"Baron von Steinach," she said, in a hurried, anxious tone, "I have betrayed my secret to you against my will; you understood how to drive me to extremities, but you will take no unfair advantage of a confession wrung from me in a moment of excitement. You will say nothing?"
"First convince me that I can keep silence without violating my duty. We stand on the brink of a volcano; hatred and hostility everywhere confront us; we must be watchful. I have done you injustice once, Fräulein, and should not like to do so a second time, but--can you answer to the man to whom you owe so much for what was agreed upon that night between you and your brother?"
"To whom I owe the slavery of my whole youth? I suppose you are speaking of Colonel Arlow?"
The words sounded so cutting that the young officer frowned angrily, and his voice regained its former harsh tone as he replied:
"Though Colonel Arlow feels your coldness to him and Edith, he probably never suspected the existence of such an idea in the mind of his adopted daughter, nor has he deserved such a return for his kindness in giving a shelter to two deserted orphans."
The reproach only seemed to irritate Danira still more. A threatening light flashed in her eyes.
"And who made us orphans? Who killed our father? He was dragged here mortally wounded, to die in prison; my mother caught her death in the fever-laden air of the hospital, and the children were to be reared and educated by those who had robbed them of their parents. We were not consulted when we were torn from our people, our home; we were disposed of like soulless brutes. My brother was spared this fate; he was carried back to our native mountains. I remained among strangers, as a stranger, whose presence was tolerated beside the beloved and idolized child of the household. They robbed me of everything--country, parents, friends and gave me in return the wretched alms of an education which only made me miserable, for it never filled the deep gulf that separated me from them in every thought and feeling, never let me forget that I am of a different race. I remained in chains, because I was forced to do so, yet I felt them when still a child, hated them from the moment I first waked to the consciousness of their existence. Now my own kindred summon me, I cannot, will not wear the fetters longer. I throw them at your feet. I will be free at last."
She had at first spoken with repressed bitterness, but soon her language rose to a passionate vehemence that forgot every precaution, swept away every barrier. Her pallid face flushed crimson as the hot blood suffused her temples; her whole frame trembled with her terrible excitement; a demon seemed to have suddenly taken possession of the young girl.
But there was also a demoniac charm surrounding her which was felt even by Gerald, whose eyes rested upon this apparition as if spell-bound. Hitherto he had only known her cold, reserved, mysterious; now the veil was rent asunder, and he saw the real person--the free daughter of the mountains, in her primal fierceness, which no education, no habit had curbed.
In a single moment she had flung; aside the fetters worn for years, and risen triumphant and threatening against her former benefactor. Yet, notwithstanding all this, the girl was beautiful, bewitchingly beautiful in this storm of passion. She stood proudly erect, with flaming eyes; doubtless they still contained the gloom of tempestuous nights, but now this darkness was filled with darting flashes of lightning.
Just at that moment, from the heights above, a shout echoed distinctly through the clear, still air. There stood Edith, who had already reached the end of their ride, and her companion. She waved her handkerchief and called merrily to the laggards.
Gerald started as if waking from a dream, and hastily passed his hand over his forehead, as though trying to efface some mark there.
"Edith is reminding us to start," he said, in a strangely tremulous tone. "It is really time for us to continue our ride, we had almost--forgotten it."
Danira made no reply, her dark lashes had already drooped again, and with them the veil seemed to fall once more over her whole nature; her face was as cold and rigid as before.
Gerald went to the mules, which had profited by the rest allowed them to browse on the puny plants growing here and there between the bowlders. Loosing the bridles he again turned to his companion.
"One word more, while we are alone. You were very frank to me, perhaps too much so. Can you, dare you, tell me the subject of that nocturnal conversation in the fisherman's hut?"
"No," was the curt, resolute answer.
"Then I must speak, at the peril of seeming to you an informer. When treachery is in question--"
"Treachery!" interrupted the young girl with quivering lips. "I am no traitress."
"Well, what do you call it, then, when hostile plans are woven against those under whose roof, in whose protection you live? How you reconcile your residence under that roof with what I was forced to hear just now is your own affair; it is my duty to warn the colonel, and I shall do so this very day."
With distant courtesy he offered his hand to help her mount, but she silently declined his assistance, and, with a single effort, sprung unaided into the saddle. The next instant Gerald was also ready and they pursued their way without exchanging another word.
On the height above Edith met them, radiant with delight at the advantage she had gained and maliciously enjoying the vexation inflicted upon her lover. She read plainly enough in his face and Danira's the annoyance they had endured during their ride.
"There come the loiterers!" she cried. "Why did you dismount on the way? You spent half an eternity on the rock down below."
"It was on account of the view," replied Gerald laconically. "You were far ahead. Did George take proper care when he went up the steep bridle-path with you?"
The young lady laughed--it was the merry, bell-like laugh ever at her command.
"Oh! yes; but you will be obliged to challenge George, Gerald. He has made me a proposal in all due form, and I requested time for consideration--the heir of the Moosbach Farm is a good match. What do you think of it?"
The young officer laughed very little at the joke. He had already joined hisfiancéeand was riding close beside her. He felt as if he must seek in her sunny eyes protection from some unknown power that was shading him with its dark wings.
They now reached the last bend in the road, and here the whole view opened before them, still wider and more magnificent than below. At their feet lay the country with its rocks and waters, its dreary, barren wastes and luxuriant shores. The fervid rays of the southern sun were shining upon it, and far away in the distance glimmered the boundless expanse of the sea.
Yes, it was a strange country. Repellant, yet bewitching, like the people who belonged to it, and whoever had once taken a long look at it understood its mysterious spell.
Clear and sparkling the starry night brooded over the dark, quiet earth. The jagged mountain-peaks were but dimly outlined against the sky, and the black masses of the cliffs blended with the sable shadow resting upon the bay.
