Long before day the bell from Landolin's prison cell rang violently. The keeper heard it, but did not hurry in the least.
"You can wait," he said to himself, and dressed leisurely. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, of dignified and imposing appearance. He had been appointed to his excellent position as a reward for bravery in the war, and felt that he carried in his own person the whole dignity of the court. He was gruff, but could, when he chose, be polite and condescending; and he had a reason for being polite to Landolin. Softening his powerful voice as much as he could, he asked what Landolin wanted so early. It was scarcely day. Landolin gave him a bewildered look; then he said,
"I heard the early train whistle. The people from my village have come in it. Go to the Ritter inn and bring my head-servant, Tobias, here. It shall not be to your disadvantage."
"I'm sorry I can't do that. You were bailiff yourself, and you know what the law is."
"Then call my lawyer."
"It's too early."
"It is not too early. I have a right to see my lawyer at any time."
"All right, I'll bring him; but I advise you to compose yourself to-day. If you get so excited, you will be a witness against yourself."
Landolin looked at the keeper as though he wanted to knock him down, but he controlled himself. His face bore the marks of the battle which he, who was formerly so self-willed, had been fighting for weeks, and especially during the past night. Yesterday he had shaved off his full beard, which had grown in the prison; and it was plain that he had grown old very rapidly. The elasticity of his flesh, and the brown, healthy color were gone; and his features were faded and flaccid.
Swallows twittered as they flew hither and thither about the grated window. Landolin whistled a gay tune; and he continued whistling when the key turned in the door, and his lawyer entered.
"So gay already?" said the lawyer; "I hardly knew you. Why! What made you cut off your beard?"
"Why? So the jurymen can recognize me."
"Very good. Now what do you want?"
The lawyer had not uttered a syllable about the early hour. His relation to the accused was that of a physician to his patient. Landolin, however, felt that he must make some excuse for sending for him; and he asked to see the list of jurymen, so that he might determine whom to object to, and whom to accept. First on the list, which was in alphabetical order, was the name of the miller, Armbruster, who had been summoned in Landolin's place.
The lawyer said that he had asked to be excused.
"Hoho!" cried Landolin. "He is just the one I'll keep. Let him find me guilty if he dares! We are not related, and our children are no longer betrothed."
The next on the list was the lumberman, Dietler.
"He wants to be released too," said the lawyer.
"He wants to be released? So do I."
"But he will be angry with us."
"Then you must see that the government counsel keeps him on. Then he'll be for us and against the other side. He has known me a long time. I had almost said ever since wood was cut."
Landolin laughed. The lawyer smiled and looked at Landolin's wily face in astonishment. One after another he struck off all the city people, and the men of higher education. He wished to be tried by farmers. Only one man from the city, the host of the Ritter inn, who was a man ready of speech, was acceptable to him.
"I won't have Baron Discher."
"Why? He is a just man."
"That may be. But he is an enemy of mine because I outbid him at the sale of forest land. You will see," said Landolin in conclusion, "Titus will be the foreman. He hates me heartily; but I know him well. I know that in order to make a grand impression on the rabble, and to give vent to his insolence, and to show me what a great man he is, he will say not guilty, and induce the others to say the same."
The lawyer was careful not to shake Landolin's confidence; and he himself acquired new hope of a favorable result. As he was about leaving, Landolin asked, drawing his hand over his eyes and forehead,
"Is the----Is his mother called as a witness?"
"The government counsel was willing to do without her. I was surprised, but it was a good sign that he is not going to drive you to the wall. A poor, bereaved old mother makes a bad impression on the jury. He is not a bad man. He is, you know, a brother of your district judge's wife."
"That won't help me any."
"I think," continued the lawyer, "I think, the government counsel himself will recommend to the jury to find that there were mitigating circumstances."
"I will not have them find mitigating circumstances," cried Landolin, his face reddening. "You may in my name, by my authority, refuse such a verdict. I know what that means. It is easy for a jury to say guilty when mitigating circumstances are tacked on; but when it's neck or nothing, they think twice before they speak."
"Landolin, we are playing a serious game."
