"Ay, that is curious," said the smith. "Can you tell me any of these matters that you recollect so clearly?"
Ferdinand paused a moment, and then answered, "I am sure I can trust you, Franz; but Father George warned me to tell no one at the castle anything I may be able to remember of my early days."
"I am not of the castle," answered Franz Creussen; "and besides, if I chose, I could tell you more of those days than you yourself could tell me."
"Indeed," answered Ferdinand; "I remember you, it is true, ever since my boyhood, but still, I do not see your figure in any of those visions which sometimes come back upon me."
"Ay, but I've held you in my arms when you were not a twelvemonth old," said his companion, "and carried you at my saddle-bow during six hours of a long night. It is true I did not see you for years after, till Franz Creussen became the Abbey smith, and you the ward of Father George. But tell me what you recollect, lad, for you may tell me safely. I can keep counsel, as you may see; but things are now coming to a close, and it is right we should all understand each other."
"The first thing I can recollect," said the young gentleman, "seems to me a fine house in a small town, with gardens and trees, and a beautiful lady I called mother,--that is a pleasant dream, Franz, full of happy things, sports of childhood, joys in flowers, and in birds' songs,--I am sure I remember it well, for nobody has talked to me about those things since, and it cannot be all fancy."
"No, no," answered Franz Creussen; "it is all true, quite true, and the lady was your mother! What more?"
"The next thing I remember," continued the young man; "is a less happy day. It seems as if I had been playing at my mother's knee in that same house--it was not a castle, but like the dwelling of some rich burgher,--and then suddenly came in a messenger, with what seemed evil tidings; for the lady wept, and in a few minutes all was bustle and confusion, packing up clothes and other things in haste; and then people spurring away at fiery speed, till I was weary, and fell asleep."
"Ay, ay, who carried you, then?" said the smith; "who but Franz Creussen? What do you recollect next?"
"There must have been a long interval," replied Ferdinand; "for I was a bigger boy then; and of the intervening time I re-member little or nothing; but shortly after that it seems as if I was very lonely and sad, and seldom saw my mother, till one night I was called into a room where she lay upon a bed propped up with pillows, and there were priests in the room, and men in black gowns, and the girl called Caroline, who used to nurse me; but my mother's face was sadly changed then,--it was thin and sharp, and pale, and the lips seemed bloodless, but her eyes were exceedingly bright, and her teeth as white as driven snow. She had a crucifix lying before her,--I recollect it well--a black cross with an ivory figure on it,--and she put her arms round my neck, and kissed me often, and prayed God to bless me, and make me happier and more fortunate than my father and herself.--That was not long before I went to the Abbey, I think; but I never saw her after."