The city was already wrapped in slumber, and the members of the commandant's household had retired to rest. Colonel Arlow himself had not returned until late from a neighboring village, where a detachment of troops was also stationed, and on his arrival did not find Gerald. The latter had waited vainly for his superior officer, who had been unusually delayed, and as the lieutenant was obliged to be at his post on the citadel at nightfall, he left a few lines, urging strict watchfulness as there were indications that Joan Obrevic's presence in the city was connected with secret plots. He promised to make a full report the following day, but mentioned no other names.
The colonel shook his head over the note, but he was too thoroughly acquainted with Gerald's quiet, penetrating mind, which did not allow itself to be influenced by mere conjectures, not to heed the warning. He gave the necessary orders, directed that any unusual occurrence should be instantly and directly reported to him, and then also went to rest.
Deep silence reigned in the sleeping-rooms of the two young girls, which adjoined each other. Edith, wearied by the long and fatiguing ride, had instantly lost herself in slumber and was living over in her dreams the last few hours that had been at once so pleasant and so strange. True, Gerald had unaccountably insisted upon shortening the visit to the fort, and avoided entering even one of the inner fortifications with the ladies. He seemed still graver than usual, but, on the other hand, had treated his youngfiancéewith a tenderness never before displayed. He had not quitted her side once all the way home, and had devoted himself to her so entirely that she did not even find time to notice how carefully he avoided addressing a word to Danira, and how completely the latter held aloof from him; it had been a delightful excursion.
The lamp which lighted the chamber threw a dim ray on the bed where the young girl lay, presenting a lovely picture in her slumber. The fair little head, turned somewhat on one side, nestled among the pillows, the smile evoked by a pleasant dream hovered around her lips, and her bosom rose and fell in deep, regular breathing; it was the sleep of a child still untroubled by care or sorrow.
Midnight had already come, when the door of the next room gently opened, and Danira appeared on the threshold. She was fully dressed and had thrown on a dark cloak, which enveloped her from head to foot. Gliding noiselessly across the carpet, she approached the bed. There was something ghostly in the tall, gloomy figure that bent over the young girl, so close that her breath almost fanned Edith's cheek. The latter started and opened her eyes.
"You--Danira?" she asked, still scarcely roused from her dream.
Danira hastily stood erect and turned as if to fly, but when Edith, yet half asleep, continued: "What do you want?" she stooped and said in a low, stifled voice:
"To bid you farewell."
Edith now seemed to wake fully and started up in alarm.
"Farewell? Now, in the middle of the night? Where are you going?"
"Away--forever! Do not be so startled, Edith; it must be! It was foolish, imprudent, to come to you, but I could not go without seeing you once more; I did not think you would wake."
Edith evidently did not comprehend what she heard, but gazed as if bewildered into the face of her adopted sister, who now continued more impetuously:
"I should have gone in a few days or weeks--now it must be to-night. He has left us no choice, and he is a watchful jailer."
"He? Who? For heaven's sake don't talk in such riddles. Where are you going? You see I am almost frightened to death."
Danira fell upon her knees and clasped the young girl's hands; it was a fierce, painful grasp.
"Do not ask, I dare not answer. Your father will tell you that I have been ungrateful, wicked; perhaps he is right, but my right is higher, for it is the claim of home and kindred, of which he deprived me. He has felt as little affection for me as I for him--let him condemn me! But you, Edith, have loved me, spite of all my failings. You never intentionally caused me pain, never turned coldly from me, even when you did not understand me. You must not believe that I have been unfeeling. I was only wretched, unutterably wretched! Remember this, when to-morrow they all pronounce sentence upon me, and then--forget me!"
She had uttered all this with breathless haste, and now tried to rise, but Edith, who at last understood that the farewell was seriously meant, flung both arms around her neck and began to weep aloud.
"Hush!" whispered Danira, half beseechingly, half imperatively.
"Don't detain me, do not try to prevent my escape, I will not be stopped, though it should cost my life. If you wake the others and put them on my track, it will perhaps cause my death--it will not bring me back!"
The last words expressed such terrible determination that Edith, in her alarm, let her arms fall, and Danira profited by the opportunity to release herself.
"And now one more request. Tell him--Gerald von Steinach--I am no traitress. I have made no hostile plots against those who call themselves my benefactors, they only concerned one man's escape--he will know the secret to-morrow."
Edith suddenly stopped crying and fixed her astonished eyes upon the speaker.
"A message from you to Gerald? And I am to tell him that?"
"Yes! I will not, cannot take this man's contempt with me. I have borne much of late, but I will not endure that scornful glance from his eyes. Promise to repeat to him, word for word, what I said. And now farewell--forever!"
She stooped again, Edith felt two hot, quivering lips press hers, felt herself strained to a heart throbbing with passionate emotion; but it was only for a moment, the next Danira had vanished. The door closed behind her, and the lamp diffused its soft light through the chamber as before, while the young girl pressed both hands upon her temples to convince herself that the scene through which she had just passed was no mere vision in a dream.
Everything had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it was some time before Edith recovered from her bewilderment. Then she rose hurriedly, threw on a dressing-gown and rushed into the adjoining room occupied by Danira. It was empty and deserted, the bed untouched, the door locked, the fugitive must have already left the house.
Edith's first thought was to wake her father and tell him what had occurred, but Danira's parting words echoed in her ears: "If you put them on my track, it may perhaps cause my death--it will not bring me back!" She knew her adopted sister, and was aware that she was capable of executing the threat.
The young girl walked irresolutely to the window which overlooked a portion of the city. The houses lay dark and silent, the citadel towering above them into the starry sky. Yonder lived Gerald, for whom that strange message was left. Why was it addressed to him, who had always treated Danira so distantly, almost rudely, and why could she not endure his contempt, when she was so indifferent to her adopted father's sentence of condemnation? The young girl's childish face, usually so untroubled, assumed an expression of thought, she could not answer this "why."