"I know it."
"Do you wish to address the jury yourself?"
"I don't know yet. I am afraid I should make some mistake."
"You can tell me your decision in the court-room. You have the privilege of speaking."
"I never thought of it before. It's come to me since I have been in prison. If I had my life to live over again, I'd like to be a lawyer."
The lawyer urged Landolin to try and sleep a little, for he had a hard day before him, and must husband his strength. He would try to be fresh and strong himself.
Landolin tried to sleep, but he soon sprang up again. A man may sleep as much as he likes after he gets home, but now there is not a moment to be lost. He rang the bell, and very submissively asked the keeper to go for his son Peter, for he wanted to find out if the mother had come.
"What mother?"
"Oh pshaw! The mother of--of--of the poor fellow. Ask right out if Cushion-Kate is here. And tell my son to give you twenty marks for the saint's keeper."
"For the saint's keeper? Where is he?"
"Are you so stupid? Or are you only pretending? The saint's keeper is inside of your coat."
The grim keeper chuckled, and said to himself:
"And just think of people saying that farmers are stupid."
He soon returned, and said that Vetturi's mother had not come, but--
"But what? Not my wife and daughter? I expressly forbade that."
"No, not they; but half the village."
"Did the saint's keeper get anything?"
"Yes," chuckled the keeper. The day had brought him a rich harvest, both from those who were seeking to be dropped from the list of jurymen, and had sought his influence with the different counsel for that purpose, and from the people from the neighboring villages, whom he had promised to let into the court-room before any one else.
Landolin was again alone. He visited, in fancy, the various inns of the city, and the beer-garden near the station. He seemed to hear what the people said--how they could hardly wait for the time when they might see him in the prisoner's seat. Nothing is thought of to-day but whether Landolin will be sentenced to death, or to long imprisonment, or will be acquitted.
Something that was almost a prayer passed through his soul, but he did not utter it; for he could not escape the thought that Cushion-Kate was to-day praying to God for his just punishment. He started back. It seemed to him as though she, herself, had run against him bodily.
The prison door was unlocked. Landolin was led through along passage to the prisoner's waiting-room. The doors and the windows of the large court-room were open; bright sunshine streamed in; the room was empty---soon it would be crowded. The two keepers walked back and forth near Landolin. Loud laughing and talking could be heard from the street before the court-house. Who knows what jokes they were making! Men can still laugh though there is one up here whose heart would fain stand still. Landolin's eyes glistened. He said to himself: "After all I was right in despising the whole world."
In the room in which he was now confined he could hear, as he listened at the door, the tramp of steps through the long corridor. He would have been glad to know whose steps they were. A confused sound of voices reached his ear. At length he plainly heard the words "My father!" It was Peter's voice. No doubt he had called so loud on purpose that his father might hear him. Landolin felt as though he were buried alive. He heard voices and could not answer them. His head swam so that he leaned against the door-post.
The door was unlocked, and Landolin was led into the court-room.
His eyes fastened on the floor, with measured steps Landolin entered the room. He seemed about to turn to the jury box, but the keeper laid hold of his arm, and motioned him to the prisoner's dock.
When he reached it he straightened himself with a violent effort, and looked calmly around; but he must have felt something like a veil before his eyes, for he repeatedly drew his hands over them. He saw his son Peter, who nodded to him, but he only answered with a slight motion of his head. He recognized men and women from his and neighboring villages; but Cushion-Kate's red kerchief was not to be seen.
He surveyed the jury with a keen scrutiny. He knew them all. They all stared at him, but no one of them gave him to understand, by so much as a motion of the eyelids: I know you and am friendly to you. The miller was not on the jury.
Who is foreman?
Titus. A red and white variegated pink lies before him on the desk. Now he takes it up and presses it to his large nose. The farmer of Tollhof, called the jester, who sits beside him, hands him an open snuff-box and says something. It is evidently, "Landolin is very much changed." Titus nods, takes a pinch of snuff, and sneezes loudly. The host of the Ritter inn, who is seated on the front bench, turns around, and says, "Your health!" and whispers something to the lumberman, Dietler. Who knows that the fickle host has not abandoned Landolin as a dead man, and commenced paying court to Titus! The other members of the jury are most all well-to-do, comfortable farmers--among them Walderjörgli's son, dressed in the old-time costume, with a red vest--have folded their large hands upon the desks, and look steadily before them.
