They were now passing by the foot of the fortress of Reichenburg, and the little girl looked anxiously up at the blank and towering walls.
"God be thanked!" she sighed, when they were past, "Reichenburg is behind us! now we have nothing more to fear."
"How long will it be before we reach Saint Gertrude's?" asked Donatus.
"Before sun-down we shall be there. What shall we do then?"
"There I shall beseech the Duchess to grant me an escort and an efficient force to protect my brethren at Marienberg, and I shall hasten back with them. I shall give you into the noble Lady's charge that she may obtain your reception among the brides-of-heaven who dwell in the cloister of Saint Gertrude, for that is the path-way of the blessed in which I promised to lead you, and there flows the well of living water of which you must drink."
"Jesu Maria!" shrieked the child. "You will shut me up in a cloister!"
"What else could I do with you that would be pleasing to the Lord?"
"Oh!--no, never, never!--" the child groaned under her breath.
"Beata--is this your obedience?"
"I will follow you, as faithful as a dog, for that is my destiny--but free--of my own free will. I will not be imprisoned, I will not be shut up, if you mean to rob me of my freedom, I will fly from you--and no one will ever be able to find me again."
"Woe to you, Beata! will you spurn the salvation that I offer you? Unhappy child. To-morrow I must go home to my convent and then you will see me no more. What then will be your lot? You will wander about homeless as before, and hunger and freeze, while there you would find food and nurture for soul and body."
"Do you think I am afraid of hunger and cold? I--the homeless, the vagabond? Offer a wild dove the handsomest cage under a roof, the Host for food and holy water to drink--it will sooner creep into a hollow tree in the hardest winter, and starve rather than be captive. And the Lord will have pity on the wild bird and will forgive it, for it is He himself that has made it so that it cannot live except in freedom."
Donatus stood still in astonishment and drew his hand out of hers.
"Child! what spirit is this that speaks in you? What power possesses you? You fear not that which man fears--that which tempts others does not tempt you; nothing earthly has any influence over you and you are sacred in your innocence. The beasts of the forest spare you, and sin cannot touch you. Yes, your simplicity has vanquished me, and I bow before your childish wisdom. I will lead you on, wild dove, according to your destiny. Perhaps, indeed, God has called you to bear the olive leaf to some lonely and erring soul that it may be reconciled to humanity." He took her hand again and walked on. "Now lead the blind traveller to his goal and then spread your wings and fly away--my soul will know where to find you, flee where you will. And when storms rave round our towers and a feeble wing beats against my window, when the snow covers the land and the starving birds crave their crumbs of us--then I will think of my wild dove out in the wood--God preserve her!"
He was suddenly silent; a strange and unfamiliar pain overcame him, and the words died on his lips. The child looked up at the stars with moistened eyes and an expression of immutable faith on her innocent brow. Those stars above could never purpose that they should part--it could not be--nay, it would never happen.
They neither of them spoke again till the towers of Saint Gertrude's were visible through the darkness. The little girl's heart beat faster for all her confidence, and she involuntarily slackened her pace as they neared the spot. But at last they had reached it, they stood at the gate--the moment of parting was come.
"The Duchess is gone," was the terrible news which the porter announced to Donatus. "There is no one here now of all the court but Count Reichenberg, whom the Duchess came here to seek. Will you speak with him?"
"God have mercy! Let me go--quickly--away at once!" cried Donatus, "he must not see me, not for worlds. Tell me which way the Duchess went, and can I overtake her?"
"She set out for Saint Mary's; if you do not linger you might yet meet with her. But will you not first take a morsel to eat? The convent lets no one pass the threshold without some hospitable entertainment, and least of all a holy brother."
"No--no--nothing; if the Count of Reichenberg sees me it will be the ruin of my cloister. Let me go without any delay, and do not betray me if you have any reverence for the sacred will of the Abbot of Marienberg. Farewell, and the Lord protect your holy house."
"And good luck to you on your way," the gatekeeper called after him. The door closed, and the two wanderers again stood alone on the road.
"Beata," said Donatus gravely, "it is God's will; he has delivered me into your hand as helpless as a child; will you guide me farther still?"
"God be thanked, God be thanked!" cried the girl with a fluttering heart, and her cheeks crimson with delight. "You will stay with me and I with you, for ever--for ever."
"Child, your thoughts are as busy and erratic as wild bees. The most impossible things seem sure to you, and what we count by hours to you seems eternal. You are but a child, but the Lord has said, 'Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven.' And so I think that your simplicity must be pleasing in his sight. But let us walk faster. I tremble at the thought of Reichenberg."
"I am walking as fast as I can, but if I go too fast you will fall, and then we shall be lost indeed."
"I shall not fall while you guide me. Oh! make haste, you know not what the stake is."
"But here there is no need, it is woody here, and my mother taught me how to hide from the sight of men. And I learned it so well that she often said, it was as if I had the art of making myself invisible, I could creep away so quickly, and keep so very still."
"Why was your mother always afraid of losing you?"
"Because they had taken you away from her, and she was in terror lest they should take me too. She often said how foolish she had been not to fly away with you into the woods, as she did with me. It would have been a very different thing no doubt, for they would have hunted for you, but no one ever wanted me.
"Did your mother often speak of me?"
"Oh, very often, constantly; not a day passed that she did not tell me something about you; but her recollections were always of a little boy, so I could only fancy you one, just as we always picture the Lord Jesus Christ as a baby in a manger. And oh! I loved you so dearly. At first, to be sure, when I was very little I was often jealous of you when my mother cried for you, but as I grew older she taught me to love you as she herself loved you, and taught me to pray for you."
