"God support the poor fellow!" groaned the agonized Francis, and ran about the chamber, goaded by all the pangs of hell. Quick footsteps were heard approaching the door: it flew open, and in burst Agatha with dishevelled locks, despair upon her pale, tearless face, and flung herself at the feet of her lover.
"Save, save my unhappy father!" she cried, in tones that rent the heart.
"Collect yourself, my poor girl," said Francis, and raised up the wretched creature: "what would you from me?"
"The dreadful tale has reached even my hovel!" she exclaimed shuddering: "this night my father is to be put upon the rack. He is old and feeble; he will sink under the torture, and confess to deeds of which his soul knows nothing: therefore help, Frank, help, before it is too late. Your hand plunged us into this abyss; your hand must snatch us from it. You have solemnly sworn it to us, and must redeem your word, that God may one day not forget you in your dying hour."
"Leave us alone," said Francis to the jailer; and when the latter had gone, he exclaimed to Agatha, "What would you have of me? You ask help of one who is himself most helpless. Would I be here, if I had the influence which you attribute to me?"
"Your father is all-powerful in this city," cried Agatha, wringing her hands. "It is a trifle for him to help the man who is now to suffer for having saved your life."
"My father's hands are bound by the bishop and the furious nobles. Could he govern at his pleasure, he had surely saved his own son from the grief and shame of a prison. But I have done what I could, and your father's cause is commended to good hands."
"I will believe it," said Agatha, suppressing her feelings, "though I find you terribly cold to a sorrow that concerns you so nearly."
She was henceforth silent, leaning her head on the shoulder of Francis, who embraced her in indescribable anxiety, while the silence of death prevailed in the dungeon. On a sudden, through the nightly stillness broke a hollow shriek from the lower chambers. Francis had a foreboding of what it meant, and shuddered; Agatha listened intently to the groans, which with every moment sounded sharper and more agonized.
"Eternal mercy!" she suddenly cried in wild horror; "that is my father's voice!"
"Perhaps we deceive ourselves," said Francis, endeavouring to soothe her.
"That is my father's voice," screamed Agatha; "I should know it amidst thousands. It must be the pangs of hell that can extort such cries from the iron old man. Gracious heavens! And I hear his shrieks and cannot help him!"
"Cease," cried Francis, beside himself; "you torture yourself and me with more bitter cruelty than any he can suffer on the rack; and you torture us in vain, for by the Almighty I cannot help, though with my own blood I would purchase his!"
Agatha fixed her eyes upon him with a cold piercing gaze of inquiry, and said, "Are you in earnest, Frank? Would you really purchase his life with your own? Well then, call in the jailers; let the judges be requested to suspend awhile the torture: confess yourself the assassin of Netz, and my father is saved."
"And I lost!" exclaimed Francis. "You ask of me more than is reasonable!"
"I was not in earnest," said Agatha contemptuously. "I knew beforehand that your own wretched life was dearer to you than any thing else, and I merely wished to shame the boaster who affected a magnanimity to which his miserable heart can never elevate itself. Father, Icannotsave you; this manwillnot I can do nothing, therefore, but pray for you in the hour of your suffering, that the All-merciful may comfort your soul and preserve it from despair."--And she sank upon her knees; her lips moved softly, and her eyes, turned up to heaven, overflowed with gentle tears, while the cries of agony from below grew fainter and fainter, and at length were silent altogether.
The maiden arose and stood again before the trembling Francis; with awful calmness she said, "A horrid light is beginning to dawn upon me. It seems to me as if my poor father suffered for your crime, the wild vengeance of the nobles absolutely exacting blood in atonement for the blood which has been spilt. It seems, too, as if you were well content to buy yourself free with this expiatory sacrifice. Once again, therefore, I conjure you, Francis, exert yourself for us. If you could not rescue your saviour from the pangs of the rack, at least preserve his life. Save it not merely for me, save it for yourself! For I swear to you, by the agonies of this dreadful hour, if my father perishes, you too are lost! I will bend all the energies of my soul to your destruction; I will steal after you through life as your evil demon, till at last I reach you and hurl the lightnings of vengeance upon your guilty head!"
She rushed out.
"This is a night of hell!" groaned Francis, and dropt back, as if annihilated, into his seat.
* * * * *
It was about the same time of the year, that Althea was sitting in her chamber by the open window, through which played the gentle spring-breezes. Her little Henry drew about the room, on a wheeled platform, a stately knight, proudly mounted, in the full equipments of the tournay, Tausdorf's present to him from Nuremberg. With this he kept up an intolerable clatter, but his mother did not heed him. Before her stood the embroidery frame, in which she had stretched a scarf, but she did not work; and, lost in fairy visions, she listened to the humming of the bees that swarmed in the blossoms of an apple-tree before her window. Then on a sudden echoed the sweet song of the nightingale from the topmost branch, and Althea's bosom swelled in gentle heavings; her eyes became moist, she folded her hands, and with pious looks to heaven, exclaimed mournfully, "Forgive me, Eternal Benevolence! if this feeling be a sin against the memory of my Henry."
"Where now does Herr Tausdorf tarry?" interrupted the child. "He promised to be here early to-day."
"Was the speech of innocence an answer to my prayer?" whispered Althea; and, beckoning the child to her, she took him on her lap, caressed him with fervour, and softly asked him, "Are you then fond of Herr Tausdorf, dear boy?"
"Yes, indeed, from my very heart," replied the little one. "He is always so kind to me, brings me pretty things, and has often let me ride upon his gray horse. I love him more than uncle Netz and all the other knights who visit you. He does not swear and curse so terribly as they do, nor drink such monstrous quantities of wine. I have never either seen him drunk, like uncle Netz, who often cuts a vile figure with the fiery face and glassy eyes. Then he is always so kind and sedate; and I do not know how he manages it, but when he bids or forbids me any thing, I cannot help obeying him, however great my inclination to be froward."
"But you are fond of uncle Schindel?" said Althea, to conceal her delight in the child's answer.
"Oh yes! but then he is a little too old for me. I always think of him as of my grandfather: while Herr Tausdorf is still so handsome, and full of life and energy. It is so I fancy my father must have looked. Oh, if Herr Tausdorf were my father! I would follow him at his nod, and love him--almost as much as yourself, dear mother."
"Sweet boy!" cried Althea transported, and hid her burning forehead in the golden locks of the child.
Three slow, orderly raps were given at the door, but occupied with other matters, she paid no attention to them; at last in walked Christopher Friend, in splendid doublet and rich pantaloons of sky-blue velvet, slashed with green, and trussed with gold points, and a broad collar about his neck of real Brabant lace. With great courteousness and much dignity, he waved his richly feathered cap in salutation. The first glance, that Althea cast upon his crafty knavish face, extinguished every spark of joy in her breast, and with icy coldness she asked what was Master Friend's pleasure?
