was a blunt man, with rather rude manners. He suddenly approached the forester, and said a few words to him in a slight undertone. The old man staggered back as though from a mortal blow, stared absently at the doctor without replying a word,—and then left the house without looking at the sick girl.
"Uncle, uncle, forgive me!" she cried after him in heart-breaking tones, but he had already vanished into the dark night.
And now Sabina made her appearance in the doorway. A maid followed her, bearing a huge bundle of linen upon her head, and a basket upon her arm, containing bandages, provisions, and all manner of necessary articles.
"Gracious Powers! what have you been doing with yourself, Bertha?" cried the old woman with tears in her eyes, as she saw the pale face, and the bandaged head lying upon the pillow. "And to-day, too, when I thought you went out looking so much better,—you had such beautiful red cheeks!"
The girl buried her face in the bedclothes, and began to sob convulsively.
The physician told Sabina what was to be done, and strictly forbade the invalid to converse or even to speak.
"Must I be silent?" cried Bertha, raising herself in bed. "Ah! silence may be easy for such an old man, whose blood runs cool and calm in his veins. But I must speak, Sabina, and if it kills me,—so much the better!"
She drew the old housekeeper towards her upon the bed, and, weeping bitterly, confessed all to her.