The solemn, impressive ceremony of taking the oath is over; the witnesses are sent out of the court-room; the charge is read. While the reading is going on, the counselor drums with a large pencil on a volume of the statutes before him. It may be he is gently playing a tune, for he keeps perfect time. He is a young man with a heavy moustache, which he smooths incessantly; and an unframed eye-glass, attached to a broad, black ribbon, is fastened on his left eye. There is something in the appearance of the counselor that suggests a soldierly combativeness, and, in truth, he is an officer of the Landwehr. The glance through the eye-glass, which sparkles strangely, is often turned upon Landolin, and Landolin is uneasy under it. He would like to say: "Please put the glass down," but he may not.
Landolin's lawyer has risen to his feet, and leans on the railing of the prisoner's dock. His hands are thrust in his pantaloon pockets. Sometimes he turns his head and exchanges a few brief words with Landolin.
The charge is manslaughter.
The witnesses are called; and before the first one appears, the lawyer for the defense announces that he has telegraphed for the district physician, for the purpose of obtaining his professional opinion regarding Vetturi's frailty.
Landolin sat perfectly still, and looked at his hands. They had grown soft and white in prison. Only when a new witness was called, he raised his eyes and watched him narrowly.
The witnesses in favor of the accused spoke hesitatingly. They had seen Vetturi fall on a heap of paving-stones, but whether the stone that had been thrown had gone past him, that they could not say with certainty. The blacksmith, from the upper village, was the only one who was sure that he had seen it quite plainly.
"Take care you don't commit perjury," called out the prosecuting counsel. The lawyer for the defense arose in great excitement, and earnestly protested against this intimidation of the witness. Even the jurymen put their heads together, and whispered to one another. The presiding judge said politely, but with marked decision, to the youthful counselor, that he must leave such matters to him. The counsel for the defense did not let this incident escape him; but made quite a point of it, and it was some little time before matters moved on in their usual quiet way. When Anton was called, Landolin's counsel asked to have the district physician heard first, as he was obliged to leave immediately. But the doctor's testimony proved to be of no importance. Then Anton was called, and all eyes were fastened upon him.
The iron cross on his breast rose and fell, as he breathed deeply and rapidly.
To the preliminary question, as to whether he was related to the prisoner, he answered in a tremulous voice, but in well chosen words, that at the time of the accident he was betrothed to the daughter of the accused.
At this the government counselor moved that Anton should not be sworn, but the counsel for the accused insisted that he should be. The judges retired for consultation. They soon returned, and the presiding judge announced that Anton Armbruster was not to be sworn. He added, however, with impressiveness, that because of Anton's high character for honesty, he should confidently expect him to tell the truth, and the whole truth, with a clear conscience.
"That I will do," said Anton. Every one held his breath, and Landolin clutched the railing of the bench with both hands. Plainly and readily Anton said that it was his conviction that Landolin had not intended to kill Vetturi. Still, he could not say that he had seen the occurrence distinctly. He had just stepped through the gate, holding his betrothed's hand, and had no eyes for any one else.
He drew a long breath, and paused. The counsel for the defense asked him if he did not remember what he had said to Landolin, on his return from the unfortunate man's house. Anton replied that it was Landolin who had spoken, not he.
With soldierly precision he answered each question, and ended by saying that it could not be imagined that a man like Landolin, that a father, would willingly kill a man on the day of his daughter's betrothal.
Without looking toward Landolin, Anton returned to his seat, and when there, he did not look up. His eyes glistened, and his face burned.
When Tobias was called, he came forward with long strides, bowed to the judge, to the jury, and most deeply to his master. He then said, with the utmost assurance in his manner, that he would not have believed that the good-for-nothing Vetturi, who was too lazy to lift a sheaf of grain, could have been able to throw such a stone; but as good luck would have it, the stone had fallen just at his master's feet. Otherwise Vetturi would have been sitting in the prisoner's dock, and his master lying in the grave.