"Noble lady, I have lived long enough in the dreary state of widowhood to know all its inconveniences, and to desire a change. I want a wife of good person, good birth, and gentle manners; and, considering the great wealth with which the Lord has blest me, I believe myself well worthy of such a one. Worthiest Althea, my choice has fallen upon you. It has, indeed, cost me no little eloquence to wring from my father his consent to this match, of which he would not hear at first, on account of the violent quarrels between the nobility and citizens and the mutual bitterness that has grown out of them. At last, however, I succeeded in bending his obstinacy, and chiefly through the faithful picture of your excellent virtues; and here I am, with his blessing, to woo solemnly for your fair hand."
"I value your courtship as I ought," replied Althea, hastily; "but with my conviction that we are in no respect suited to each other, I answer with a candidno."
"No!" repeated Christopher, dropping from the clouds. "With such proposals, it is the custom, although the lady have a negative in her pocket, at least to ask time for consideration, from mere courtesy. Yourno, therefore, is almost too candid."
"I could not prevail upon myself to let you believe in the possibility of our union, even for a moment."
"I should think, though, that the petty estate which you hold at Bogendorf in your widow's right can be no reason for your rejecting so splendid an establishment thus scurvily."
"Then you thought to buy me of my poverty?--Another sign how little we are suited to each other, for I have never regarded wealth."
"That shows your fancy for the Bohemian ragamuffin!" retorted Christopher, whose wrath had burst every curb of manners. "I always wished to persuade myself out of the idea of your caring for the vagabond, but now it is on the sudden clear to me that I am sacrificed for him."
"Have the goodness yourself to repeat your aspersions to him," cried Althea warmly; "but this room you will quit instantly."
"Why should we mutually incense each other without occasion?" said Christopher, quickly composed again, and courteous. "You have rejected my love, which must, indeed, grieve me; but, at least, you cannot prevent me from wooing your friendship; and rest assured I will show you mine so thoroughly, that you shall yet one day rue your harshness."
He bowed himself profoundly, and departed.
"That is an abominable man," said the little Henry. "Had you married him, I do believe I should have run away from you."
"My horizon grows more and more cloudy," sighed Althea. "I fear there will be no staying for me much longer in the old Schweidnitz, for the hatred of these Friends is terrible, from their wealth and their enormous power."
"Oh, if they ill-treat you," cried the little one warmly, "only call Tausdorf to your help, he'll soon send them about their business! And I too am a nobleman: let me once be capable of bearing arms, and I'll maul this rabble of citizens that it shall do your heart good to see it."
Althea hastily set down the little nettle which began to sting thus early, and asked in anger, "Did you ever hear such words from me or from the knight Tausdorf, whose name is always in your mouth?"
"No," stammered the terrified child, already struggling with his tears; "but uncle Netz, and the rest of the knights, call the Schweidnitzers by no other name when they talk of them."
"Have these then so suddenly become your models? Formerly you were of a different opinion; but shame upon you for so soon forgetting the lessons of your mother. What have I told you of the different classes in the world?"
"They are all established by God," repeated the boy, amidst a flood of tears, "and therefore the high should never despise the low, for he is his brother."
"And what did I say to you of the citizens and peasants?"
"They are for the whole more useful and indispensable than the noble, who in reviling them disgraces himself."
"You, then, have disgraced the nobility which you are so proud of. Go to your own room, and reflect with yourself seriously upon your injustice, and pray to God to forgive you such want of charity. That you may have leisure for this, you shall neither play nor eat till the evening."
"Dear mother!" said the little one imploringly, and raised his folded hands.
"I am fixed," she replied with great earnestness; and the poor boy left the room slowly and with loud sobbings.
"God grant me strength to banish this evil spirit, the last in the pure mind of my child," prayed Althea fervently, as her brother-in-law, Netz, rushed into the room with wild unceasing laughter. Vexed at this interruption of her better thoughts, she exclaimed, "What have you been about now?"
"Oh, I have been enjoying a fine piece of sport. Since we were here with the bishop, your cits have had a little respect for us, because they see that we hang together manfully. So we touch them up now and then, till they are ready to run against the walls from terror."
"Alas! I have already heard much of this kind of exploits, but in truth they do you little honour."
Netz, passing over the remark, continued: "Just now I amused myself with riding on my war-horse into a publican's house, and even into the tap-room on the ground floor. The old witch of a hostess crept forward immediately, and, quaking and trembling, begged of me to dismount; but I cut as furious a grimace as I could, and roared out, 'Pity on the noble blood that has been spilt! let any one of the Schweidnitzers come abroad, be he who he may, and he shall have a warm reception; ten of us have sworn to avenge the murder.' Zounds! you should have seen how the old one's knees tottered, and three citizens, who had been sitting behind the table, crept into a corner with their cups. Then turning round my horse, I dashed out, while the windows clattered again."
"And you would palm off this adventure upon me for a chivalrous achievement?" said Althea with cold mockery.
"How perverse you are," replied Netz; "it was only a little joke of mine with the rabble. They'll tell it again in the city, which will be in a proper fright; and, whenever a chuff creeps out of his hole from necessity, it will be with fear and trembling."
"What would you say, brother, if one of the people were to ride into your hall, as you did with those honest men, who had in nowise offended you?"
"God confound him! I would hang him up by the legs."
"Would it have been wrong, then, if the citizens had taken courage, and done as much to you?"
"Zounds! that's a different thing," said Netz, stroking his whiskers.
"How, different? Perhaps the citizens of Schweidnitz are your serfs, without any rights against their master?"
"You catechize me too closely," replied Netz, confused, "tell me rather--to come to something else--what is the matter between you and Christopher Friend? As I was riding up the streets to your house, he met me, tricked out wonderfully, but with a face more horrible even than that I made in the tap-room. What did the money-bag want with you?"
"He asked my hand," returned Althea, going on calmly with her embroidery.
"And you sent him off with the willow? By my word as a knight, that does you honour, for the pitiful scoundrel has gold enough to buy half the principality; and there is many an honest woman, before this, has made herself over to the devil, for the sake of wretched mammon. You have not only acted like a noble lady, but like a prudent woman, who well weighs every thing. It was not out of love that he sought your hand, but to make peace between his kin and the nobility through you, and afterwards you would have found his house a hell."
"What evil thoughts does hatred put into the minds of men! I did not dream a syllable of any such secondary objects, but refused him simply because I felt no inclination for him."
"Nay, that of itself is a poor reason, with which you have already put off many honourable men, and even lusty knights too. Don't you intend to marry again at all?"
Althea turned away in silence to get another ball of silk from her work-basket, and at the same time to hide the colour which this question had brought upon her cheek. Netz, having long listened for a reply, exclaimed, "I understand! no answer is often a very decided one. Now I am at home. You intend sure enough to marry, and I already know the bridegroom. Shall I name him to you?"
"Spare me your thoughtless gossiping," said Althea, with anger, that did not seem to be too seriously intended.
"You defy me? Well, then, I should be a fool to spare you any longer. The lucky chosen one is called--"
At this moment Tausdorf entered the room.
