Christine of the hills

by Max Pemberton

“Never shall I forget the sight we saw as that street came to our view. It was like passing from the darkness of a stormy night to the glare of a terrible day. There, at a stone’s throw from the first of the houses, was the sledge of Count Paul, its electric lamps—for he built it after the model of the one at Munich—shining so brightly that all the village was lit by them. We could see a dozen lusty men dealing stout blows with their cudgels upon the ravenous beasts, of which fifty at the least were snarling and snapping at the shivering horses. We could see the wolves tearing the flesh in strips from the staggering leaders of the team, or leaping at the villagers, or rolling in the snow as the bullets struck them and the cudgels broke their backs. High above the throng was the form of the Count, his rifle smoking in his hand, his voice as clear and resonant as the voice of a sergeant at the drill. And Christine stood at his side, seeming to make light of the peril.

“Excellency, that was a scene to remember; the glow of the lamps in the ‘whirling fire,’ as the peasants call the sledge, the howling of the wolves, the sharp reports of the rifles, the piteous moanings of the horses, the shouts of the men—above all the figure of the Count shielding little Christine. As for me, I never recall a moment so welcome to me; nor could I fail to remind myself that my word in urging on the men when they would have turned back had done not a little to save the child’s life and the life of Count Paul. Certainly, our coming was the turning-point of the attack; for the presence of the master had put new heart into the poltroons who had followed me from the house, and so soon as they saw him they ran on towards his sledge, shouting like madmen, and firing so wildly that two of the villagers were wounded by their bullets. Nevertheless, the pack being now taken on two sides, and the din and noise being beyond words, many minutes had not passed before the last of the wolves was limping to the woods, and we were gathering about the Lord Count to congratulate him. He, however, had thanks for none of us, since Christine, who had stood up boldly while there was work to be done, had now fallen like a dead thing upon the snow at his feet, and all his care and thought were for her.

“‘How came the child out upon the road?’ he cried as the others pressed about him. ‘Are your wits gone, then, that you had no heads to think of it? Get out of my sight, you gibbering fools! Stand back from her! By God, I will send you packing in the morning!’

“He continued in this way for some time, lifting Christine very tenderly in his arms and laying her upon the cushions of the sledge. His wrath was a fearful thing to see, and so fierce were his words that none of his own dare answer him—not even the priest; and they stood together in the road like children rebuked. Nor did I fare any better, for when I would have told him that it was no fault of mine, and that I had led the others to his help, he struck me with his whip and was the more angry.

“‘Hold your tongue,’ said he, ‘or I will cut it out! God deliver me from such a crew—to let a woman walk the woods when the sun is down! Are you all drunk—and you too, master priest? Then slash the traces off that dead horse and close round the sledge. You shall make noise enough in the morning—make some of it now. The devil give me a lash to reach you!’

“These were hard things to hear, signor, and when he gave us, above them, some heavy slashes with his long whip, raising blood upon our hands and shoulders, it seemed to me that our cup indeed was full. But we could stand still no longer, and when we had cut loose the leading horses—which had been horribly torn by the wolves—we closed round the sledge as he had bidden us, and with much noise and clamour we ran by the side of it, going safely through the dark place of the wood, and so ultimately to the gates of the château. We were still at some distance from the park, however, when Christine, who had but swooned, came to her senses, as I could see from my place at the window of the carriage; and finding herself in the arms of the man she loved, she raised her face to his, and was held close to him while he kissed her again and again.

“‘Ho, ho,’ said I to myself as I watched the pretty work, ‘now surely is your day come, Andrea, for she will be his wife within the month.’

“Christine awoke on the following morning without any hurt of her adventure, excellency. Nor did the Count hold to threats made in anger, but having given Hans and the priest a sound drubbing with his tongue, he dismissed them to their business. I, for my part, kept out of his way all that day, fearing, if he saw me, to be sent back to Zlarin. I had made up my mind to dwell at Jajce as long as circumstances would permit, more particularly until Christine’s future was settled; and now that such a settlement seemed probable this intention was the stronger. Whatever fate was in store for the girl, that I wished to share. I said to myself that I had earned the right to such a participation in her fortunes. She owed it to me alone that she had lived to know the comforts of her present state. I had given her bread when she was starving, had heard her read out of the book when no other in Sebenico would open a door to her. She had sat upon my knee like one of my own children, had heard words of wisdom from my lips when others gave her curses. Strange, then, if she should not think of me in the great day of her life; strange if I must be sent away when the supreme moment of her happiness was at hand.

“You may urge that such a thought was an anticipation of her state, that nothing had yet passed to lead me to so triumphant a conclusion. I answer you that I am a judge of men, and that nothing of the Count’s nature was then hidden from me.

“Hour by hour the conviction that he would marry her had grown upon me. I had begun to see that he was a man who had learnt to scorn the opinions of his fellow-men—a man who would let nothing come between him and his pleasures. In the same measure that he could jeer at the religion of the priest, or pour torrents of anger upon his servants, so was he at heart a just man, obeying a fine code of honour which his own inborn chivalry dictated. The longer I remained in the house of the Zaloskis, the more sure was I that no shame would come upon Christine there. The Count had few to pry into the garden of his life. His visits to Vienna were rare and official. His only relation was a sister, whose one interest in him was the principal she had borrowed and could not repay. Should he marry the daughter of a merchant of Zara—and that was how the world would hear of it—there would be a few to express surprise that he had not taken a wife from the salons of the capital, but none who would have the right to remonstrate. Nay, everything pointed to the one end—his loneliness, his care of the child, the anger he had shewn when she was in danger, his tenderness to her when she was in the carriage with him. Look at the matter as I might, I could not alter my view; and so sure was I that Count Paul had already spoken to Christine some words of his wish that I took the first opportunity of talking to her, and of putting the question without disguise.