The government counselor tried to drive Tobias into a corner with questions, but he seemed prepared for everything, and gave smiling answers; and at last, even said pertly, that he, who had been there and seen it all, must know what happened better than the counselor.
Fidelis was then called. Some discussion arose as to whether he could be sworn; as he had been Landolin's servant at the time of the occurrence.
Landolin made a good impression by saying that Fidelis was a good fellow, and would say nothing against him out of spite.
At these words of his master, Fidelis seemed disconcerted for a moment, but he soon gave his testimony, briefly and succinctly; that Vetturi had not bent over and picked up a stone, but that his master had thrown one, and that it had seemed to him that it would hit his own head.
The counsel for the defense inquired if any one had spoken to the witness regarding what he had seen. Whereupon the government counsel rejoined that, if such questions were to be allowed, he should put the question whether Tobias had not endeavored to persuade Fidelis to testify otherwise.
"Must I answer?" asked Fidelis.
The presiding judge replied that he need answer neither question.
The examination of witnesses was now closed, and a pause ensued, during which there was a final arming of the forces upon both sides.
It had grown dark and candles were lighted in the court-room. They lit up first the judge's desk, then the jury, then Landolin and his counsel, and at last the spectators, of whom not one seemed to be missing; indeed their numbers had apparently increased.
It was damp and sultry in the room. The battle began.
The counselor's eye-glass glistened and glittered, but his speech was plain and quiet. He seemed studiously to avoid any approach to vehemence. He began with a strong statement of the unruliness and presumption which characterized the servants of the present day; and of their frequent dishonesty in the present instance. The jury nodded assent. He was sorry to say that the guilt of the accused was very plain. The pretext of self-defense he materially weakened, by showing carefully and clearly that the defendant had only hit upon the subterfuge as a last resort, when he could find no other. It was more than strange that the stone thrown by Landolin, which was bloody and easy distinguishable from others, had so soon been made away with; while the one said to have been thrown by Vetturi had been found, where no doubt it had been placed for that very purpose.
At these words Landolin shook his head violently. The counselor paused for a moment, then continued composedly, that, as only justice should be done, he would recommend a verdict of guilty of manslaughter, with mitigating circumstances.
When he had finished, Landolin leaned forward to speak to his lawyer, who rose and proceeded with persuasive eloquence to set forth the perfect innocence of the accused. When he depicted Landolin's uprightness and influence, Landolin cast down his eyes. It made a strong impression when the lawyer raising his voice cried: "Gentlemen of jury! The accused was chosen as a juryman for this session of the court. He should be sitting among you, and not here; and I expect from your straightforward honesty he will soon be with you, shoulder to shoulder; for he belongs with you. The one of you that feels himself exempt from outbursts of anger which, against his will, might result in an unhappy accident; the one that feels himself free from all natural faults, let him throw the stone; the stony word, guilty. By the authority of the accused, I refuse 'mitigating circumstances.' That is merely disguising the deadly missile. I call for the verdict 'Not guilty.'"
A murmur ran through the mass of spectators, so that the presiding judge threatened to clear the court-room if such disturbance were heard again. In the profound silence that followed he gathered up the pros and cons, and laid them in the scales before the jury. When he had finished he asked Landolin if he had anything to say.
Landolin arose and bowed. He moistened his dry lips, and began:
"Your honors! Gentlemen of the jury! I--I am guilty!" Again a murmur ran through the room; but the judge did not repeat his warning. He was himself too much astonished at the words; and even Landolin's lawyer involuntarily threw up his arms in despair. The counselor's eye-glass sparkled more brightly than before, and his face had a triumphant expression. When silence was restored, Landolin continued:
"Yes, I am guilty. I deserve punishment, just punishment; but not for that of which I stand here accused. I deserve punishment because I was so soft-hearted and compassionate that I did not prosecute the miserable fellow for his theft.