"When one talks of the wolf," added Netz, laughing, "he is already looking over the hedge. That is my man."
"Oh, you are the most intolerable tattler that I know of!" said Althea, rising, and offering her hand to Tausdorf with a confused smile.
"Intolerable!" muttered Netz; "that again is somewhat strong, as indeed your phrases towards me generally are. You think I don't understand without rough language; yet in truth you ought to handle me quite tenderly, and thank God that I look at the matter on the merry side: were I disposed to take it up seriously, and quarrel with my fortunate rival, you might sooner be a widow than a bride, or else have to cry your bright eyes red over the corpse of your poor brother-in-law. But compose yourself; it shall not be so bad as that I have at last learnt to see that you are in the right with your negative. Every creature of the field would be mated with its like. Now you are as tender as the sensitive plant in the park green-house; you would be touched only lightly with the finger-tips; while I love to grasp with my whole hand, and don't always even draw the gauntlet off first. In any case, we should make a strange couple. It is better, therefore, that the whole business should be let alone, and, if I can yield you to any one without grudging, it is to Tausdorf, who seems to have been made by Heaven expressly for your wilfulness; and who, moreover, is such a lusty knight. Your hands, then, my dear friends:--In the name and in the spirit of my good brother Henry, I give and pledge you to each other, and you shall exchange the troth-rings before my eyes."
"I pray you at length be silent," said Althea, whose confusion was at its height; and with unfeigned emotion she added, "it has not yet entered into Herr von Tausdorf's head to be a suitor for my hand."
"So, then, I have again missed my aim! That you will never make me believe. It is only a sort of feint, that your womanly affectation would yet use as a parting farewell. Strike at the very core of it with your good sword, Tausdorf; I will be your faithful brother in arms."
"I could only accuse myself, if I had not understood this noble heart," said the knight tenderly, kissing Althea's hand. "But this letter of my father's will show you that I have understood it, my dear friend; still, I owed it to your repose and my honour to shut up the ardent longing in my own breast, until every barrier was forced that lay in the path of my happiness. That is done. The weightiest obstacle was the difference of our creeds: but rational arguments and filial entreaties have subdued my father's strictness of belief, and he now participates in my wishes, and sends us his paternal blessing."
With trembling hand Althea took the letter and read it, while her eyes sparkled with joy.
"Strange that the old gentleman should make objections for a little difference in religion!" said Netz: "Why, if Althea cared about priestly feuds, she might with better reason object to your Utraquism. But I see it well, it is in this case just as if a fair maiden were smitten with a Moor. Love levels all, and before him there is neither creed nor complexion."
"The Moor returns his thanks," replied Tausdorf laughing, and followed Althea to the window, where she stood with folded hands in deep thought.
"Have I understood your heart?" he asked gently and tenderly.
"Only too well," she murmured; "and yet in this decisive moment an anxious doubt falls on me, whether I do right in listening to it, and whether it is compatible with my duties towards my child."
"Fire and fury, sister!" shouted Netz, impatiently, "I believe you are still coquetting it: by my faith! even the best women can't leave that alone. I fancy when you one day come to the gates of heaven, you'll stand courtesying to St. Peter, and protesting that you don't think it polite to enter, till he hales you in by force. What new difficulty have you been spinning and weaving on the instant?"
"My little Henry," lisped Althea, with downcast eyes.
"Whose interest, you think, is against this marriage?" said Netz, laughing: "Now that, in good truth, is a little out of reason, for to me it seems as if it would exactly tend to his advantage. But I'll do as though I believed you in it. Where is the boy?"
"A prisoner in his room till bed-time."
"The devil! Yours is a strict government! But wherefore?"
"He spoke contemptuously of the respectable state of citizenship."
"Death and hell! By that I see the blood of our family flows in him--And 'tis therefore you have imprisoned the noble fellow! Zounds! I can fancy, then, how you would have managed me, if you had given me your fair hand in marriage: I should never again have got out of the cellar into daylight. No, that won't do; I'll not stand it. I am the boy's uncle, and have also a word to say in his education."
He rushed out, but at the door was met by the old Herr von Schindel, to whom he exclaimed, "Your niece has grown restive, and positively won't enter the stall of matrimony; do you teach her better--I go for help:"
With two springs he was up the stairs and at Henry's door, while Schindel entered to the lovers.
"Do you then doubt my having a father's feeling for Althea's child?" said Tausdorf to the widow, deeply mortified.
"It is not that alone," she stammered; "it seems to me as if a second marriage would be a treachery to my first husband; and that one day, in a better world, I should not be able to come before his eyes, if I contracted a fresh union here below."
"Fie! fie! niece," cried Schindel, gravely; "so good a Christian, and so little versed in the Bible? Have you not read in the holy scriptures, what sort of answer was given to a similar doubt, and who gave that answer? 'there will no one marry, nor be given in marriage?' and your departed lord will thank Tausdorf, with a brother's love, for having made his Althea happy in the time of her earthly pilgrimage, when he himself was no longer able."
"Heaven reward you for these words, my dear uncle," exclaimed Tausdorf joyfully, grasping the old knight's hand, when Netz burst in, the little Henry in his arms, and setting him between the lovers, on the ground, cried, "Stand here, boy, and decide: your mother is going to marry again; whom would you like to have for your father-in-law?"
With a loud cry of joy the child sprang up to Tausdorf, and clasped his knees, looking up to him with a sweet smile of affection.
"My son!" exclaimed Tausdorf, in emotion; and he lifted up the little one in his arms, and kissed him warmly.
"Then join your mother's hand with his," continued Netz.--The boy stretched out his hand after Althea's, and said, in a sweet soothing tone, "Dear mother!"--She remained, however, timidly at the window, and did not move; upon this Tausdorf carried to her the little Henry, who seized her arm with gentle violence, and joined the feebly-resisting hand with the extended right-hand of the lover, at the same time exclaiming, "Always so! always so!" and covering the two hands with kisses.
"My Henry!" stammered Althea, and inclined her face to his.
"Is he notourHenry?" asked Tausdorf, hastily putting down the child, and with his arms clasping the tender body of Althea.
"In the name of Heaven!" she replied, scarcely audible, while his lips sank upon hers.
"What Heaven does is well done!" said the old Schindel, with folded hands.
Netz shouted out aloud, "Victoria!"--In the next moment he passed his mailed hand across his eyes, and, unmanned by keen and sudden agony, rushed out of the apartment.
* * * * *
Eight days after the Whitsuntide of the same year, the morning twilight lit up the horizon with a dusky red, and painted with blood the walls of the Hildebrand, in which Francis was still quietly slumbering on his couch. Before him stood the old Heidenreich, who seized his hand, and called upon his name to wake him. At the call he started up wildly, and inquired peevishly and sleepily why the old man disturbed him at such an hour? "Sleep is precisely the best thing that one can enjoy in a dungeon."