Suddenly she started. Three shots rang on the air in quick succession, distant, it is true, but distinctly audible amid the stillness of the night. Deep silence followed for several minutes, then came a single sharp report. It echoed from the citadel, and directly after the garrison was astir; lights appeared and vanished, and the red glare of torches fell upon the rocky declivities, where a search seemed in progress. At last a heavy, dull sound roared through the city, the discharge of a cannon, which waked the echoes of the surrounding mountains and died away in the distance.
Under other circumstances Edith would merely have watched the incident with curiosity, for actual cowardice was not in her nature, but now, startled and excited by what had just happened, a strange anxiety oppressed her like a presentiment of misfortune.
She darted back into her chamber to dress, but it was several minutes before she was ready and hurrying toward the other part of the house to wake her father.
There was no occasion to do so, the colonel was already up and dressed. He too had been startled by the shots, and was in the act of buckling on his sword when his daughter entered and ran to him as though seeking protection.
"Are you awake, too, papa? What has happened? Up at the citadel----"
"A prisoner has escaped!" replied the colonel, finishing the sentence. "The alarm-shot gave the signal. Don't be frightened, child, there is no danger."
"But Gerald is there, and other shots were fired----"
"The sentinels discharged their guns; they have orders to fire upon a fugitive if he does not halt, but he must have escaped or the signal would not have been given. I shall send at once and get a report. But why are you up, Edith? Lie down again; the city is perfectly quiet, and I repeat that there is no occasion for alarm."
He spoke with a calmness that was partially assumed, for the incident harmonized too strangely with Gerald's warning, not to arouse grave anxiety. The young officer had mentioned treason, and something unusual was evidently occurring in the citadel. Who could tell what might happen in the city, at any rate the commandant wished to be at his post.
The Colonel's servant now entered with an orderly he had hurriedly summoned by his master's command.
Arlow released himself from his daughter, who still clasped him in her arms, and said, kindly but firmly:
"Go now, my child, you see I am on duty and must think of nothing else. I must go at once. Try to sleep again, and don't allow yourself to be excited by things you do not understand."
Edith saw that she must obey this time and left the room, but the last words touched her like a reproach. True, she had never taken any interest in matters concerning her father's profession, so she was now sent to bed like a child that was only in the way, while the whole city was roused from slumber, while her father and lover were hurrying to their posts, and Danira--at the name a sudden perception of the truth flashed upon the young girl. She understood that Danira was connected with this event, and was playing some part in it, though the relation was still obscure.
Edith returned to her chamber, but sleep was out of the question. The night passed very uneasily; the colonel had hurried out to personally inspect the posts and sentinels, and assure himself that there were no suspicious appearances in the city. Two hours elapsed before his return. Orderlies came and went. At dawn a detachment of soldiers left Cattaro and marched toward the mountains. Most of the residents who had been roused by the signal-gun were also astir to learn what had happened. At that time every unusual event acquired extraordinary importance.
Toward morning the excitement began to subside. People learned that the matter really concerned nothing but the flight of a prisoner who had escaped during the night, and was now being pursued by the military. Lieutenant von Steinach, who had merely sent the most necessary information to the commandant, came at an early hour to make his report in person.
The interview had already lasted more than half an hour. The two men were alone in the colonel's private room, and both faces were so grave and gloomy that it was evident that the event was not quite so trivial as had been rumored in the city.
"I never believed from the first that Joan Obrevic was here for any friendly purpose," said Gerald. "I had been on his trail for several days, but this daring attempt at rescue was the last thing I expected. It has hitherto been considered impossible to scale the citadel from the cliff side."
"Nothing is impossible to these mountaineers," replied the colonel, "especially where rocks and cliffs are concerned. But how did it happen that you discovered the prisoner's escape in the middle of the night, when even the sentinels had not noticed it?"
"I could not sleep, and the discoveries made yesterday rendered me suspicious. Toward midnight I once more went the rounds of the fortification to reconnoitre, and saw by the starlight the prisoner let himself down the wall and reach the ground, where two persons were waiting for him. I instantly alarmed the sentinels, and hurried to the spot myself. The fugitives, finding themselves discovered, fired at me. Their bullets whistled close by my head; I returned the shots, and stretched one on the earth. The two others recklessly pursued the perilous way over the rocks, and vanished in the darkness. When my men hurried up and torches were brought, we saw that I had shot Joan Obrevic, who lay dead at the foot of the wall--he had purchased his son's liberty with his life."
Arlow had listened in silence, but the expression of his face became more and more anxious, and he now asked hastily:
"Did young Obrevic know you?"
"Certainly. I often saw him, as well as the other prisoners, while in command of the citadel."
"And do you think he recognized you last night?"
"Undoubtedly, for I shouted orders to my men. The bullets were meant for me; in a pursuit by the guards they probably would not have delayed their flight to fire; it was an act of revenge upon me personally."
The colonel rose and paced thoughtfully up and down the room several times; at last he paused, and said with deep earnestness:
"Gerald, I would give much if some other bullet than yours had killed Joan Obrevic."
"Why?" asked the young officer, looking up in surprise.
"You have shot the father, and the son has escaped into the mountains. He will carry the news of your deed there, and I have already told you that last evening orders arrived to detach you from your post, and send you and your men to your regiment."
"Which has long been my ardent desire! I am really tired of guarding prisoners while my comrades are fighting the insurgents."
The colonel shook his head, and the anxious expression of his features was still more apparent as he replied:
"You do not know this people as I do; the vendetta exists among them in all its horrors. The chief has fallen by your hand, not even in battle, in a hand-to-hand conflict, but while flying, and it is known that you have killed him--you will be outlawed among the mountains."
Gerald shrugged his shoulders. "That can't be helped. Under the circumstances I could not, ought not to have acted otherwise. I was obliged to fire upon the fugitives when they did not halt at my shout, especially when they attacked me."