"Gentlemen of the jury! You twelve men! It is terribly hard that such men as you should be taken from the harvest-field to sit here through a long, hot day! And why? Because of a miserable servant-man, whose life is not worth twelve hours' time, of twelve honorable men like you. I will not speak of myself, of my having to stand here. I only say I should not have been so tender-hearted. Through that I have become guilty of making servants ungovernable. For that, I deserve punishment, for nothing else. Should I have quietly allowed him to kill me? And is it likely that I, who forebore so long with him, sought to kill him? Was I likely to place my wife, and my children, my honor, my house, and my lands in peril for such a one as he? I will not abuse him; he is dead." Landolin's voice trembled. He seemed unable to continue. His counsel whispered to him: "Don't stop there. Say again that you are guilty." And Landolin cried again: "I am guilty in not having prosecuted the thief. Of that I am guilty, of nothing more."
Landolin sat down, and covered his face with both hands. He seemed to be weeping.
The judge handed the foreman of the jury the list of points for their consideration. They all arose, and Landolin was led to the room set apart for the accused. On the way out his son pressed his hand; they could neither speak a word.
"Keeper," asked Peter, "can I go with my father?"
"Certainly."
"But I want to be alone," interrupted Landolin sharply, and the door closed behind him.
"He would have let Thoma in, but he does not want me," said Peter to himself; and as other evil thoughts linked themselves to this one, he grated his teeth.
The court-room and the long corridor were filled with people, eagerly discussing the expected verdict. Some thought it well-advised, others thought it fool-hardy, that the accused and his lawyer had declined to accept a verdict with "mitigating circumstances." They all agreed, however, that Landolin's speech was a surprise, such as they would probably never live to see again. There were some even who tried to set a money value on it, and asserted that they wouldn't have missed hearing the speech for such or such a sum. No one had dreamed that Landolin was such an orator and actor.
During this time, Landolin stood at the open window of the prisoner's room, grasping the iron grating with both hands. The keeper brought wine. Landolin did not drink it, but he poured some on his hands, and washed them with it; then turned again and started out into the starlit night.
Although he felt the triumph that he had gained by his last words, his knees were weary as if he had climbed over a high mountain, and now, as it seemed to him, he was compelled to walk over a grave, yonder by his home----
A meteor shot across the heavens. Ah! if one could only believe that that is a good sign!
The prisoner's room, and that in which the jury was locked till they should agree upon a verdict, were only separated by one thick wall. Have they been there long, or only a short time? From the towers of the city twelve o'clock was tolled. "Twelve strokes of the bell! The voices of twelve men!" said Landolin to himself. Yonder, through the black night, comes a monster with two red eyes, ever nearer and nearer. Landolin knows very well that it is a locomotive, but nevertheless he starts back from the window in terror, and sits down in a chair. Hark! A bell rings. It is not outside; it is here. The jury are ready. A heavy trampling is now heard in the corridor, followed by an unbroken silence. Landolin is sent for. With a firm step he mounts the stairs to the prisoner's dock. He stands still; for he is saying to himself: "They shall never say they saw me break down." He looks at the twelve men, but their faces seem to him to be swimming in a sea. Now, as though emerging from the waves, they rise. The foreman, Titus, lays his right hand on his heart, in his left a sheet of paper trembles and rustles.
Titus first reads the points that have been submitted to them. Oh, how long that lasts! Why this repetition? Why not immediately say, Guilty; or, Not Guilty? Now Titus draws a deep breath, and says:
"The accused is pronounced not guilty, by six voices against six."
A blow is heard to fall on the statute book which lies on the counselor's table. His glistening eyeglass falls down, and twirls around on its broad, black ribbon, as if astonished.
The judges hold a whispered consultation; and the president rises, and after reading the passages of the law bearing upon the case, says:
"The accused is not guilty. Landolin! you are free."
Landolin sees gathering about him his lawyer, his son, Tobias, and several jurymen and old friends. He sits on the bench, nods silently, and tears that he cannot keep back roll down his cheek.
"Father, don't weep; rejoice!" cried Peter. But in a moment a different cry is heard. The spectators had crowded noisily out of the building, and announced the verdict to the many people waiting in the corridor, on the stairs, and in front of the court-house. And now one could hear loud cries of "the murderer's released!" then yells, whistles, and threatening exclamations from the keepers and guards.