"I bring you weighty, and in some sort pleasant, news. That I come with it thus early is to prepare you for the events of the morning. Yesterday arrived the emperor's final sentence--your life is saved. The imprisonment which you have already suffered will be reckoned in part of your incurred penance; and,mense Septembris anni currentis, you may expect your freedom."
"Am I to rot then so long in a dungeon? That is an unjust severity, as I neither confessed the fact, nor have been convicted of it; and one may easily see that the emperor deems himself the first nobleman in the principality, by his siding thus with the lordlings."
"Not yet contented? Thank God, on the contrary, that the sentence has turned out so exceedingly mild. I can assure you, when the sentence was read in the sessions-room, the impertinent alderman, Treutler, observed,Dat veniam corvis vexat censura columbas!You were heavily accused: had not Onophrius been silent on the rack, had not your father subdued his old pride, and made most suppliant petitions to the emperor himself, and, lastly, had I not managed your cause in a veritable masterpiece of defence, you would have had a serious business of it to-day."
"And how has it gone with the old Goldmann?" asked Francis anxiously.
"Faith," replied Heidenreich, shrugging his shoulders, "his head will be off in an hour."
"Gracious heavens!" cried Francis, starting up from his couch, "it is not possible! The old man acted only in his office; and if he did kill Bieler, his life cannot be touched for it."
"The imperial council have seen the affair in a different light," replied Heidenreich coldly. "They think his office had been to separate and arrest both parties, you as well as Rasselwitz; and not, out of partiality to the burgomaster's son, to kill his adversary."
"But I entreated you for the poor man!--and you, too, promised."
"I did to the utmost of my power whatever could be done, and as far as it could be done without your injury: your father, too, the same. Thrice did the council apply to the emperor in Goldmann's behalf, and the last time was dismissed ignominiously for their pains, and forbidden farther interference. Defendant was not to be saved. Some one must have killed Bieler: Goldmann confessed upon the rack that he had struck at the young man's head; about you he was honestly silent, and thus, therefore, devoted himself for an atonement."
"Horrible!" cried Francis, and paced about the room, wringing his hands. On a sudden the clang of the funeral bells vibrated hollowly and slowly from the tower of the guildhall; when, in obedience to the signal, from every turret throughout the city, the metal heralds lifted up their solemn voices, producing a singularly sad and awful echo in the silence of the morning twilight.
"What means this tolling of the bells so early?" asked Francis, with a fearful foreboding.
"It is the funeral toll of the poor Goldmann," replied Heidenreich, leaning himself against the window. "To show publicly that the council deems the imperial sentence too severe, it has allowed this last honour to the condemned; the body, too, will be followed by the whole college to the burial-ground of our Ladyim Walde."
"A melancholy kindness!" exclaimed Francis, shuddering; and after awhile he added, "first the hand, then the rack, and at last the head. Oh, it is horrible!"
"See, there comes the procession!" cried Heidenreich from the window; and in spite of the horror that seized him at the news, Francis yet felt himself irresistibly attracted to look on that which he dreaded. Just then the old Onophrius was passing before the window. Free and unfettered, he walked with calm confidence between the city soldiers who accompanied him, while no marks of the fear of death were to be seen upon his venerable, pale, cheerful countenance; and a garland of white roses adorned his silver locks, which were fluttered by the morning breeze.
Loud weeping was heard from the assembled people; even the iron Francis sobbed bitterly. At this moment the old man lifted up his eyes and maimed arm to him, and cried out with a strong voice, "I have forgiven you all! Only make good as much as you are yet able, and you shall not find me amongst your accusers before the judgment-seat of God." With this he went on cheerfully to the place of execution, while Francis howled and pressed his face against the iron grating of the window.
The sufferer's head had fallen. The noise of the people returning from the burial, and the sudden silence of the bells, awoke Francis from his mental lethargy. He looked up, and found himself alone.
"It was an evil hour!" he cried, rousing himself; "God be praised that it is over.--How! not yet torture enough?" he added the instant after, seeing Agatha, who just then closed the prison door behind her.
In deep mourning, with hollow eyes staring out of a pale, meagre face;--in her hand the garland of white roses which her father had worn on his last travel, she stood for a long time at the door, a threatening Nemesis. She then glided nearer with a light step, and planted herself close before the terrified Francis, whose hair began to stand on end.
"My father is no more," she murmured in the tones of death. "I have even now seen him to his final place of rest, and am come hither to execute his last commission. He has been silent: he has died to save you; and he has saved you that you may restore to his only child the honour of which you robbed her by crafty seduction. In his last farewell he said, 'I will believe that, with the best inclination, Francis had it not in his power to rescue me; but let him take you home as his wedded wife, which is his duty, and which he has promised me with deep oaths: thus he will at least have made good as much as he was able, and my shadow is reconciled.' Now, then, I am here to remind you of your oath."
With infinite confusion Francis stammered out, "Yes,--that,--dearest Agatha--for the present, at least, that cannot be done. I do not depend upon myself alone."
"You are a widower, and childless," said Agatha, with great composure.
"But my proud stern father will never consent to such an alliance," objected Francis.
"You have long been of age and wealthy, and therefore independent," said Agatha, in the former unimpassioned tone; "give me better reasons for your perjury."
"I suppose I can't be married to you in the Hildebrand!" cried Francis, with the angry impatience of mental agony.
"Oh father! what you have asked of me is hard," sighed Agatha, struggling with her feelings; "but I must obey." And, as in that dreadful night, she flung herself before Francis, and embracing his knees, besought him--"Give me your hand, and with it give me back my honour."
"Let go of me, woman!" he cried, tearing himself with violence from the kneeling Agatha. "By heavens, I cannot do what you desire!"
"You cannot?" she returned in a terrible tone, and rose up; "You swear by Heaven that you cannot?--You are right. What does a perjury, more or less, signify to you? It is quite well so, perhaps better than if I had softened you for the moment. Now then I may confess it to you: it was only obedience to the martyr that compelled me to this measure. I had other intentions with you; but my father's command tied up my hands, which your utter unworthiness has again unfettered. Think of what I told you in the night of torture. My father has now really died for you--you have rejected the atonement which he offered you through me, and vengeance can now take her course, softly, slowly, and securely. May this thought scare sleep from your bed and drop wormwood into the cup of your joy, till you one day see me again adorned with this blood-besprinkled garland, as your bride for the life yonder in the torments that have no end."
She glided out of the room; Francis stood there for a long time as if petrified, when, collecting himself, he called out for the guard.
"Goldmann's daughter," he said to the city servitor, who then entered, "has been uttering dangerous threats out of rage for the execution of her father. Every thing is to be feared from her malice,--fire and murder, poison and uproar! for who knows what abettors she may have already gained by her strumpet artifices? Arrest her, therefore, immediately, and announce it to the council. I take upon myself all responsibility with my father."
The servitor ran off; but in a little time returned with information that Agatha, after quitting the Hildebrand, had disappeared so quickly, that no one knew which way to follow her; her dwelling was quite deserted, and it was probable she had turned her back upon the city.
