CHAPTER VIIIA MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS
“Count Paulfound Christine insensible upon the road, excellency, and called at once to his steward, who followed him on horseback:
“‘Hans, do you know this woman?’
“‘I, Herr Count—donnerwetter, that I should know her! And yet——’
“‘Hans, you are a fool! I asked you if you knew the woman. Get down at once and lift her from the ground.’
“The steward lumbered off his horse and raised the girl in his arms. She lay with her white face hidden by the rushes at the roadside; but now the Count could see it, pale as it was, and pinched and wan, yet the face of Christine, unalterable in its sweetness.
“‘Herr Count,’ said the steward, ‘this is no woman from Jajce; she has the clothes of a peasant of Zara. And, Herr Count, I think that she is dead.’
“He spoke, they tell me, as if he had taken some dumb thing in his hands. That his master should be concerned because a peasant girl lay dying in the road was beyond his comprehension. He had seen them die by scores, for he had lived forty years in the mountains. One more or less—what matter? Oh, life is very cheap in Bosnia, excellency.
“The Count waited until his steward had raised Christine up; but no sooner had he looked upon her face than he sprang from his horse to bend over her and listen for a beat of the heart or a sign of breathing in the body. They laugh now when they tell the story in Jajce, excellency, for that was the first time their master had held a woman in his arms.
“He knelt at her side, and holding his hand upon her breast, he spoke again to his steward:
“‘Dip this handkerchief in the lake and bring water in the cup of the flask. Quick—have you not seen a woman faint before?’
“The steward stared with increasing wonder.
“‘Himmel,’ he cried—‘a little brandy upon her lips, now.’
“‘Would you choke her, imbecile? Getthe water, before I lay my whip upon your shoulders!’
“The man ran to the brink of the lake, for they had just passed the town of Jézero, and bringing the water and the wetted handkerchief, he helped his master to bathe Christine’s forehead and to chafe her hands. Count Paul had not followed the great war of the year ’70 for nothing. There was no better surgeon in the State. So well did he treat the patient whom God had put in his path that anon she opened her eyes, and the name upon her lips was neither that of her lover nor of the shepherd. Excellency, she spoke of me, crying for Father Andrea.
“‘Girl,’ said the Count in his brusque way, now wetting her lips with the brandy, ‘how did you come here?’
“The question was repeated, but she had no strength to answer him, only crying for me again, and then shutting her eyes as though she would sleep.
“‘I am tired,’ she said; ‘oh, I sink through the ground. Let me rest, Andrea; it is well with me here.’
“Her voice was weak when she spoke, yetit was sweet as of old time—a plaintive, winning voice, captivating as the note of a bird. Count Paul the recluse, accustomed to the grating tones of the native women, thought it the prettiest voice he had heard.
“‘Well,’ said he, ‘you are right; this is no peasant woman. I am going to carry her to the house. Let the white room be prepared—and hot wine. Do you hear me—the white room and hot wine!’
“The steward’s eyes were very wide open when he heard these things, signor, and he did not cease to mutter to himself while he raised the girl from the ground and put her into the arms of his master—strong arms, which made very light of the burden, yet bore it with much tenderness. He himself rode on as he had been told, cantering over the soft grass of the park to the great house which for five centuries has been the home of the Zaloskis and the keystone of their fortunes.
“‘Himmel,’ he said as he rode, ‘that he should bring a woman to his doors—he who has lived forty years without touching a woman’s hand—a slut that he picks off the road. And in the white room, too! What a thing to getabroad! He will be taking a wife next, and she will be calling me “fool” also. God of Heaven! that I was born to such a service.’
“He continued to mutter thus all the way to the great house; and when he had come within call of it he bawled to the grooms and the men about that they should run down the road and help their master. So great was the din which he made that all the household presently was abroad in the park, and only the maidservants and the priest were left to listen to him. Not that they failed to be ready listeners, excellency, for a woman could ever roll a scandal prettily in the mouth; and as for the priest, Father Mark, he would have walked an hour any day to wag his tongue with five minutes’ gossip.
“‘What,’ he cried now to the complaining steward, ‘the Herr Count brings a guest to the white room? He has picked her up in the road, say you? Out on you for a tale-bearer!’
“‘It is no tale, Father, as you may learn presently for yourself. He is coming through the park now, and is cuddling the woman as you would cuddle a bottle—that is to say, as I—sinner that I am——’
“The priest waited to hear no more. Hatless and without his cloak, thinking nothing of the heat of the sun or the dignity of his office, he strode over the grass with long strides on his journey to meet the Count. That a woman was to be brought as a guest to the house of Paul Zaloski was a thing he could not contemplate with equanimity. Yet he had to contemplate it presently, when little Christine lay sleeping in the white room of the château, and the servants were striving one against the other to do her service.”