"Wait until the mob has scattered," said the host of the Ritter, who was one of the jury, "you will put up with me. I have ordered a good meal to be prepared for you and your guests."
Landolin had regained his self-command, and answered in a clear voice: "Yes; serve as good a meal as you can, and invite all the jurymen. The other six are not my enemies. I--I will never have another enemy in the world."
"Father, I would like to give Titus a special invitation."
"Do so. Didn't I say that for the few years I have yet to live, I will be nobody's enemy?"
"And I will send a telegram to mother."
"Do so, and say that I am all right."
The electric spark flashes over the wire, knocks at the station of the little town where the stationmaster is still awake, and soon the brother of the "Galloping Cooper" ascends the hill.
On this still summer night a current of fresh air streams through the valley and over the hilltops. The ripe blades of wheat sway to and fro as they draw their last breaths. All nature is silent, save the river which rushes through the valley. The men are all resting from the hard work of the harvest, to begin again with renewed strength at the first glimmer of the morning sunshine.
Up the white mountain road moves a man who often presses his hand to his breast pocket, as if to convince himself that he had not lost the dispatch.
In Landolin's house a light is still burning. Thoma sits at the table, and stares at the candle. Her features are changed by bitterness and pain, and the lips that once so sweetly smiled, so warmly kissed, are tightly compressed. Will those lips ever smile again; ever kiss again?
Her mother reclines at the open window, and looks out into the night.
"Mother," said Thoma, "you must go to sleep. It is past midnight; and the doctor thought that the trial would scarcely be finished in one day."
The mother barely turned her head, and then looked out again. Is Cushion-Kate awake, too, thought she.
Yes, she was awake, but she could not afford a light. Perhaps, at the same moment, she was thinking of Landolin's wife. "She has not deserved such misery; but neither have I; and I have no one else; nothing but this gnawing sorrow."
Suddenly Cushion-Kate straightened herself. She heard footsteps.
"Have you brought anything for me?" she asked the frightened messenger.
"No! nothing for you."
"For whom then?"
"For Landolin's Thoma," he answered, pulling out the blue envelope.
"Do you know what is in it?" asked Cushion-Kate.
"I'm not supposed to know."
"But you do know. Say, is Landolin sentenced to death?"
"I'll lose my place if you tell anybody."
"I swear to you by all the stars I'll tell no one. I have no one to tell. I beg of you, have pity!"
"Landolin is acquitted."
"Acquitted? And my son is dead! Ye stars above, fall down and crush the world. But no: you are fooling me. Don't do that!"
"You have sworn that you would not tell," said the messenger, and hastened away. But Cushion-Kate threw herself on the ground, and wept and sobbed.
In the meantime the messenger had reached Landolin's house.
"Do you bring good news?" his wife called from the window.
"I think so."
Thoma hastened down the stairs with the light, and returned quickly with the open dispatch in her hand, and cried out:
"Father is acquitted. Not guilty by the court."
The mother sank on her knees. It was long before she could speak a word. At length she said, half smiling, half weeping:
"He will sit there at the table, there on the bench, once more! He will eat and drink there again! Wait, Cooper! I'll bring you something. You must be tired."
Thoma drew her mother into a chair, and then brought food and drink.
"Yes; eat and drink," said the mother. "Why are you so silent, Thoma? Why are you not happy? Eat your fill, Cooper, and take the rest with you. Oh, if I could only give food and drink to the whole world! Oh, if I could only awaken the dead, I would eat only half enough all the rest of my life! He should have the best of everything. Praise and thanks be to God! my husband is free; it is so good of him to send word that he is well. Yes, no one understands his good heart as well as----Cooper, go to Cushion-Kate, and tell her that I will come to see her to-morrow morning. As long as I live I will divide with her as though she were my sister. Tell her to be calm, and thank God with me. It would not have done her any good if the verdict had been different. Go, Cooper; go now."
The Cooper went to Cushion-Kate's. The house was open, but she was not to be found.