"You did perfectly right, but it is an unfortunate combination of circumstances. Obrevic's tribe undoubtedly only remained passive until their chief's son was released and in safety, now its members will instantly join the rebellion and you may be compelled to march against them at once. Promise me to be cautious, and above all things never to venture anywhere alone. Do you hear? Always take an escort."
The young officer drew back with a half indignant gesture. "Am I to set my men an example of timidity and cowardice? You are a soldier, like myself, and know that danger is a part of our profession."
"When treachery and cunning are at work caution is no disgrace, even to a soldier. You will do your whole duty--I expect nothing less from you, but do not go beyond it and allow yourself to be carried away by your zeal to defy a danger which, after last night's occurrence, threatens you and you alone. You owe that to yourself and your promised wife. I demand a pledge that you will be prudent."
"I will be on my guard and not expose my life recklessly. I can promise nothing more; anything beyond would be cowardice."
The colonel repressed a sigh. "You are right, Gerald, but I shall see you go with a heavy heart. Hush! here comes Edith. Do not let her know what we have been discussing; she must not be needlessly alarmed. Well, my child, here you are! Have you slept off last night's excitement?"
Edith, who had just entered to give her father a morning greeting, did not look so bright and blooming as usual. Her features had a weary, worn expression, and even her voice lacked its customary blitheness, as she replied:
"I could not go to sleep again; every one in the house was awake and moving; besides, I did not know how Gerald had fared."
Gerald, who was advancing to meet hisfiancée, felt the reproach contained in her words. He had not even thought of sending her a message, yet he might have supposed that she would be anxious about him.
"Pardon me," he answered, quickly. "I imagined you had already learned from your father that the nocturnal event was a matter of no consequence."
"It is rumored that the fugitives fired at you, that you returned the fire, and----"
"People exaggerate, as usual," interrupted the colonel. "Of course, Gerald was on the spot, and has done his duty; but you see he is safe and sound. Unfortunately, he has brought news which will compel me to discuss very serious matters in my own household. Where is Danira?"
Edith looked up, but not at her father; she turned her face toward Gerald.
"Danira has gone."
The young officer started; it was but a moment ere the passing emotion was repressed, but Edith had seen it. The colonel exclaimed:
"Gone! Where?"
"I don't know. She came to my room last night to bid me farewell, in a wild, passionate manner, that frightened me even more than her words. She forbade me to awake you or betray her flight, and was gone ere I could fairly collect my senses. I understood nothing about the whole affair, nothing except--the message she gave me for Gerald."
"For Gerald?" repeated Arlow, whose amazement at first exceeded his indignation.
"Yes, for him."
The young girl, while repeating Danira's words, fixed her eyes upon her lover's face with a half timid, half questioning expression. She saw the flush that crimsoned his brow for an instant, and the light which leaped into his eyes at the vindication the message contained.
"I suspected that she would not be here this morning," he said, at last. "After what had happened she could not stay, and would undoubtedly have gone sooner or later, but I had anticipated something worse than an attempt at rescue."
"I should think that was bad enough!" cried the colonel, furiously. "The thankless, treacherous creature, who has lived with us for years and been treated like a child of the house! To repay the benefits she has received in this way--it is disgraceful."
This indignation was certainly pardonable in a man who, with the best intentions and the most benevolent designs, had endeavored to curb an alien, refractory element, but anger made him unjust. All the secret aversion cherished against his adopted daughter now burst forth unrestrained; he heaped the most violent invectives upon the fugitive, and could not find words enough to condemn her.
Gerald listened for a time in silence, but the flush on his face deepened and his brow grew darker and darker. When the colonel again repeated the expression, "base treachery," the young man's eyes suddenly flashed with a light as fierce as at the time the insult had been hurled into his face.
"Danira is no traitress--that is now proved," he said, in a sharp, positive tone, "and her aiding in the rescue of one of her own race is no disgrace to her in my eyes."
"Do you want to take her part?" cried Arlow, angrily. "Do you want to make excuses for a vagabond who leaves the house in the darkness of night to wander about the mountains with an escaped prisoner, and--"
"Under the protection of her brother, who has summoned her, and is now taking her back to her home. It was a mistake to tear this girl from her birthplace, a mistake by which she has been the greatest sufferer. She has done wrong, it is true, but the voice of blood has proved stronger than that of gratitude; perhaps, in her place, I might have done the same."
The colonel gazed in speechless astonishment at his future son-in-law, whom he saw in this state of excitement for the first time.
"Well, you are the last person from whom I expected such opinions!" he burst forth. "You are actually constituting yourself the knight and defender of the runaway. Edith, what do you say to this affair? You don't utter a word."
Edith's eyes still rested on the young officer's face, and even now she did not avert her gaze.
"I think Gerald is right," she said, gently. "I felt the same when Danira bade me farewell last night."
"Yes, that's the way with young people; they always see the romantic side!" cried the colonel, angrily. "No unbiased opinion can be expected from you; we won't argue about it any farther. At any rate, I am glad the affair is ended in this way. I have always considered it a misfortune that my own undue haste compelled me to tolerate such an element in my household. This Danira's presence weighed like a nightmare upon us all."
"Yes, it was fortunate that she went--for us all!" said Gerald, with a long breath, as if a weight had been removed from his breast also.
Arlow paced up and down the room several times, as was his custom when struggling with any emotion; then he paused before his daughter.
"Amidst all these discussions we are forgetting the main thing. You don't yet know, my child, that Gerald must leave. The order came last evening, and he is to march with his men to-morrow to join the regiment."
"So soon?" asked Edith, but the tone was hollow, almost mechanical. Her father looked at her in surprise; he had expected that she would receive the news very differently. But Gerald advanced to the young girl's side and bent over her.
