CHAPTER XXI
At the first streak of dawn a sad procession went across the autumnal heath, on the way to Helenenthal. Two miserable wagons crept slowly, one behind the other. In them was found room for all that remained of the Haidehof.
In the first wagon, wrapped in blankets among the straw, lay the master, terribly burned, unconscious ... The pale, trembling woman who anxiously bent over him was the playfellow of his youth.
In this state she fetched him home at last. “We will take him to one of his sisters,” Mr. Douglas had said but she had laid her hands on Paul’s breast, from which the singed rags hung down, as if she wanted to take possession of him for evermore, and had answered:
“No, father, he is coming with us.”
“But your wedding, child—the guests?”
“What is the wedding to me?” she replied, and the gay bridegroom stood by stupefied.
In the second cart lay the few pieces of furniture which had been saved: an old chest of drawers, a few drawers with linen and books and ribbons, earthen ware dishes, a milk pail, and his father’s long pipe.
But where was the latter?
The only one who might have given an explanation lay there unconscious, perhaps already struggling with death.