In Landolin's house his wife said, "Now we will go to sleep. Thank God that your father can sleep again in peace. You'll see he will bring Anton home with him to-morrow, and everything will be all right again. Dear Anton certainly helped your father a great deal with his testimony. He is so kind and good. God be praised and thanked, everything will be all right again."
"Everything all right again?" said Thoma; but her mother did not catch the questioning tone in which she spoke.
Cushion-Kate had hurried through the village to the pastor's house near the church. She rang the bell violently. The pastor looked out, and asked, "Who is ringing? Have you come for me to take the sacrament to a dying person?"
"Pastor," shrieked Cushion-Kate, "tell me, is there a God in heaven? Is there justice?"
"Who are you that dare blaspheme so? All good spirits praise the Lord our God. Who are you?"
"The mother, the mother whose son was murdered; and the murderer is acquitted."
"Is it you, Cushion-Kate? Wait; I will open the door." The pastor opened it, but Cushion-Kate was no longer there. He went to the churchyard, to Vetturi's grave. There he found her red kerchief, but she had disappeared.
In mad haste, as though driven by invisible demons, Cushion-Kate ran through fields and forest, down to the river. There she stood, on a projecting rock, under which the water boiled and bubbled as though imprisoned. The whirlpool is called the "Devil's Kettle." Cushion-Kate leaned forward, and was about to throw herself in; but when her hands touched her head, and she became aware that her kerchief was missing, her self-control returned, and sitting down she said as she looked up to the sky:
"Mother, I feel it again. I, under your heart, and you, with a straw wreath round your head, and a straw girdle round your waist,--that was the world's justice to the poor unfortunate. Mother, you are now in the presence of eternal justice. Don't let Him turn you away! And Thou, on Thy throne in Heaven, answer me. Tell me, why is my son dead? Why hast Thou let the man that killed him go free, and live in happiness? Thou hast given me nothing in all the world; and I ask for nothing but that Thou shouldst punish him, and all those who acquitted him. Let no tree grow in their forest, nor corn in their fields. Torment them; or if Thou in Heaven above wilt not help me, then he, the other one, from below, shall! Yes, come from the water, come from the rocks; come, devil, and help me! Make a witch of me. I'll be a witch. Take my poor soul, but help me!"
A night-owl rose silently from out the darkness. Cushion-Kate beckoned to it, as though it were a messenger from him whom she had called. The owl flew past; a train of cars rushed by on the other side of the river. Cushion-Kate shrieked, but her cry was drowned in the clatter of the cars. She sank down--she slept. When the day awoke and shone in her face, she turned over with a groan, and slept on with her face to the ground.
"Wake up! How came you here?" called a man's voice.
Cushion-Kate opened her eyes, and drawing her hands over her forehead, she moaned out, "Vetturi!"
"No; it is I, Anton Armbruster. See, here is some gin. Come, drink!"
Cushion-Kate drank eagerly, then asked:
"Do you know that he is acquitted?"
"Yes; I have just come from the trial."
"Oh, yes," cried Cushion-Kate, and she struck Anton on the breast with her bony fist. "Yes, you too are----. They say you testified that he did not do it."
"Kate, you have a strong hand. You hurt me, but I forgive you. Kate, I did not testify falsely. I said honestly that I saw nothing that happened plainly."
"And why was he acquitted?"
"Because six men said not guilty. Come, raise yourself up. There!"
The old woman rose to her feet. She held her left hand to her head, and her dishevelled grey hair fluttered in the morning wind. She looked around in bewilderment, and seemed unable to collect her thoughts.
"Some one has stolen my kerchief from my head," she said at length. "Stop; it must be lying on his grave. Yes, he is in his grave, and the man who brought him to his death is free--I understand it all. I am not crazed. I know you. You are Anton; and your mother, in heaven, kept your tongue from lying. Thank God, you no longer belong to that family. They must go to ruin--all of them. The haughty Thoma, too. Great God," she cried, clasping her hands, "forgive me! Thou art a patient creditor, but a sure payer. You need not lead me, Anton; I can go alone--alone."
