But it was dark within, and the night-wind moaned through the damp walls and the open window. "O God! the creature is so good and so wretched. Here in this stable are tears and chattering teeth on this day of Christmas gifts. Now, that is too grievous," sighed the thorn-bush.
And over the way the church-organ poured out its solemn tones. "Christ is born," sang the people from the choir and benches. "Christ is born," cried the watchman from the tower. And our thorn-bush was right. In that old, deserted stable a poor woman knelt and prayed. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, her hands were convulsively clasped, and her eyes rested fixedly on the straw in the old stone manger; for in that manger lay her youngest born, a half-year old child, sick, and trembling with ague and cold. The moon shone through the window-opening upon this group. Her rays fell sympathizingly on the sick child, but they could not warm him; nor could the mother's breast do it either, she was herself so icy cold. [{497}] And through the chinks of the rotting roof, gaps were covered with snow, fell by hundred thousands the little glittering snow-stars and played in the moon-beams, but they gave no light or warmth either.
"Saviour of the world, thou who wert born this night, who didst live and die for us all, who didst lie to-day in a manger, like this poor helpless creature, save, oh! save my sick child!" So prayed this poor woman, and the baby stretched out his little cold hands to his mother and wept. But her strengths was all gone. She let her weary head sink on the icy edge of the stone manger; her eyes closed, and a heavy sigh burst forth from her breast. Days and nights had she watched; days and nights of bitter misery had she endured; but now she broke down, and sleep took pity on her wretchedness.
"Poor wife, where is thy husband? Poor baby, where is thy father?" whispered the thorn-bush pityingly, looking in at the window.
Yes, where was the husband, where was the father? Wild Stephen, for so the villagers called him, had been turned out of his cottage with his wife and children the evening before, as we have already said. He sought a refuge among the neighbors, but they would have nothing to do with him, for they were afraid of godless Stephen, who never had done a good thing, so they said. And so he and his had come to this deserted stable. Then he had rushed away breathless, in spite of the entreaties of his wife, who dreaded some misfortune. Where, then, was Wild Stephen? The bells ring out, the organ sounded, the people sang pious songs in the church, and the good priest stood before the altar and chanted: "Glory be to God on high, and on earth peace to men of good-will."
Up in the old castle, in a comfortless room, a man of dark, forbidding aspect set near the long-extinguished fire. He was the lord of the castle, a hard-hearted man, feared by every one within the limits of his estate. The light before him on the table burnt low; his face looked stiff and motionless, his eyes were closed. It seemed like sleep, only he looked so very pale. Now, while in the out-buildings of the court-yard servants hurried to and fro, a man was stealing up the stairs and through the gloomy corridor. He softly opened the door of the great room, crept lightly in, and up to the arm-chair where the landlord slept. The stranger's eyes gleamed with passion, a sneering smile disfigured his weather-beaten face. He cast one look stealthily around the room. A knife glistened in one hand, the other grasped that of the sleeping landlord. The blade quivered—
"Christ is born," saying the people in the church below.
Wild Stephen shrank back, for the hand was icy cold. He had touched a corpse.
"Christ is born," cried the warder from the tower; for mass was over, and the people were hastening home.
Stephen's knife fell from his hand. He looked again at the dead man, and it seemed as if the cold eyes were opening to blast him. Covering his face with both hands, he fled from the room. No one had seen him glide into the house; no one saw him now pause before the old stable and looked in the window—no one but the thorn-bush. Ashy pale, Stephen gazed into the stable. There he saw his wife kneeling, motionless as the dead man in the castle yonder, but more lovely; and gentle and pure as innocence, the child in the manger. Then Stephen, rushed forward, not knowing whither, rushed through the open church-door, and sank senseless on the steps of the altar.