"A ray of grace from on high hath illumined thee; let us pray that it may conduct thee through the gates of death to eternal light, I have a few words more to address thee. The court, while punishing as it should the crime of the murderer, forgets not the merits of the artist. It therefore accords thee, to lessen the bitterness of thy last moments, the favor thou mayst most desire. Reflect, Master Sebald, ere thou fixest thy choice. Any grace thou mayst demand shall be accorded, any save life."
A murmur of astonishment and joy ran through the crowd, which was hushed only to hear the old sculptor's reply. Master Sebald remained long silent, but at length rose and spoke:
"I would not ask life were I free to do so," he answered. "My life hath already been too long, and she whom I love awaits me beyond the grave. But you have spoken of expiation, my lord, and it seems to me that even here below my death would not afford a complete one. My life, ended at the gibbet, may satisfy the justice of man; but what shall I do to appease the anger of my God? Dare I appear before him with no penitential act to plead for my pardon; no work of reparation wherein sweat and tears I might have washed my blood-stained hands? Repentance came while I gazed upon yon crucifix; in carving another, pardon might perhaps descend upon me from heaven. If the court will for a few weeks prolong my life, as I now see Christ's image before me, so will I produce it in the stone!" cried he with enthusiasm. "I ask not to quit my prison to live in the midst of men. No! let me be immured in a dungeon, let my door be sealed until I leave it to go to my death. Let but a ray of sunlight enter, that I may see to model the august countenance of my God, while I remain there with the thoughts of eternity and the remembrance of my crime for my only companions."
"Master Koerner," replied the judge, "thy request is that of a good Christian and a noble artist, and the court accords it with joy, in the hope that the work of thy last days may bring thee pardon and salvation. Thou wilt be led back to thy dungeon, and, before its door closes upon thee, all thou mayst require for thy work will be brought thee."
The judges arose and retired. Johann, radiant with joy, and his grief almost consoled, accompanied his old master to the prison, and then sought the stone, the clay—all that the sculptor could need. Even the fatal chisel, cleansed of its stains, was brought to him bright and shining, like the soul of the criminal which, stained by sin, would soon be cleansed by grief and labor.
Then the old sculptor passed his hand over his seamed brow and hollow cheeks and called for a mirror. The door was then built up with stone and mortar, and only an opening large enough for his food to be passed through was left, and Master Sebald stood alone in the cell which he was only to leave to pass to the gibbet.
Chapter X.
Solitude was the cradle of creation; solitude is the never-ceasing fountain wherein exhausted souls are refreshed. Not without an object did the prophets begin their mission in the desert. Who would leave after him an immortal name must retire from the haunts of men, and in solitude examine his soul ere he speaks to mankind from the rostrum, or with the pen, the chisel, or the pencil. When the busy hum of the world has faded away into silence, when he hears no voice but that of his heart within, and nature without, and God above, he will then feel the flame which brings immortality. The voice he hears will be that of truth; the hand which stretches toward him that of justice; and all the strength of the one and the charms of the other will glow in his work.
Master Sebald's dungeon was the most real, the most complete of solitudes. Thick walls of gray granite, upon which shone green and slimy traces of the dampness that filled the air, formed a circle around him without an angle, a recess, an irregularity on which the weary eye might rest. A plank and a truss of straw were his bed; a block of stone was his only seat; there was no door, for such was old Sebald's wish. Light alone—sweet light—was not denied the captive, but flowed abundant and golden through a large opening in the vaulted roof. But by day only was the boon granted, and then it bore with it no sight of that world where men dwelt, no view of the sunlit waters, the green fields, or the feathered children of the air. Nothing of these could he enjoy; nothing but that flood of day flowing from the open heaven upon the criminal's brow, like the gaze of Eternal Love, ever open to hearts that yearn for it; and nevertheless, when Master Sebald thus found himself immured in a living tomb, when nothing of earth remained to him save stone walls, his modelling clay, and his chisel, then inspiration of a greater power than it had ever before felt filled his soul, and in that inspiration and in his work he would have found joyful companions; he would have been happy, were it not that two dark and vengeful guests found lodgment in his breast, sorrow and remorse.
His remorse was for his crime, his sorrow for his child. They wore deeper the furrows in his brow; they made his hair whiter, his step more feeble and uncertain; they sunk his eyes deeper in their sockets. They tortured him in his weary watchings; they gave form to his dreams and broke and almost banished slumber; they stood before him when he worked or prayed—his former hate and his former love; his victim and his child. The golden hair of his Mina glittered in wild waves before his eyes; he saw the manly face of Otho pale and contracted with agony, while the gushing blood poured from his wound; he closed his eyes, but still their forms stood before him, both beckoning to the threshold of that world where eternity begins.