"Yes, I must go, and my little Edith must forgive my longing to share the perils and privations of my comrades. I am to show myself worthy of myfiancéein this campaign. If I return we will turn our backs upon this country and I will take my young wife home to beautiful, sunny Tyrol and my mother's arms. Believe me, Edith, we can be very happy there."
There was an unusual warmth and tenderness in the words, perhaps also a strange haste and uneasiness, while he grasped in a convulsive rather than fervent clasp the hand of his promised bride, who did not utter a syllable in reply. The colonel, however, now completely appeased, said:
"Well, that is talking sensibly! Edith will submit to the separation until your return; she is a soldier's daughter. But go now, my son. You must make the arrangements at the citadel which we have been discussing. We shall expect you here this afternoon, and I will see that you have leisure to devote yourself this last evening to yourfiancée."
Gerald raised the little hand which lay in his to his lips, and this time really pressed a long, ardent kiss upon it. The caress seemed almost like a plea for pardon, and he looked up reproachfully when the hand was hastily withdrawn.
"You see the ice is breaking!" said the colonel, in a jesting tone, when the door had closed behind the young officer. "The parting appears to make Gerald realize what he possesses in his littlefiancée. Do you still think he is incapable of loving?"
Edith slowly turned her face toward her father; it was startlingly pale, and the blue eyes were filled with scalding tears.
"Oh! yes, Gerald can love!" she said, with quivering lips. "I have learned that to-day--but he has never loved me!"
On a desolate, rocky mountain plateau, a most lonely and secluded location, was a fort, which, built many years before, had recently been greatly strengthened, and was now the centre of the military operations for the suppression of the rebellion.
Months had passed since the first outbreak, and the insurrection was not yet wholly subdued, though every indication betokened a speedy conquest. During this time the troops had endured all sorts of dangers and hardships, a series of fierce battles had been waged, and here they were compelled to fight, not only men, but the country, the climate, the immobility and barrenness of this mountainous region, which proved themselves foes to the strangers, while they became so many allies to the natives of the land. Yet the greater part of the toilsome task was already accomplished and the fate of the insurrection decided.
The tribe of which Joan Obrevic had been chief was the only one that still opposed to the soldiery a tenacious and energetic resistance. Its members had joined the rebellion immediately after the death of their leader and the return of his son, and now this son occupied his father's place and carried on a fierce, desperate warfare, in which all the cruelty of his race was displayed. With proud defiance he rejected every overture relating to surrender or treaty, and woe betide all the wounded and prisoners who fell into his hands!
A number of wounded soldiers, whose condition did not permit them to be transported farther, had been brought to the fort, and Father Leonhard had come there to render them spiritual consolation and assistance. The sun shone hotly down upon the stone walls of the little fortress, but within their shelter it was comparatively cool. The priest was sitting in the tiny room assigned to him, and before him stood George Moosbach, covered with dust, flushed with heat, and bearing every token of a fatiguing march.
"Here we are, your reverence," he said. "At least, here I am for the present, half dead with thirst, three quarters worn out by fatigue, and entirely roasted by the heat of the sun. Well, when a fellow has the same sport every day he gets used to it in time."
"Yet you don't seem much the worse for your exertions," replied the priest, glancing at the young soldier's face--it was a little more sunburnt, it is true, but the black eyes sparkled as boldly and blithely as ever.
"They must be borne," he answered stolidly. "Besides, I knew beforehand that it was a God-forsaken country. There are no human beings here at all except His Majesty's faithful troops, who have to fight these savages. We march for hours without seeing tree or bush, nothing but sky, rocks and sunshine, and by way of variety sometimes encounter abora, during which one can see and hear nothing. If you were not here, your reverence, there would be no Christianity; we've fallen among Turks and pagans. Oh, my beautiful, blessed Tyrol! The Lord created you specially for His own pleasure, but I should like to know what He could have been thinking of when He made Krivoscia."
George had not yet attained familiarity with the name, which fell in a perfectly barbarous accent from his lips, but the priest said reprovingly:
"Our Lord knows best why He has distributed His gifts in one way and not another-- So you have reported that Baron von Steinach and his men are coming to the fort?"
"Yes; they'll be here in half an hour, and I hope still alive."
"Why? Are there wounded soldiers with the troops?"
"No, when I left they were all well, but a man isn't sure of his life an hour here. How often, when we were marching merrily along, singing the songs of our beautiful Tyrol, those accursed savages have unexpectedly attacked us! One moment the wilderness is perfectly empty, and all at once there are the fellows, as if they had grown out of the rocks, and their bullets are whizzing around our heads. They never make a stand anywhere; if we try to catch them in a ravine they are on the heights, and when we climb up they are down below again. If it comes to a real attack, the whole troop vanishes in the twinkling of an eye, as if the cliffs had swallowed them up, and we halt, utterly bewildered, look at each other, and count our ears and noses to see whether we still have them all."
This vivid and exhaustive description of Krivoscian campaigning brought a passing smile to Father Leonhard's face.
"If any one should hear you, he would suppose you a bad soldier who only did your duty under compulsion," he replied. "Yet I was able to write to your parents a few days ago that their George distinguished himself on every occasion, and his superior officers gave him the highest praise for his fearlessness."
George looked very proud of the eulogy bestowed upon him, but modestly disclaimed it.
"I learned that by watching my lieutenant. Whenever he meets the insurgents he always sends them home with broken heads. Perhaps you have written to Baroness von Steinach, too, your reverence?"
"No, I had no occasion, and I think the lieutenant will do it himself."
"I ought to," said the young Tyrolese, with a very downcast air. "The Baroness charged me to protect Herr Gerald's life--but I can't bear to cause her the sorrow."
"Sorrow? Because her son has so greatly distinguished himself?'
