The much-to-be-pitied victim of Caldero's cold atheism and contempt of mankind still sat in the same position, staring gloomily before him, without uttering a syllable, but now and then heaving a deep-drawn sigh. It was evident that he would soon be at rest, for every day he became weaker and weaker.
I scarcely ever left the bedside of the unfortunate young man, in the hope that he might, if only for a few minutes, regain his senses, when I could speak peace to his soul.
One evening, after this sad state of affairs had continued without interruption for a fortnight, I was sitting at a table reading, with my back turned to the count, when I heard a low whispering behind me; it was his voice. I listened--it was a fervent, humble prayer for peace in death, and pardon for all his sins. I let him finish his prayer undisturbed.
'Who is there?' asked the count, in a feeble tone.
I drew near to the bed.
'Is it you, Pastor Z.?' he said mildly. 'Still up? It is late. I am happy now, my friend, for it will soon be day; I have had a long night. I am dying, but I bear within me a strong voice crying, 'Love is faith,' and I pray, bowing myself in humility before the God of Love. I have wandered from the right path, I was misled, misfortune pursued me, and I became, through my thoughtlessness, Julia's murderer. The crushing intelligence contained in Caldero's letter shook my trust in everything, for it is a relief to a guilty soul not to believe in a Judge. But my presumptuous folly was punished, my understanding became obscured. A light has burst upon me now, and since I have prayed I feel at peace. I prayed--for many years I neglected to do so--yes, I prayed with clasped hands, as my mother used to teach me when I was an innocent child. Alas, I ought always to have prayed thus.'
He ceased speaking, and leaning his head against his pillow, he looked steadfastly at me with a mild, glorified expression of countenance. I had sunk upon my knees at the side of his bed, and poured forth thanks to my God for the ray of light and hope which he had permitted to penetrate the darkened mind of the poor sufferer.
'Lord!' I entreated, 'grant him light!'
'Light,' he repeated, in a low whisper, 'Lord! more light. God be praised! thereislight!'
He closed his eyes, heaved a long sigh, and in another world he received an explanation of that secret, the solution of which he had only grasped in his last hour.
He now reposes in the family vault by the side of his beloved Julia; the receptacle of the dead is full. The pieces of his shattered escutcheon lie scattered upon the floor around his coffin,[7]and the key of the vault will be needed no more!
Footnote 1: "Too Old"--"For gammel"--is from a Danish work entitled "Haablös"--"Hopeless"--by Carit Etlar. The volume, which contains three tales, was published in Copenhagen in 1857.
Footnote 2: Councillor of state. Etatsraad is a Danish title, and an etatsraad's wife is styled Etatsraadinde.
Footnote 3: From a collection of Tales, in one volume, entitled 'Haablos'--'Hopeless.'
Footnote 4: See 'Eventyr og Folkesagn.'--Espen til Ahner.
Footnote 5: Krigsraad--a Danish title.
Footnote 6: One mile Danish is equal to more than four English miles.
Footnote 7: At the death of the last representative of a noble family in Sweden, the escutcheon is usually broken over his coffin.