"That's bad," said Francis thoughtfully; but his old, daring recklessness soon returned, and he exclaimed, "What does it signify? the malicious wench will take good care, I should hope, not to come back to a city in which my father governs: no one yet ever died of mere threats, and I doubt not to reconcile to my conscience the not having allowed the daughter of the beheaded city messenger to talk herself into the honourable family of the Friends."
* * * * *
It was in the beginning of the July 1572, that Althea sate at a splendid dinner-table with her uncle Schindel, her brother-in-law Netz, and a few ladies of distinction; but the rich dishes seemed to be there merely for show, for the sun was already low in the west, and still the meal had not yet begun.
"Your betrothed stays long," said Netz, gaping, and tapping with his knife upon the silver goblet before him. "He was to have been with us about the middle of the day, and now the evening will soon be here. You must break him in better for the holy state of matrimony."
"His protracted absence begins to alarm me," replied Althea. "I trust no accident has happened to him on his long journey."
"Who would begin fearing the worst so soon?" admonished Schindel. "Recollect, niece, how much he had to do at Tirschkokrig, and Prague, and Vienna. Such a change of habitation for life brings with it a heap of business. The explanations with a beloved father, whom one would not pain, the quitting of the service of a powerful master, who unwillingly parts with the true servant--all these are things that are not easily got over. It is very possible that he may yet have to stay a day or two over."
"Well, God be thanked!" cried Netz--"He has been a year in Bohemia, and so has had time to manage his removal to Silesia."
"Only a year?" sighed Althea; "to me the time has seemed much longer."
"Not a complete year yet," interrupted Schindel. "It was in the September of the foregoing year that Francis Friend was released from his confinement, and it was the very day before that Tausdorf went to Bohemia."
"Don't mention a word to me about these Friends," growled Netz, dashing the goblet on the table. "You drive the gall into my stomach, and then the wine does not prosper with me. It will stick with me all my life long, that this villain, who alone was cause of the mischief, should have crept, with a whole skin, from under the sword of the executioner!"
"It must have been because they could prove nothing against him in respect to Bieler's death," objected Schindel, "or else the emperor had made a severe example of him also."
"I have ever heard," said Netz, "that in such investigations all depends upon the manner of questioning; and the judge, if he rightly understands it, can interrogate a rogue into an honest man, and an honest man into a rogue. With me Francis will always be Bieler's murderer, and if I had not given my knightly word and hand to the lord bishop to let the matter rest, I would yet call him to account for it."
"Still Tausdorf comes not!" interrupted Althea with affectionate anxiety.
"And in the mean time," said Schindel, "we have lost the guests who were invited for his reception. Rasselwitz and Seidlitz were to be gone for an hour only, and neither of them is returned yet."
"I wish Rasselwitz may not be dangling after the fair Netherlander," replied Netz, "and have forgotten Tausdorf and his welcome!"
"You must always be wagging your tongue at me," cried Rasselwitz, who just then entered, and had caught the last words.
"Well, and do I lie?" asked Netz: "Are you not led in a string by the fair stranger?"
"Would to Heaven she only thought it worth her while to lead me! but at present she cares little about me."
"And yet you are always dangling after her, and paying court to her when and how she pleases. What a great fool should I be if I were to suffer myself to be so trotted about, and all to no purpose! Love's pay must follow love's service, or else I care nothing for love, or all the women of the earth."
"Time brings roses. I don't yet give up all hope."
"Holloa, gentlemen!" cried Schindel; "this is a conversation for the tavern when you can no longer tell Hungary from Rhenish. How can you think of amusing the noble ladies here present with your courtesans?"
"You are in a gross error, Herr von Schindel," said Netz warmly. "The lady, of whom we speak, by no means belongs to that loose craft. Since she has lodged with the Dutch nurseryman at the Park, she has led so still and retired a life, that she may well be set up as a model for other women. Besides, the splendour of her clothes and furniture betokens great wealth, as her dignified manners are a sign of her high birth."
"And yet lodges at the Park?" retorted Schindel; "and allows the young men free access to her? That is strange! But who is she, and what would she here? It does not at all please me, when a handsome female wanders about the world in this way without protection."
"Thus much she has confessed to me," said Rasselwitz; "her abode here has a mighty object; but what that object is she does not as yet hold me fit to be entrusted with."
"If the girl should have some evil design towards you?" said Schindel thoughtfully. "We have many a warning-tale from the olden time of young libertines having been allured by some beautiful unknown, and, when at last they fancied themselves at the goal of their wishes, they grasped in their arms a hellish monster. At all events you will do well to be cautious with your new acquaintance."
He was interrupted by the slow approach of footsteps. Supported by Seidlitz, Tausdorf tottered into the room, and with a friendly smile upon his pale features, stretched out his arms towards Althea, who instantly hastened to the man of her affections, exclaiming, "Gracious Heavens! what has happened to you, Tausdorf?"
"A slight accident, not worth talking of. As I was entering the town-gate my horse shied and would not go forward, and, when I attempted to force him on, he reared so high that he fell over with me."
"And you have been wounded by the dreadful fall?"
"Oh, no. I did, indeed, strike my head against the pavement in falling, but my hat broke the force of the blow."
"Has your horse ever shown such vice before?" asked Schindel.
"No," replied Tausdorf. "You know my old gray: he was the most docile beast that I ever rode."
"Then this accident strikes me as something singular," rejoined Schindel, "as if it were an omen intended by Providence to warn you of some great evil at hand."
"Don't say that with so much earnestness, my good uncle," exclaimed Tausdorf, laughing, "or you will terrify my Althea unnecessarily; and if she should fall sick upon it, the mischief which my bay's restiveness is supposed to prophesy would then have really come to pass."
"I should like you as well again if you had a little more faith," replied Schindel angrily. "Animals have often a sharper insight into the realm of spirits than your overwise men. Think on Balaam's awful history. It would not be the first time that a horse shied when he was bearing his master to his ruin. Who knows whether it is well that you have just now rode into the town?"
"Herr von Schindel is the faithful Eckart, and warns every one," cried Rasselwitz with forced laughter, and seized the goblet to wash down his anxiety, while Netz exclaimed--"Are we not at last, then, to sit down regularly, and fetch up our lost dinner-time?"
"Do so, good cousin, and take my place," replied Tausdorf, who since Schindel's last words had grown unusually grave and gloomy: "My honoured guests will easily excuse me if I leave them for my bed: I should make a sorry host to-day, for my head is somewhat stunned and dizzy from the fall, and repose will be the best thing for me."
He bowed, and left the company. The faithful Althea anxiously followed him.
"A tedious melancholy feast for a welcome," muttered Netz.
The guests looked at each other with disturbed countenance. A painful silence spread over the whole party, and the old Schindel put his finger to his nose, and said, "I keep to it still; this adventure is a very doubtful omen: God turn all to the best!"