"No, not that, it's a very different matter, your reverence." George clasped his hands devoutly. "You have often reproved me for committing so many follies, and it's all true. But they do no harm, and they are far from being so bad as the one folly Herr Gerald has committed in his whole life. I can't look on any longer, I must tell you."
He uttered so heart-rending a sigh that the priest gazed at him with a startled, anxious glance.
"What do you mean? What is the matter with the lieutenant?"
"He's bewitched!" George despairingly exclaimed. "Completely bewitched!"
"George--are you in your senses?"
"I am, but unluckily he isn't. The poor young lady in Cattaro! So pretty, so bright, and merry that it cheers one's heart just to look at her, and now this Danira----"
"The commandant's adopted daughter, who ran away at night? What of her?"
"She's the witch who has done my lieutenant this mischief!" George cried indignantly. "She has brewed some witches' potion, these savages know how, and now the misfortune has come--he is in love with her."
Father Leonhard rose in utter consternation.
"Impossible? Gerald von Steinach, that quiet, thoughtful man, with his rigid sense of duty, possessed by such an infatuation--it can't be! What put the idea into your head?"
The young soldier advanced a step nearer and lowered his voice, though they were entirely alone.
"I knew it in Cattaro, but I did not want to believe it. The evening before our departure the lieutenant went once more to the commandant's and I was permitted to go with him to bid the young lady good-bye. But we did not see her at all, not even Herr Gerald; instead of that his future father-in-law and he were alone together in a room for an hour. I was standing in the dark ante-chamber when they at last came out; the colonel didn't see me, and I heard his farewell words:
"'I will not wrong you, Gerald; I myself believe that the whole affair is merely a foolish fancy on the part of Edith, but what you say does not soothe me, for it shows that you are not perfectly clear in your own mind. We part now, and you are going to encounter serious things; you will have ample time to test yourself. You have given me your word of honor that you will not write to your promised wife until you can say to her with entire sincerity: I did not love Danira, my heart belongs solely to you. If you can do that your bride will not be lost, for I rely implicitly upon your honor, and so will Edith. Now, farewell, I hope you will write soon!'"
Father Leonhard had listened in extreme suspense to this literal repetition of the conversation, now he asked hastily:
"Well, and--?"
"Well, your reverence, Herr Gerald has not written."
"Really? Are you sure?"
"Absolutely certain. I have to take all the letters to the messenger; there was not one to the young lady among them."
"That is certainly a bad sign," said the priest in a low tone, "very bad."
"It's witchcraft, abominable witchcraft!" George wrathfully exclaimed. "The blow will kill his mother when she discovers it. Castle Steinach will be completely upset, and Moosbach Farm too, and the whole Tyrol to boot--a reverend ecclesiastic must interfere, nothing else will do, only priests can oppose witchcraft."
Father Leonhard did not heed the last words, the news evidently affected him most painfully, and it was after a long pause that he said:
"Have you ever given the Lieutenant a hint that you knew the affair?"
"I tried it once," said George, mournfully. "But I got no further than the name Danira. Then he started up and looked at me with a pair of eyes--I didn't suppose Herr Gerald could glare so--I didn't attempt it a second time."
"Then I'll try whether he will talk with me. Meantime, keep silence about it in future to every one."
Here the conversation was interrupted; they heard outside words of command and the regular tramp of soldiers marching.
"There they are!" cried George, starting up. "Excuse me, your reverence, I must see whether they have brought Jovica; the Lieutenant took charge of her when I was obliged to leave."
"Who is Jovica?" asked the priest, but he received no answer, the young soldier had already darted out of the door, and Father Leonhard went to the window.
It was really Lieutenant von Steinach, who had just arrived with his detachment, joyously welcomed by the garrison of the fort. The officers greeted each other, and the soldiers openly expressed their satisfaction in having reached the place where they expected rest and refreshment after the fatiguing march. There was a pleasant bustle going on when George suddenly appeared, hastily saluting his lieutenant, and then darted like a bird of prey into the midst of his comrades, where he seemed to be looking for something.
Father Leonhard now went down to welcome the young officer, whom he had not seen since his departure from Cattaro; for, owing to the peculiar method of warfare, the various detachments of the regiment were usually separated from each other. At the foot of the stairs Gerald came toward him, accompanied by the officer commanding the fort. The meeting was cordial, even affectionate, but necessarily brief. Gerald promised to seek the reverend gentleman as soon as possible, and then prepared to follow his comrade, but in the very act of departure he turned back and asked:
"Has George told you about his foundling?"
"What foundling? I don't know a word of the affair."
"George now has a new charge, which, to be sure is rather oddly suited to him. He has set up for an adopted father, and intends to bring hisprotégéeto you. You will hear the particulars from him.Au revoir, your reverence."
The gentlemen went on, and Father Leonhard shook his head with a puzzled look. He could not imagine his quarrelsome parishioner in the position intimated, but he was not to remain in doubt long, for just at that moment George entered the corridor with a young girl whom he led by the hand like a child.
"The saints preserve me!" cried the priest, who was not at all prepared for this spectacle. "What is this you are bringing me?"
"A savage!" replied the young soldier with great solemnity. "But you needn't be frightened, your reverence, she is perfectly tame."
Father Leonhard gazed in astonishment at the delicate little creature, who scarcely reached to her companion's shoulder. She was a very young girl, hardly beyond childhood, slender and shy as a chamois. The dark, southern face, with its childish features and dark eyes, had an expression of timid submission and gentleness, while clothing so scanty and miserable was only found among the poorest shepherd tribes of the country.
"This is Jovica!" replied George, in a tone which seemed to imply that those few words told the whole story; but this explanation did not satisfy the priest, who desired to know who Jovica was and where she came from, so George was obliged to condescend to a longer narrative.
