The old woman seemed to listen to the strokes of the oars; her dead eyes rested immovably on the sea. A sea-mew passed close to her in its flight. “That was a bird!” said she. “Is there no one here beside ourselves?”
“No; no one at all,” answered Otto, carelessly.
“Is no one in the hut, no one behind the sand-hills?” again asked the grandmother. “It was not on account of the dried meat that I came here—it was not to wet my face on the shore; I speak with you alone, which I could not do in the house. Give me your hand! Now that the old man rests in the grave, you yourself will guide the rudder; the estate will be sold, and you will not come again to the west coast. Our Lord has made it dark before my eyes before He has closed my ears and given me leave to go. I can no longer see you, but I have you in my thought as you looked before you left our land. That you are handsomer now I can easily imagine; but gayer you are not! Talk you certainly can, and I have heard you laugh; but that was little better than the two last years you were here. Once it was different with you—no fairy could be wilder than you!”
“With years one becomes more quiet,” said Otto, and gazed with astonishment at the blind woman, who did not leave go his hand. “As a boy I was far too merry—that could not continue; and that I should now be grave, I have, as you will see, sufficient reason—I have lost my last support.”
“Yes, truly, truly!” repeated she slowly, and as if pondering; then shook her head. “That is not the reason. Do you not believe in the power of the devil? our Lord Christ forgive me! do not you believe in the power of wicked men? There is no greater difference between the human child and the changeling brat which the underground spirits lay in his stead in the cradle, than there is between you when you were a boy and you as you became during the last year of your stay here. ‘That comes from books, from so much learning,’ said I to other people. Could I only have said so to myself! But you shall become gay; the trouble of your heart shall wither like a poisonous weed. I know whence it sprung, and will, with God’s help, heal it. Will you solemnly promise, that no soul in the world shall learn what we speak of in this hour?”
“What have you to say to me?” asked Otto, affected by the extraordinary earnestness of the old woman.
“The German Heinrich, the player! You remember him well? He is to blame for your grief! Yes, his name drives the blood more quickly through your pulse. I feel it, even if I cannot see your face.”
“The German Heinrich!” repeated Otto, and his hand really trembled. Had Heinrich, then, when he was here three years ago, told her and the fishermen that which no human being must know,—that which had destroyed the gayety of his youth? “What have I to do with the German Heinrich?”
“Nothing more than a pious Christian has to do with the devil!” replied she, and made the sign of the cross. “But Heinrich has whispered an evil word in your ear; he has banished your joyous humor, as one banishes a serpent.”
“Has he told you this?” exclaimed Otto, and breathed more quickly. “Tell me all that he has said!”