A low murmur passed through the assembly, and some looked embarrassed, as if they would say, “So that is a son, too? Then we have made a mistake there.”
The dancing sunbeams caught the vicar’s attention, and he took them as the text for his sermon. The earthly sun was indeed shining brightly and full of joy; but that was nothing—that was utter darkness compared with the heavenly sunshine. Then he praised the dead, and praised also those left behind, especially the faithful husband and the two eldest sons as the proud pillars of the house; there was also a spare morsel for Paul, the servant, whom his master had found faithful unto death.
It was only a pity that he understood nothing of this honeyed praise. Lost in thought, he stared before him. His look rested on the silk bow which stood out from his mother’s cap, and which moved gently when the draught, caused by the vicar’s waving arms, glided over it. It resembled a white butterfly that moves its wings to rise into the air.
Then a hymn was sung and the lid placed on the coffin. At this moment there sounded from the background a heart-rending cry, “Mother, mother!”
Startled and astonished, every one turned round. It was Elsbeth Douglas who had uttered it. Now she lay fainting in the arms of her neighbor. Paul understood her well. She had thought of the moment when the lid would be laid over her own mother’s face. And he vowed to himself he would then be at her side to comfort her. His father also looked up, and on his features the question was clearly written: “Is she, too, here?”
Elsbeth was taken into the next room, and two women remained with her until she recovered.
But the uplifted coffin was borne staggering out of the door till it found rest on the hearse.
Paul seized his cap. Then Gottfried, pressing to his side, put something soft and black into his hand.
“At least tie this crape round your arm,” he whispered to him.
“Why?”