"Two days ago we had to capture a few of the mud and stone huts people here call a village. There was sharp fighting over it, but we finally got possession and the inhabitants fled. There I found the poor thing, who had been left behind alone, hidden in a corner, half starved and almost frightened to death. She probably expected me to spear her on the spot, for she was trembling from head to foot, but I've brought her to a better opinion of the Tyrolese imperial chasseurs, haven't I, Jovica?"
The young girl evidently did not understand one word of the whole speech; her large eyes rested timidly and anxiously on the priest, and she pressed closer, with unmistakable confidence, to her protector, who now continued:
"The lieutenant understands Slavonic, so we found out that she didn't belong to the village at all. She had come there with a party of fugitives from the frontier, and did not even know where her own home was. She made me comprehend: Father dead--mother dead--all dead! So there was nothing for me to do except fill the places of father and mother to her."
The words were uttered so sincerely and honestly that the priest could not repress a faint smile, but he said quietly:
"I think, George, it will be best for you to trust the child to me."
"Yes, Lieutenant von Steinach thinks so too, that's why I brought Jovica to you; but, your reverence, you'll have trouble with her, she is a terrible pagan. The very first day it came out that she was still in the midst of heathenism. She knows nothing about church nor crucifix, and calls God 'Allah.'"
"Then the girl probably belongs to one of the Mohammedan tribes that dwell on the frontier. If she is really an orphan and entirely deserted, we must, of course, take charge of her, the only question is what we are to do with her."
"First of all, baptize her," said George, in a paternal tone. "That can be done at once here in the fort, and I'll stand god-father."
"It cannot be arranged so unceremoniously. The girl must first be instructed in the precepts of Christianity, and we must know whether she will prove susceptible to them."
George looked very much disappointed when the baptismal ceremony, in which he expected to play so important a part, receded into the dim distance, but he answered submissively:
"Well, you know best, your reverence, but the poor thing can't remain a pagan, that's clear."
"For the present she will stay here," the priest added. "I need help in caring for the wounded, and as one of them speaks Slavonic fluently, he can act as interpreter. We will try at once."
He was going to take the girl by the arm to lead her away, but Jovica resisted with all her strength this attempt to separate her from her protector. Clinging anxiously to him, she began to weep bitterly, saying in an imploring tone a few Slavonic words, which George understood no better than she comprehended his language, but he stepped back resolutely and drew her toward him.
"This won't do, your reverence," he said emphatically. "Jovica must be differently treated or she will cry, and I can't stand that. The poor thing is as timid as one of our chamois, and shrinks from every one except me. One must talk to her like a father, and I am the only person who understands it."
He stroked the girl's shining black hair with a soothing touch, and actually began a speech in which he arbitrarily mixed with his Tyrolese German a few Slavonic words he had picked up somewhere. It sounded more barbaric than fatherly, yet Jovica was evidently quieted. She no longer resisted when he at last led her to Father Leonhard, and by pantomime endeavored to make known his goodness, but her eyes were still wet with tears and rested with touching persistency on her protector.
The latter seemed to have several farewell ceremonies in view, but the priest put an end to them by taking his charge away. George looked after them very calmly. He had now placed both the affairs that lay near his heart in the hands of the priesthood, and was firmly convinced that Father Leonhard would deal with the "witchcraft" as well as the paganism.
He was just turning to go, when his comrade Bartel entered on his way to report to the lieutenant.
"Well, George, have you got rid of your foundling?" he asked, in a jeering tone. "What does Father Leonhard say to the pagan? Will he baptize her?"
"Take care, Bartel!" replied George. "You are my friend and countryman, but if you don't let me and Jovica alone, you'll fare badly."
Bartel did not heed the warning, but continued his taunts.
"A pretty adopted child you've chosen! A pagan witch, brown as a gypsy, and ragged as--"
He went no further, for his friend and countryman stretched out his arm and dealt the scoffer so violent a blow that he staggered back against the wall and held his head between both hands as though dazed.
"That's what happens to people who talk about Jovica!" said George with perfect composure. "Take notice and tell our comrades, that they may govern themselves accordingly. If necessary, I'll knock down the whole company," and conscious of having done a good act, he held his head very high as he walked away.
Lieutenant von Steinach had kept his promise and sought Father Leonhard in his room as soon as he found time to do so. He was now standing at the window of the small apartment gazing at the dreary dead mountain landscape, to which the sunset was lending a rather delusive semblance of life.
The young officer, too, had been little affected by the fatigues of the campaign. True, his features bore traces of the scorching heat of the sun, and his light brown hair lay in thicker, more dishevelled locks on his brow and temples, but otherwise he looked as fresh and vigorous as ever. The privations of the past few weeks seemed to have only strengthened him.
Yet the priest's watchful gaze discerned a change which, though only in the expression, was distinctly apparent.
This was not quiet, passionless Gerald von Steinach, whose cool circumspection had become proverbial among his comrades. There were new lines on his face, a half gloomy, half bitter expression, which told of secret conflicts concealed with difficulty, and a deep shadow lurked in the eyes formerly so clear. He had related his military experiences, discussed the chances of the campaign, spoken of his home and his mother, but had never uttered a syllable in allusion to his promised bride, and had even avoided mentioning Cattaro, though the city was the real point of departure of all military operations. His manner of speaking was also changed, it had become hasty and abrupt, as though he wished to deaden some hidden anxiety and did not fix his thoughts upon the conversation. At last he stopped talking, and his eyes rested dreamily on the distant prospect. The rocks still gleamed redly in the last rays of the setting sun, and on the horizon appeared long, sharply outlined clouds, which also still glowed with rosy light.
The long silence which ensued roused Gerald from his reverie. He turned, and when he saw the priest's questioning gaze fixed upon him, an indignant expression flitted over his face.
"I was just watching the sky," he said, hastily. "We learn here to know the signs of the weather; it seems as if we were going to have abora. I'm glad I have sheltered my men in the fort, and that there is a probability of our having a few days' rest."
