"And who were these sad friends?"
"First, Baron Barnewitz, not the one at Sullitz, who is still alive,--he is a good man and harms no one,--but he at Smittow, who afterwards lost all his money at play to Baron Berkow, and then sold him his daughter to pay his debts."
"Melitta!" groaned Oswald, and his hands seized nervously the back of his chair.
"What ails you, young master?" asked the old woman.
"Nothing, nothing," murmured Oswald, with a supernatural effort to overcome a mingled feeling of horror, pity, hatred, and revenge, which arose in his heart when he saw the image of his beloved one thus dragged through the mire of vulgar passions.--Melitta sold, sold by her own father, to a man who did not love her, whom she only married to save her father from disgrace! Oswald felt that such a thought would madden him if he followed it out, and at the same time he was afraid that cunning Mr. Timm, of whose profound slumbers he was by no means quite convinced, in spite of an occasional snore from the great chest, might notice his emotion. He forced himself, therefore, to sit still and to ask, with apparent calmness:
"Was Baron Berkow one of Harald's friends? Was he not too young at that time?"
"He was the youngest," said Mother Claus, "and the best too. He did what he saw the others did, without thinking whether it was right or wrong. He was not as powerful as the others. When he drank one bottle, Harald drank three, and yet Harald remained master of himself and Berkow fell under the table."
"Was he a handsome man?" asked Oswald.
"Not as handsome as Harald, and far less so than you are, young master. He was smaller and weaklier than either of you, and Harald could have mastered six like him. But then there was far and near no one as bold and as strong as Harald. He could stop the wildest horse running at full speed, and make it as gentle and obedient as a dog, and he always jumped in the saddle without touching the stirrup. They told wonderful stories of his gigantic strength, but it was just as I tell you. When he was angry--and he was very often angry--he would break a heavy oaken chair or table as if it were glass. Then the veins on his forehead would swell like thick branches, and white foam would froth at his mouth, so that it was a horrible sight; but when he laughed and was in good humor, you could not help loving him again. Then he could be so sweet, and say such nice things; no one would have thought him such a bad man. For bad he was, after all; whatever pleased him he must have, cost what it might, and if everything else should perish."
"Were you all that time up at the castle?"