What the Swallow Sang: A Novel

by Friedrich Spielhagen

"The same," answered Gotthold; "and I should advise you to use the same precaution we adopted on the way here."

But the Assessor was not in the mood to follow Gotthold's counsel. The intoxication, from which the scene with Brandow had only roused him for a short time, returned with redoubled power, now that he was exposed to the cold night air. He began to abuse Brandow, in whose favor he had always spoken at the convent, who but for him would have been obliged to leave Dollan a year ago, who was greatly indebted to him in every respect, and now repaid him with the basest ingratitude. But his friendship and protection were now at an end. He still had the fine fellow under his thumb. The lease must yet be renewed. To be sure, Brandow had paid this time, but what guarantee of future security was there to be had from a man who, in his precarious situation, loaded himself with a gambling debt of five thousand thalers? He need only give the monks this piece of information, and Brandow would be cast off. Did Brandow expect to satisfy the convent by the assurance that he would win the race on Brownlock! Brownlock, nothing but Brownlock! Brandow had not won yet, and they were strict in their rules at the race-course. Only last year, young Klebenitz--eldest son of a nobleman though he was--had been excluded because it got noised abroad that he had been twenty-four hours late in paying a gambling debt. It was still very doubtful whether Redebas would have the five thousand thalers he had just won from Brandow lying on his desk by to-morrow noon.

Gotthold had tried in vain to interrupt his loquacious companion, and was therefore not at all displeased when the latter, after stammering a few incoherent words, suddenly relapsed into silence, and leaning back in his corner seemed to wish to sleep off his intoxication. Gotthold spread his own travelling-rug over his knees, turned up the collar of his overcoat, and gazing out into the darkness, resigned himself to his thoughts. Brandow's conduct was incomprehensible to him also. What could have induced him to insult the Assessor in this way?--a man whose favor he had every reason to keep. Had he been drunk too? But if so, the fit of intoxication must have come upon him very suddenly, and had at all events assumed a singular form--the form of the hatred which veils itself under the garb of cold politeness. Or, had all this concerned him alone? Had he been so anxious to get his enemy out of the house that he had even suffered it to cost him the friendship of the influential man? That was a solution so simple and natural, so unlike the cold calculating man; but if it was not drunkenness, or hate that wishes to satisfy itself, what was it?

And suppose it were hate that desires to satisfy itself at any cost? Suppose this hate was directed towards her, no less than him, nay perhaps even more. Suppose this terrible man wanted to clear the house of guests in order to give free course to his furious hate, to be able to riot in some fell vengeance.

Gotthold half started from his seat, groaning aloud, and then sank back again, reproaching himself for conjuring up such horrible apparitions. That was certainly the most improbable of all. Whatever means he had used the night before to break down the pride of one of the proudest of women, he had conquered, he was master of the situation; he might be satisfied! And was he not? He now knew the secret of coining gold, cunning alchemist that he was; and how soon he might be again in a situation where he would be obliged to make use of his art, that very evening had proved. What becomes of the water you take in your hand? What becomes of the money you give a gambler? Cousin Boslaf had been right.

But the more Gotthold endeavored to push aside the terrible thought as improbable, nay impossible, the more distinctly the scene appeared before his eyes. He saw him creep towards her chamber, cautiously open the door, glide into the room, up to the bed. Merciful Heaven! what was that? He had distinctly heard his name called in a piercing cry of mortal agony.

It was only a trick of his excited fancy, a horned owl perhaps, which, hurled along by the storm on noiseless wings, had swept close over his head, and in its surprise uttered the cry. This, or something of the sort.

Undoubtedly; but fancy continued the cruel sport none the less zealously, and converted the long-drawn howling and hollow roaring of the tempest over the moor, the rustling of the clumps of broom by the wayside, the creaking of the carriage, and the panting of the weary horses, into ghostly voices which muttered terrible words, voices and words such as might be uttered by the shapes which glided through the grayish black twilight over the masses of rock on the moor on the right of the carriage, or flitted on the left through the impenetrable darkness that brooded coldly over the morass.

The road had been gradually ascending for some time, and according to Gotthold's belief, they had almost reached the crest of the hill, when the horses suddenly stopped, snorting violently.

"What's the matter?" asked Gotthold.