"You all need it," replied Father Leonhard. "Especially you, Gerald; you have been almost continually on the move these last weeks."
"It was necessary; the insurgents don't give us much time to breathe. You know it is Joan Obrevic's son who is now causing us the most trouble."
"And this son is chief of the tribe, and is making every exertion to avenge his father. It often occasions me great anxiety, Gerald. You have told me your experiences, but you have not mentioned how often that vengeance has already threatened you. I learn from your comrades that you have hitherto escaped these open and secret snares as though by a miracle."
The young officer merely shrugged his shoulders.
"I am in the hands of a higher power, and--it is true--I have been of late so often and so wonderfully preserved that I have learned to trust this protection."
"But he who defies danger, as according to the other officers is your custom, also defies Providence. Your life does not belong only to yourself, others have a claim upon it."
"My mother--yes!" said Gerald slowly. "I sometimes forget that she is anxious about me."
"And your promised wife?"
The young man silently fixed his eyes upon the floor.
"I hope you have letters from her? Our mail communication with Cattaro is tolerably regular."
Gerald looked up, and doubtless read in the priest's glance that he knew more than he cared to show, for he said quickly:
"Has Colonel Arlow written to you?"
"No, but perhaps I have learned from another source what you are concealing from me."
Gerald made no reply, but again turned toward the window and seemed to wish to close the conversation. Father Leonhard went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Gerald, you have spent little time at home during the last few years, but surely you know that I am no stranger there. Will you not speak freely to your parents' friend, to the priest?"
The question sounded gentle, yet grave and warning, and did not fail to produce an effect. Gerald passed his hand across his brow.
"What am I to say? Do I know myself what it is that oppresses me? I have been driven into doubts, discord with my own nature. Had Edith and her father trusted to my honor, they would not have repented it. The affair was over, and I should have crushed the memory of it like an evil dream--forever!"
"A young girl does not wish merely to trust to her lover's honor in keeping his troth," replied the priest earnestly. "She asks his love, and with perfect justice. Besides, as I understand, the colonel has permitted you to return as soon as you can do so, with a free heart. Have you written to Fräulein Allow?"
"No," said Gerald, in a slow, dreary tone.
"You could not?"
"No, I could not."
"Gerald--this is impossible--it cannot be."
"What is impossible?" asked the young man with intense bitterness, "that the somnambulist, who is suddenly waked to see the gulf at his feet, should be seized with giddiness? Had he been left undisturbed, he would have found the way back. I once thought it impossible that a feeling could slumber for weeks in the depths of the soul, wholly unsuspected, till suddenly a flash of lightning came to illumine the darkness, that such a light could alter the whole nature until a man no longer recognized himself in his thoughts and feelings. In Cattaro I might still have conquered it; now that I have been alone for weeks I know I can no longer do so, and thereby am sundered from my whole past, involved in dissension with those who stand nearest to me, engaged in perpetual warfare with myself. Would it not be best if I should not return at all, and will you reproach me for seeking danger and longing for the bullet that will end this torture?"
He had spoken with increasing agitation. A terrible change had indeed taken place in the quiet man, and the priest was quite startled by this fierce, feverish impetuosity.
"I never expected to see you thus, Gerald," he said with mingled reproof and sorrow. "So it has already gone so far that you seek death, that----"
"We must all look death in the face here," Gerald interrupted. "To me he has lost his terrors, that is all. But we ought not to spoil our meeting by such discussions. I wanted to speak to you of other matters. George has already entrusted his charge to you, I hear. He would not rest till I gave him permission to take the girl to the fort. The only question is, what is to become of her now."
The sudden change of subject plainly showed that he wished to escape the former topic of conversation, and Father Leonhard made no attempt to keep to it, he had already learned too much.
The two men talked for several minutes longer about Jovica, but neither felt at ease, and Gerald seized the first opportunity to withdraw.
The priest sighed heavily as he looked after him.
"How will this end?" he murmured. "The story is true, incredible as it seems; one might almost, like George, believe in witchcraft. To be sure, when a spark of passion once kindles these calm, icy natures, the conflagration is terrible."
The night passed in the fort without incident; the new arrivals especially gave themselves up to their well deserved repose, but it was not to be long granted. Day was just beginning to dawn when the reveille suddenly sounded, and the whole garrison was speedily in motion.
Father Leonhard, who had been occupied with the wounded men until late at night, was also roused--it was needful here to be always prepared for the sudden outbreak of danger--and, rising, left his room. On the stairs he met George in full uniform, coming toward him in the greatest hurry.
"Here you are, your reverence! My lieutenant has sent me to tell you that we must be off at once. He hasn't any time, and I must be down below in five minutes. Didn't I say so! Scarcely do we expect to get a fair chance of sleep when these confounded savages are at us again."
"But what is the matter? Are the insurgents attacking the fort?"
"No; but our captain is fighting with them two leagues from here. They attacked him during the night; he can't hold out alone against the superior force, and has sent for reinforcements. We are to join him. I only wanted to ask you to take care of Jovica, your reverence. The poor thing will cry if she doesn't see me, and I now fill a father's place to her."
"Have no anxiety, the young girl is under my protection. Where is your captain?"
But George was far too much engrossed by his paternal duties to have any thought of anything else, he continued hastily in broken accents:
"And if I don't return at all, you must at least baptize the poor thing; she can't remain in paganism. Promise me that, your reverence. There's the signal again, and that confoundedborais beginning to whistle. But it makes no difference, out we must go! I wish I could wring the neck of this whole Krivoscia--no, not the whole, Jovica belongs to the country. No, no! Take care of Jovica for me, your reverence."
He rushed down the staircase to join his comrades. Father Leonhard followed, and was just in time to see the fortress gates opened. George was already standing in the ranks; Gerald, who was at the head of his men, waved a farewell to the priest with his sword, and the little band marched bravely out in the glimmering dusk of early morn.