“It must be because she is poor,” said Conrad inwardly, “and perhaps, too, a little proud. Well, a Loewenstein has a right to be proud.”
They remained thus conversing together until a late hour, until all the lights in the valley were out, until the moon was sailing high in the heavens, and every sound was hushed except the voice of the waterfall in the ravine back of the castle.
And when at length they withdrew to rest, Ulrich, instead of lying awake, as he had feared he might, soon fell asleep, and till cockcrow next morning did nothing but dream of his beloved Moida. He dreamt—O naughty dreamer!—that he was tearing off his buttons purposely, that he might see her plump, ready hand sew them on again; and when he opened his eyes and heard the monastery bell ringing the Angelus, Ulrich fell at once on his knees and prayed with fervor, because he knew that at that same hour in Fingergasse Moida was saying the Angelus too.
The day which now opened was to be a busy one at Loewenstein. Ulrich betimes set himself to work renovating the half-destroyed frescos; and, to his great delight, several beautiful and interesting pictures came to view as he carefully scraped the whitewash off the walls. They appeared in patches: here an eye would peep out upon him; there a hand, a foot, a tress of hair; until by and by a lovely damsel or a knight in armor would stand full-length before his admiring gaze. This whitewash had been daubed over nearly the whole interior of the tower by a simple-minded cobbler, who had intended to make the place his home after Ulrich and Walburga went away, but who only passed one night in it; then was scared off by ghosts.
And when Conrad, who was superintending a band of laborers outside, came in and saw the art treasures which had been brought to light, he clapped his hands for joy. But more even than with the fair lady and mailed warrior was he charmed with a wild, shaggy figure, underneath which in quaint Gothic letters was written the word “Attila.”
“And now, as I behold anew this fresco,” remarked Ulrich, “my childhood comes vividly back to me, and I remember once hearing my father tell my mother that the great-grandsires of those who laid the foundations of Loewenstein might have known the king of the Huns.”
In short, these unlooked-for discoveries so excited Conrad that he could hardly go back to the open air, where the stones and earth which covered the site of three other towers were being cleared away; and ever and anon he would run in again to show Ulrich an old coin or other curious object which the workmen had found amid the rubbish. Whereupon the youth would point to still another long-concealed wall-picture gradually coming to view, till finally Conrad exclaimed: “God bless the stupid cobbler! I’ll not rail at him any more. But for his vile whitewash I should not have enjoyed all these surprises.”
Yes, it was a busy, happy day for them both. When the sun dipped behind the mountain in the west Conrad called to Ulrich to cease his labors and come out and watch the path leading down into the valley. “For I am expecting,” said he, “all the things I purchased of your betrothed to arrive this evening, and Miss Hofer is coming with them. I kept it secret, lest you might be too distracted if you knew it.”
“Really! is Moida coming?” cried Ulrich.
Scarcely had the words escaped his lips when they heard the bark of a dog—not a sharp, quick yelp, but the thick, husky bark of a dog that is aged—and in another moment who should be seen emerging from a clump of hazel bushes through which the pathway led but Caro and his mistress.