* * * * *
The two brothers, Christopher and Francis, had come to see the splendid aloe, which was at the Dutch nurseryman's in the park, and was then unfolding all the glory of its blossoms. Both were not a little astonished at meeting here, for at other times the way of the one was regularly not that of the other. Bareheaded, and with all the respect due to the rich Patricians, the gardener opened to them the door of the particular green-house, in which stood the giant plant. From the midst of enormous prickly leaves the stem rose up like a tree, to almost three times a man's height; from that again a multitude of branches had sprouted perpendicularly, each of which bore a multitude of colossal flower-tufts, so that many thousand flowers showed themselves together, offering to the astonished eye the appearance of an immense nosegay.
"This splendid aloe, called alsoAgave Americana," said the gardener, haranguing in a monotonous tone, and repeating the same thing for the hundredth time,--"this splendid aloe has come to Germany from the new world through Spain; it reaches a very great age, sometimes a hundred years, flowers only once in its long vegetable life, but that once, as we see here, with such an extravagant prodigality of its best strength and noblest juices, that it thereby draws on its own death, perishing entirely after it has completed its time of blooming: on this account it is a great rarity, whenever we can get to this wonderful sight in our climate, which in fact is not over favourable to this miraculous and beautiful plant."
The brothers had soon satiated themselves with looking at this wonder-work of nature, and had scarcely paid any attention to the gardener's set speech. At last Christopher said,
"This aloe must have brought you many a fair half-crown, master gardener?"
But Francis had long been peeping between the leaves after a handsome female, who sate at the end of the green-house under a blooming oleander, and seemed to be reading diligently in an old manuscript. Her brows were shadowed by white ostrich feathers that rose from a bonnet of the same colour; her auburn locks rolled down in luxuriant abundance upon a closely-fitting dress of purple velvet, girdled by a rich gold band; while a chain of gold-chased emeralds heaved up and down upon the laced kerchief which veiled her fair voluptuous bosom.
"Master, who is that handsome woman?" said Francis to the gardener, in a low eager tone.
"Bona van der Noot," whispered the man in reply; "the widow of a rich Netherlander, who for four weeks has lodged in the upper floor of my house."
"The widow of arichNetherlander?" asked Christopher, who now began to look after her, and in whom, to the natural delight in a beautiful figure, awoke also the calculating spirit of the man of wealth, desirous of heaping up still more to his collected money-bags--"Have the kindness, master, to help us to a nearer intimacy."
"She has once for all forbidden such things," replied the gardener; "but what would I not do to please you, Mr. Christopher?"
And going up to the fair stranger, he said respectfully, "Permit me, noble lady, to give way to the wishes of these gentlemen, and present to you the sons of our worshipful burgomaster."
"You are acting contrary to our agreement, master," replied Bona, with gentle reproach. "My society has so little worth, and I feel so little desire to form new acquaintances, that neither party will thank you much for your mediation."
In the meantime Francis and Christopher had approached with profound inclinations; in doing this the former had got a full view of her, when he suddenly stood still with open mouth and staring eyes, and no sooner had he heard her voice, than he cried out at once, "That is Agatha, or the Devil!"
"What ails you now, brother?" cried Christopher in alarm; and Bona anxiously asked the gardener whether the young man had not sometimes paroxysms of madness.
"No; it cannot be she, however;" stammered Francis, retreating in confusion. "The rich clothes, the cheerful countenance--no, that cannot be the pale, haggard spectre that tormented me so cruelly in the Hildebrand--and now, too, the beautiful long auburn locks with the auburn eye-brows!--Agatha had dark brown hair. Pardon me, noble lady, my mistake and rudeness; your great likeness to a girl, whom I knew only too well, had deceived me."
"Sir," replied Bona proudly, "you must yourself allow that this assimilation to some old flame of yours cannot be particularly flattering to me. To spare myself any farther such unpleasantnesses, nothing remains for me but to withdraw, and leave it to your own reflection whether it became you to insult an unblemished female, who sought the hospitality of your father's town."
She walked away with great dignity.
"God confound you!" cried Christopher to his brother. "This is now the second time that your madness has come between me and my object, when I was trying to weave a love affair. Had it not been for your senseless fray with Rasselwitz, I should have had leisure and opportunity to win the widow. It was your fault alone that the banquet was put off, from which I had promised myself so much. The refusal too, which the silly woman gave me in the end, I owe to the fear of your relationship. No one would willingly have any thing to do with you, for wherever you come you make mischief, and that not merely from natural awkwardness, but from evil intentions. If, therefore, you frighten away my bird this time, I shall believe you do it on purpose, and have good reasons of your own for preventing my second marriage; in which case I shall speak a word in earnest with our father, and you will gain nothing by your tricks."
Thus scolding and grumbling, he went off, and the gardener went with him. Francis, however, had not listened to his lecture, but remained there gloomily, and with the sheath of his sword beheaded the valuable foreign plants that stood in their clay vases, in rows, upon a range of steps. At last he cried, "I was mistaken; but the likeness was surprising and really terrible. A horrid shuddering came over me as the well-known features menaced me from out the strange form; I felt as if some evil spirit stretched out his claws after me from the beautiful face. The devil take conscience! It has often embittered my life, and now, since the affair in the Hildebrand, it will no longer let me have any real satisfaction."
There was a sudden rustling behind the glass door, through which Bona had disappeared, and to which Francis had turned his back. Glancing round fearfully to the place whence the noise came, he saw the magic image of the fair stranger, and he shook and shuddered as if in the frosts of fever.--"Heaven be merciful to me!" he cried,--clapped his hands before his eyes, and rushed out through another door into the garden.
No sooner had Francis left the green-house than Bona entered it through the side-door. For some time she looked after him as he ran along the principal alley of the garden, while her beautiful eyes sparkled with silent wrath, her right hand pressed itself violently on her throbbing bosom, as if she wished to keep down its heavings by force, and thoughts of evil seemed to furrow her lovely forehead. At this instant came tripping along from a side walk the knight, Rasselwitz, in all his bravery, as with hope and desire on his face he bent his way towards the green-house. The moment Bona perceived him, the furrows smoothed themselves upon her brow, her eyes lost their fierceness, a gentle longing spread over her features, and she flung herself in a picturesque attitude on the garden-seat beneath the oleander. Rasselwitz entering, said in the softest tone, "I owe it to my good fortune, noble lady, that I find you here in this confidential loneliness, and can paint the feelings which glow towards you in my heart, without being interrupted by troublesome witnesses."
With angelic kindness Bona presented her hand to him, and drew him down beside her, gently murmuring, "You have often before protested your love to me, Herr von Rasselwitz, and I would willingly believe in it, but mens' hearts are more treacherous than the treacherous waves of the sea: Who would trust to them? who would answer to me for the continuance of the inclination which you fancy you feel for me--perhaps really feel at the present moment?"
Rasselwitz felt himself transported into the third heaven by this accost, for she had never addressed him so before; and kissing her hand with fervour, he cried, "O that you would honour me so far, beautiful Bona, as to demand of me some proof of my sincerity!"
