The major returned, with his soldiers and his prisoners, to the new chateau, where he was to await the receipt of orders as to whether he was to continue the exercise of his authority. The danneman and his family returned to their mountain, Karine, to the last, being unable to comprehend that she beheld in Christian the child of the lake. Her mind could not so readily be brought back, from the fantasies in which she lived, to a perception of real things. And indeed, even in after years, although her condition was very much ameliorated, although she felt instinctively that she was freed from a great trouble, she never, while she lived, really succeeded in identifying Christian, and she very often confounded him with his father, the young Baron Adelstan.
It was four o’clock in the morning; and though it was the custom of the country to go to bed very late, at a time of the year when the nights are so long, the principal persons of our story had passed through such a series of vehement emotions, that they were all overwhelmed with fatigue. They all retired, therefore, and slept profoundly, being more fortunate in this, probably, than Johan and his gang, shut up in the tower of the new chateau, where they had imprisoned and tortured so many people.
However, before day-break, Stenson glided softly to Christian’s bedside, and after gazing upon him with rapture for a few seconds, he waked him, without arousing M. Goefle.
“Rise, my master!” he whispered in his ear, “I have something to say to you which must be heard by yourself alone! I will await you in the inner room.”
Christian dressed himself quickly and silently, and closing the doors behind him, followed Stenson into the deserted and dilapidated apartment into which he had penetrated on the previous evening. The old man uncovered his head with reverence.
“Here, Monsieur Baron,” he said, “behind this wainscot, where you see a dove carved in marble, a mystery is hidden, that ought to be revealed to you alone. Here it is that your mother had secretly erected an altar to the Virgin; for she was a Catholic, the fact is too certain. The exercise of her worship being forbidden in her husband’s country, madame was obliged to conceal her faith, so as not to draw down persecution upon his head.
“Pastor Mickelson could never prove this. The altar was brought and placed in this hiding-place by Italian workmen, travelling through the country, who had executed other commissions in marble, and in wood, at the new chateau. I was the only person in her confidence. There was a learned old Frenchman among the retainers of the chateau, who was a Catholic priest, unknown to every one, and who said mass here secretly; but he had died, and the Italian workmen had departed at the time of the persecution of your poor mother. You must see this altar, Monsieur Baron, and, whatever may be your own religion, you must regard it with respect. Help me to move the spring in the wainscot, which is probably very rusty.”
“You mean that your poor arms are swollen and aching,” said Christian, kissing the old man’s tortured hands.
“Ah! do not pity me,” said Stenson, “my hands will get well; I do not feel them, all that I have suffered is as nothing in comparison with my present happiness.”
Christian opened the wainscot as Stenson directed, and after drawing a curtain of gilt leather, he saw a white marble altar, in the form of a sarcophagus. Stenson, who was deeply agitated, fell upon his knees.