"Christus, my Christus!" she whispered repentantly. It seemed as if she had committed a sin in suffering an earthly wish to touch the envoy of God. He was crucified, dead, and buried. He only walked on earth like a spirit permitted to return from time to time and dwell for a brief space among the living. Who could claim a spirit, clasp a shadow to the heart? Grief oppressed her, melancholy, akin to the grief we feel when we dream of the return of some beloved one who is dead, and throw ourselves sobbing on his breast, while we are aware that it is only a dream! But even if but a dream, should she not dream it with her whole soul? If she knew that he was given to her only a few moments, should she not crowd into them with all the sweeter, more sorrowful strength, the love of a whole life?
After us the deluge, says love to the moment--and that which does not say it is not love.
But in this moment, the countess felt, lay the germ of something imperishable, and when it was past there would begin for her--not annihilation, but eternity. To it she must answer for what she did with the moment!
Ludwig Gross was standing by the window, he did not wish to listen what was communicated by the mute language of those eyes. He had perceived, with subtle instinct, the existence of some mysterious connection, in which no third person had any part. They were alone--virtually alone, yet neither spoke, only their tearful eyes expressed the suffering which he endured and she shared in beholding.
"Come, poor martyr!" cried her heart, and she released one of his hands to clasp the other more closely with both her own. She noticed a slight quiver. "Does your hand still ache--from the terrible nail which seemed to be driven into your flesh?"
"Oh, no, that would cause no pain; the nail passes between the fingers and the large head extends toward the center of the palm. But to-day, by accident, Joseph of Arimathea in drawing out the nail took a piece of the flesh with it, so that I clenched my teeth with the pain!" he said, smiling, and showing her the wound. "Do you see? Now I am really stigmatized!"
"Good Heavens, there is a large piece of the flesh torn out, and you bore it without wincing?"
"Why, of course!" he said, simply.
Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in an unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it pressed a kiss upon the bloody stigma.
Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared not accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved passionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself from falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once consuming and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!