When Anton offered to accompany her, she motioned him back, and went through the woods, over the hill, to the village, gathering dry twigs on her way.
For a long time Anton stood gazing after her. He would so liked to have hastened to Thoma, but he overcame the impulse, and wandered homeward.
For weeks Anton lived among the wood-cutters in the forest, high up on the mountain. He was one of the most diligent workers, from early morning until nightfall; and he was rewarded by having in the log cabin such a sound sleep as he could not have had in his father's house in the valley. To be sure, the wood-cutters thought it strange that the miller's only son should devote himself to such hard work and privation; but they asked no questions, and days often passed without Anton's speaking a word. But he thought the oftener: How does Thoma live? She cannot, like me, find a new place for herself. She must stay at home, where everything awakens bitter recollections. Is she asked, as I am, by every one she meets, why our engagement has been broken off? And, like me, is she at a loss to know how to answer? Not the smallest lie escapes her lips, for she is honest and truthful. She demands that her father should confess what he has done, and submit to punishment. But, can her father confess what, perhaps, he has not done?
It was plain and clear to Anton that he could not give a full account of the occurrence. And when he was called before the court, he gave his testimony strictly in accordance with the truth; for that the stone had not hit Vetturi, he had only heard from Landolin, as he stood at the spring.
He wanted to go to Thoma, after the trial, and tell her this; but she had thrust him from her so unmercifully and unlovingly that he could not humble himself again.
Does she not love him? Did she never love him? The perfume of the lily-of-the-valley, which was just beginning to bloom up on the mountain, reminded him of a blissful hour.
Anton had gone down from the mountain to the trial; and after his meeting with Cushion-Kate, troubled thoughts filled his mind as he went on his way home. He said to himself that he would no longer hide in the mountain-forest; it was nothing but a cowardly flight. As he acknowledged this, the medal of honor on his breast trembled. Does Anton Armbruster fly from anything? He looked around with a fearless courage. He was himself again.
"How many years did he get?" asked his father when he reached home. Anton had to tell him that Landolin was fully acquitted.
The calm, thoughtful miller struck his fist on the table and exclaimed: "Well, that is----." He suddenly broke off, went to the window, and looked out. He did not wish to have a second dispute with his son; and Anton's composed manner seemed to him to say that he rejoiced in the verdict, and built new hopes upon it.
"Father, I am going to stay at home now," said Anton.
"That is right," answered his father, without turning round, "and you had better go to the river. We must send off a raft to-day."
"Father, have you nothing to say about the acquittal?"
"What difference does what I say make?"
"Much, father--it makes very much difference."
"Well, then, I will tell you. It would have been better for the cause of justice, and for the hot-tempered Landolin himself, if he had been punished for a few years. But, mark my words, he must now suffer much more for his crime. He needs now to be acquitted by every one he meets. If he had submitted to punishment he would be better off. He would have paid his debt to justice, and everything would go on smoothly and evenly. In two years he would regain his civil rights and his standing in the community. It was only a misstep. But how is it now? And I believe Landolin is not tough enough--how shall I say it--he is not man enough to blot out the sense of his guilt from his own mind, and from other people's. But, Anton, let this be the last time we dispute about him. I don't deny that I have no place in my heart for him; but we two need not, on that account, live in discord. It is time for you to go now."
Anton went up the stream, and set himself busily to work, helping to bind the logs and planks together into a raft. He who saw this well-built man, handling the oar and boat-hook so energetically, and in his quickly changing attitudes presenting such a picture of strong, graceful manhood, would not have dreamed that he carried in his heart a bitter sorrow.
As Thoma was estranged from her father, so Anton was estranged from his. Thoma and the miller were of the same opinion, with only this difference; that in Thoma deep respect for her father had changed into the opposite feeling; whilst with the miller, a deeply hidden hostility, or rather aversion toward the haughty Landolin had only come to the surface.
The acquittal made no change in the miller's feelings, except, possibly, to intensify them; and perhaps it was so also with Thoma. Still Anton hoped that matters would change for the better; and he was continually studying how he could bring it about.