"But, in spite of all this, a name without honour, a liar's, a forger's name!" burst out Messenius, with the despair of a condemned man, who is shown the glory of Heaven obscured by the scaffold.
"Weak, vain man, you do not know that great aims are never won by the fear or praise of humanity!" said the Jesuit in a contemptuous tone. "You might have taken back your word and forfeited your claims to the gratitude of all Christendom. But happily it is now impossible. These documents"—and he extended his hand triumphantly with the papers—"are now in a hand which will know how to keep them, and, against your will, use them for the glory of the Church, the victory of the faith, and your soul's eternal welfare."
Father Hieronymus had hardly uttered these words when a hand behind him swiftly and suddenly seized the papers, which he had so elatedly waved, crumpled them together, tore them in a hundred pieces, and strewed the bits over the floor. This move was so unlooked for, and the Jesuit was so far from divining anything of the kind, that he lost his usual presence of mind for a moment, and thus gave the daring hand time to complete its work of destruction. When the fragments lying around convinced him of the reality of his loss, he bit his lips with rage, raised his arms aloft, and with the ferocity of a wild beast, fell upon the presumptuous being who had dared to extinguish his plans at the very moment of consummation.
Lucia—for she owned the intruding hand—met the monk's outbreak of fury with the great courage which distinguishes a woman when she struggles for the holiest she possesses. In her youth she had been one of those who could take a man by the collar; and this more than womanly strength of arm had gained practice during her constant squabbles with the rude soldiers of the castle. She hastily clasped her sinewy fingers around the monk's outstretched arms, and held them fast as in a vice.
"Well," she said in a mocking tone, "three paces from death, sir; what do you wish?"
"Mad woman!" screamed the Jesuit, foaming with rage, "you do not know what you have done! Miserable thief, you have stolen a kingdom from your Church, and Paradise from your husband."
"And from you I have stolen your booty; his secure prey from the wolf; is it not so?" replied Lucia, whose voice began to glow with the fire of her hasty temper. "Monk," she added, violently shaking the eminent Jesuit, who in vain tried to escape, "I know a vile thief, who, in the sheep's clothing of the Church, comes to steal the fame of a great man; also the history of a nation; and from a poor, forsaken woman, her sole pride; her husband's peace, honour, and life. Tell me, holy and pious monk, what punishment such a thief deserves? Would not Ämmä fall be shallow enough for his body, and the eternal fires cool enough for his soul?"
The Jesuit looked out of the window with a hasty movement towards the mighty torrent which descended with a terrible roar in the winter's night.
"Ha!" exclaimed Lucia with a bitter smile, "you fear me, you, the powerful one, who rules kingdoms and consciences. You fear lest I conceal a man's arm under my grey frock, which could hurl you into the cataract's abyss. Be reassured. I am only a woman, and fight with a woman's arms. You see ... I do not throw you out of the window ... I will be content with chaining up the wild beast. Tremble, monk, I know you! Lucia Grothusen has followed your steps; you are betrayed, and she has done this."
"Betrayed!" echoed the Jesuit; he well realised what this statement meant. At a time so full of hate, when two great religions fought for worldly and spiritual supremacy, when the plots of the Jesuits irritated the Swedes to the highest extent, a member of this order, discovered in disguise, in the kingdom, was lost beyond redemption. But the dire peril restored the equilibrium of this powerful character.