"Take care that I don't keep you to your word," replied Bona with a lovely smile. "I might ask something of serious difficulty, and you would then come off with disgrace."
"No, fair lady; you don't escape me so this time," protested Rasselwitz with great animation. "You must rather allow me to keepyouto your word. Demand any proof of my love, as hard and earnest as you can devise, and, if I deny it to you, banish me from your presence for ever."
"Do you know the man who just now left the garden?" asked Bona with apparent calmness.
"Why should I not?" replied Rasselwitz. "It was Francis Friend, the wild son of the old burgomaster."
"Challenge him for life or death," said Bona, "and I am yours."
Rasselwitz stared at the blood-thirsty beauty, and at length said with a confused smile, "You must be jesting, noble lady? What good could you get by egging us on to murder each other?"
"There are many gates through which hatred may enter the human breast," replied Bona with piercing looks; "and, if that be true which has been told me, you also cannot possibly be a friend to this Francis."
"By heavens! I detest him as my worst sins, but I cannot challenge him."
Upon this Bona started up and demanded with a look of scorn and contempt, "Do you want the courage for it?"
"Onlyyoudare ask me that," replied Rasselwitz, starting up in his turn; "and to you only could I give a cool answer. I have never shunned the game of swords; but my knightly word binds me; I pledged it to the prince palatine on the settling of that awkward business the other day, and, if the monster does not begin again himself, he will have quiet for me as long as he lives."
"Does not then the wish of your beloved weigh more with you than this promise?" asked Bona in soul-melting tones; and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, she gazed on him with a look that glowed through his pulses and gave wings to them.
"You have not understood me, noble lady," replied Rasselwitz earnestly. "We are talking here of my knightly word, on which depends my honour, and consequently my earthly being. If this adamantine chain were to hold no longer, what tie in the world could be relied on?"
"A clever brain would know how to manage a quarrel, and yet throw the appearance of the first aggression upon his adversary. Rough and violent as this Friend appears to me, it must be easy to irritate him to unseemly language and vulgar action, and then you fight only in self-defence, which the bishop cannot take amiss."
"That would be bad work, lady, with which I cannot meddle. To evade a promise is to break a promise, and I am an honourable Silesian."
"Well answered," cried Bona with loud laughter, and reseated herself. "Take your place again by my side, Herr von Rasselwitz; it was not so evilly intended. I excuse you from the combat for life and death, to which you seem to have so little inclination, and do you, on the other hand, excuse me for the future from your love-protests which you cannot prove. You have stood the first trial badly; I spare you the others."
"How! Your strange instigation was no more than a trial?"
"And a very badly contrived one too. How could I expect that you would believe me, in this deadly hatred against a man whom I saw to-day for the first time in my life, and who could not have ever injured me?--me, a Netherlandress, who have lived but a few weeks at Schweidnitz? You would have caught me finely, and put me into an awkward plight, had you made as if you were willing to comply with my desire. I must then have prayed you, for God's sake, to let poor Friend live, and you would have had the pleasure of laughing at me soundly for my unsuccessful project."
"Fool that I am!--and yet I rejoice from my heart that it was only a joke. I could not, however, suspect you of such a trick."
"Did you have a long merry-making on Monday at the widow's?" asked Bona, with a careless transition of the subject.
"Unfortunately, no; the bridegroom, whom we expected, had an accident with his horse, and arrived late only to go to bed directly. This untuned us all, and we separated at an early hour."
"I have already heard much of this bridegroom; but tell me more about him; he is said to be a handsome man."
"A perfect model of manly beauty!"
"That is saying much; yet since a man of your appearance allows it, why it must needs be so.--Brave?--that is understood of itself;--but I suppose just as hot and violent, just as easy to be irritated, which you gentlemen often wish to pass upon us for courage?"
"Nothing less. He is coolness and reflection personified, and on that account seems as if born to be a general. If he had not been the leader of the nobles on that decisive day which freed me from arrest, it had unavoidably come to a battle in the city; the upshot was uncertain, and in any case Bieler's murderers had escaped punishment."
A flash of anger quivered through Bona's beautiful features, and the little pearl-teeth within her rosy lips were ground together firmly. But the external calm was soon regained, and she asked with her former indifference,--"Is this mirror of virtue and honour quite faithful to his Althea?"
"It is perilous to answer for any thing of this sort; but in his case I would almost venture it. He dwells on his bride with infinite affection."
"That proves nothing; you men may love warmly, and yet be false withal. Will you do me a favour, Herr von Rasselwitz?"
"Command me; I fly."
"Always supposing it is not for life and death," interposed Bona with light mockery. "But I have a desire to become personally acquainted with this Tausdorf, who is so much talked of. Besides I want to inquire of him after a relation, who lives at Prague. Bring him hither with the first opportunity."
"It is asking much," said Rasselwitz jestingly, "to expect that I should myself introduce to you so dangerous a rival; but I build upon his fore-praised fidelity."
"If, however, you cannot, or like not, it is of no consequence. It was only a passing whim, which I can just as lightly give up again."
"By no means; and it is precisely to-morrow morning that your wish can be most easily accomplished, for the lady Althea then goes to Bogendorf, whence she does not return till the day afterwards, and she leaves Tausdorf behind that he may have leisure to recover from his fall. The singular plant, which is shown in this garden, shall be the bait to bring him. He will come to admire a blooming aloe, and will be agreeably surprised when the floweret of beauty unfolds to him the splendour of its colours."
He imprinted a fiery kiss upon Bona's hand and departed. The maiden looked after him with a bitter smile, then rose up, and walked slowly into the green-house, where stood the aloe, which she considered for a long time, and at length said, "Yes, proud aloe, you are the image of my revenge. Your blossom requires years to break from the bud, but it does at last break forth in vigour that will not be restrained; and though you perish in the very moment of perfection, you have yet gained your object; he who has done that has lived long enough."
* * * * *
Beamless, yet with splendid glow, hung the evening sun, like a bright burning ruby in the horizon over the violet-coloured mountains. Purple clouds, edged with gold, shot a glory about it, while the whole western heavens shone in a sea of flame, and the blaze melted away farther on into a lovely sea-green, which again in the east was lost in the dark blue of night. Before the aloe, whose flowers seemed to burn in the evening red, stood Tausdorf, sunk in its contemplation.--"The plant is to be envied," he said to Rasselwitz; "he dies well, who, like it, dies at the moment of reaching the pinnacle of strength and beauty; and I could almost wish that such a death might one day be to myself."
"How earnestly and gravely you take every thing," replied Rasselwitz--"nay gloomily too! For my part, it is precisely when I got to the pinnacle that I should feel most eager to live on, because it is then that life is gayest. When one is gone, the best pleasure is over; and in good truth we shall always be dead long enough afterwards."
"In the ten years of experience, which I have beyond you, lies the difference of our views. Throughout nature nothing stands still. He who does not go forward goes backward. From the summit the road only leads down again, and every retracing of our steps has something disconsolate about it, which I would willingly buy off with a few years of existence."
He turned about to depart, but Rasselwitz held him back:--"I cannot let you go thus; you may, perhaps, have got over your accident, but you still look pale, and the evening wind blows cursedly cool from the mountains. Let us first, therefore, if agreeable to you, empty a flask of tokay against the bad air, and then I will myself accompany you home again."
"You gentlemen can't do without the wine-cup," said Tausdorf jestingly. "If, however, it is really to be but a single flask, I am contented."
They went accordingly into the larger greenhouse, where at the end, under an oleander-tree, a little table was neatly set out, covered with a crimson silk cloth. Upon this was a dish of foreign salad between two handsome flasks with handles, semi-transparent and edged with silver, and two glass goblets, ready filled, in which the tokay sparkled like blood in the last rays of the setting sun. By the table sat Bona in all the fulness of her charms, seeming to enjoy with silent transport the splendour of the evening heavens, whose crimson fire gave all the glory of a seraph to her head and face.
"We interrupt here," said Tausdorf to Rasselwitz, struck by her appearance, "and must seek some other place."
"You do not interrupt me, gentlemen," said Bona, rising with graceful kindness. "A woman, who knows how to maintain her female dignity, has no occasion to be afraid of men. But perhaps you wish to have a private conversation with your companion, in which case I give way to you, although I should have willingly enjoyed this splendid evening for a quarter of an hour longer."
"You love then the charms of nature?" asked Tausdorf, whose sympathy had been won by the first words of the stranger, and who now thought no more of going.
"What being of head and heart but must love them?" replied Bona warmly. "Nature ever reflects herself, and yet is ever new, nor has any mortal hitherto succeeded in imitating the least of her wonders: so has she gone on for centuries, silent and beautiful, clear and sublime, benevolent in creating and maintaining as in destroying."
"Nature," said Tausdorf with warmth, "has always seemed to me like a perfect woman in the arms of the all-powerful--in the arms of a beneficent master and loving husband."
"You are probably married, sir knight," observed Bona roguishly, "by this image in particular striking your fancy?"
"Not yet," replied Tausdorf, colouring.
"But already promised and bound by indissoluble chains," interrupted Rasselwitz, to whom this brief conversation grew much too animated. "You have become so rapidly acquainted with the knight, fair Bona, that I must hasten to inform you, you are talking with the Herr Sparrenberger von Tausdorf, the betrothed of the Frau von Netz; and now take your place, my old friend, that the noble wine may not grow vapid, and pledge me to the health of your fair intended."
"I regret to-day, for the first time, that I have for ever renounced wine," said Bona, while the knights touched their glasses. "A toast to the health of so noble a lady would be well in place now."
"You know my Althea?" asked Tausdorf.
"No," replied Bona with lovely frankness; "but I have heard so much good of you, sir knight, that I believe you could have chosen none but a noble being for the companion of your life."
"Pray, lady," said Rasselwitz, breaking in upon them with vexation,--"did you not tell me to-day that you had a relation in Prague, of whom you had long heard nothing? Herr Tausdorf lived there a considerable time, and perhaps will be able to give you satisfaction."
"I thank you, dear Rasselwitz, for reminding me of it," replied Bona; "but it has already grown dark," she continued, looking round; "we had better order a light at the gardener's."
"Admirable!" muttered Rasselwitz; "she sends me away that she may be alone with him in the dark;"--and he hurried off with the speed of an arrow, to be back so much the sooner. In Tausdorf the same idea was stirring; but when he secretly asked himself the question, whether he did or did not like it, he could obtain no decided answer.
After all, the fears of the one and the imaginings of the other were alike idle. The fair Bona kept at her old distance from Tausdorf, and entered into the most indifferent talk in the world with him, inquiring after a multitude of Prague ladies, whom he, indeed, knew by name, but of whom he could give no farther information. In addition to this, as Tausdorf could hear, she was playing with the silver lids of the wine-flagons, as the hands are accustomed to do when the mind is absent. This was all but an annoyance to the knight, and if he had not found some pleasure in listening to the melodious voice of the questioner, he would have experienced a real tediousness even in the familiar darkness and in the neighbourhood of such a captivating creature.
At length Rasselwitz appeared with the gardener, who hung a large mirror-lamp of Venetian glass upon a branch of the oleander, and again retired. The glasses were filled afresh, while Bona wound about the good Tausdorf with the finest arts of conversation, and contrived to flatter him so sweetly, and at the same time to inspire him with such respect, that he was unable to break from the magic circle, although his correctness of feeling warned him betimes to fly from the danger before he was lost in it.
During this delightful talk, the wine, like a balmy oil, glided down the knights' throats, sweet and powerful; but its effects were manifested in the two with a very striking difference. While Rasselwitz grew continually sulkier and charier of his words, and at last became downright sleepy, Tausdorf's spirits were more and more awakened and joyful. A flippant coquetry, at other times hateful to him and foreign to his disposition, now prevailed in his manners to the fair stranger, who knew how to turn the well-polished diamond of her spirit so nimbly to and fro, that from its hundred points the flashes struck blindingly upon Tausdorf's eyes, and flung into shadow the image of the lovely, but simple and grave Althea. To complete the impression which she had visibly made upon him, the Circe, at a fitting turn of the conversation, took up a harp which lay beside her, and sang, accompanying herself a lullaby to her heart, than which nothing could be sweeter or more alluring. While now Tausdorf kindled more and more at her burning looks, the soft tones of her song, instead of the heart which should have been lulled, soothed the good Rasselwitz into a sound slumber. The knight considered the sleeper with approving eyes, and then cast them, full of voluptuous desire, on the fair stranger.
"Cease, beautiful siren!" he exclaimed at last, seizing her white hand, and holding it firmly upon the strings; "your magic song disturbs me in my gazing on you. A woman, created for love, as you are, cannot lull her heart to sleep without committing a deadly sin against my sex."
With a heavenly smile, in which, however, lurked a strange glance, Bona looked at him, and her hand returned a gentle pressure. Then casting a look of inquiry at the sleeping Rasselwitz, she on a sudden sighed out softly and anxiously--"Oh, heavens!"
"What is the matter, noble lady?" cried Tausdorf, starting up, and caught her in his arms as she fell.
"A sickly oppression which will soon pass over," stammered Bona, while her bosom heaved mightily against his breast. "Help me up to my chamber, dear Tausdorf."
Alarmed, anxious, thrilled through by strange forebodings, he obeyed her mandate; and half gliding, half carried, the lady reached her room with the knight. A dull lamp burnt on a table by the bed, around which flowed curtains of green silk, flinging a secret mysterious shadow. He let her down softly on the couch, and would have withdrawn, to call the maid to her assistance, but she raised herself up again, and winding her fair arms about his neck, murmured softly--"Dear man!"--and her kisses quivered on his lips like a kindling flash of lightning.