"Oh wondrous Providence! There lived on earth, though far from me and unknown, a soul that had thoughts of love for me while I, alone and a stranger to the world, prayed within convent-walls. Was it you who were present to me in the spirit when I flung myself with fevered longing down in the grass, or on a grave, and believed that some response must come to my soul's cry, either from above, or from the abyss below! Was it you?"
"Indeed it must have been, for I often shouted your name to the distance, and thought you would hear it and come. We waited for you, day after day, but at last my mother could wait no longer and she took me to Burgeis, to be nearer to you. Yes, and when I saw a pretty little boy, with dark curls and brown eyes, I asked my mother if you had not looked like that, and if she said 'yes,' I would take him up and nurse him and kiss him and call him Donatus. And when I saw you in the procession, I did not know you, because you were no longer a boy, but tall and dignified. I took you for an angel; but mother knew you again. Still, now I have you with me and you are so poor and helpless I can quite make you out to be the same with the little boy I used to picture. Oh! I wish you were still so little."
"And why?"
"Because then I could carry you in my arms and shelter you in my bosom from wind and weather and every danger."
"Oh merciful Providence--what wonders dost Thou create. Yes, you are a wonder, you pure and holy child-spirit. It is such as you that God in his mercy sends to lonely pilgrims on the way to Heaven to fare forth with them and strew the path of death with flowers. All my wild longing was but a vague seeking for you--pure and holy child--for you too are not of this world; you, like me, are not of the earth, earthly; you, like me, have no hope but in the other world."
The girl leaned her face on his arm and wept softly, but she was weeping for happiness; for had he not himself said that God had created them for each other, and whether for life or for death, it was all the same to her. They were two stricken souls flung together into a dark sea; for an instant they might cling to each other, and then, clasped in that embrace, must sink in the hopeless depths--but that one moment was worth a whole lifetime.
Thus they went on to the little village of Saint Mary--the namesake of Marienberg. It was only three quarters of an hour from Münster, but he had to gather up all his strength to drag himself along; Beata felt with increasing anxiety how he gradually leaned more and more heavily on her shoulder, and how his power was failing. If only they could reach their destination, thought she with an anxious sigh, then he could rest. But no such good fortune was in store for them.
They had reached St. Mary's, here was the same terrible news. "The Duchess is gone."
"Whither?"
"On a pilgrimage to Trafoy, to the three Holy Wells."
"All-merciful God!"
Trafoy was eight miles away--a day's journey; and his feet would hardly carry him. They must return all the way to Glurns, almost three miles, for there was no path which a blind man could climb across the mountains that divide the three valleys. Past the convent at Münster and the towers of Reichenberg, where they might meet the dreaded Count, once more under the burning sun, over the shadeless fields of Galfa, which they had traversed last night in the cool moonlight, and all this with strength impaired by fever and pain.
"Almighty God, Thy hand is heavy upon me!" sighed Donatus. But he did not pause to consider, he did not hesitate.
"Forwards," he exclaimed seizing the child's hand, "God will help us; Beata, we must go on!"
A short rest, for Beata's sake and not for his own, at the farm in the village he did however allow; once more she dressed his wounds. Then they set out on the whole weary way back to Glurns, and from thence to the wild valley of Trafoy and the three Holy Wells.
"Oh, my brethren, how anxiously you will be waiting," lamented Donatus. "Woe is me, for a useless worm that can only crawl when wings are needed. Woe is me--I have done you an injury by injuring myself, and you were very right to punish me; my eyes belonged to you, I had no right to rob you of them."
"Do not be disheartened, dear master. When we reach Trafoy you can moisten your eyes at the Holy Wells; perhaps that may make you see again."
Donatus shook his head with a bitter smile.
"Everything else on earth may heal and grow again--a withered stick may blossom again as a sign of grace; the body of the Lord may grow for us in the dryest bread, but eyes cannot grow again--never, never."
He was forced to stand still, a dull groan broke from his lips. He felt something light and soft laid upon his breast; it was the child's hand, she dared not speak, but she longed to comfort him, and a stream of sweet peace seemed to flow from that little hand; the tumult of his despairing heart subsided under that innocent touch. He stood for some time struggling for breath and holding the consoling hand tightly to his breast.
"You heal every pain," he said. "You are one of those of whom the Lord said, 'Behold, in thy hands I have signed thee'--!"
"They belong to you, so you may make use of them; my hands, my eyes--all that I have is yours," said the child, and a solemn thrill ran through the blind man.
The sun shone with pitiless heat down in the valley, the naked cliffs of gneiss and micaceous schist that shut it in reflected the burning rays with double fervour, and out of the sea of glowing vapour uprose the frowning towers of Reichenberg on their rocky height. The girl shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up--a line of armed men at that moment were riding up the mountain-side, at their head a leader on a black horse--the child thought she recognised the Count; she clung to Donatus in terror.
"There they are," she whispered, "they can see us as well as we can see them--your black robe betrays you."
"What can we do?" said Donatus.
"All around is bare--but there is a shepherd's cart and close by it the man himself minding his flock. I will ask him to hide you in it till night-fall--we cannot go on by daylight. I will mind his sheep for him till evening, in return."
"Great God! must another day be wasted without our being any nearer to the goal?" said Donatus.
"There is no other way. If Count Reichenberg finds us you will never reach it at all, for he is of a bad sort and is plotting evil against you."
"What, do you know him?"
"Of course I do, he was with my mother just lately and they talked of all sorts of things that I did not understand; they stormed and threatened at the convent up there, and I could plainly see it was no good that they were promising."
"And your mother was in league with him? Oh Berntrudis!"
"She was furious with the fathers of Marienberg on your account."
"Oh! woe is me that I must say it--we deserve it, for they made her a bad return for all her love and fidelity. But I bring misfortune and fatality on all that come near me."
"Not on me--you have not brought them on me," said the child, and Donatus felt as if he could see the smile of rapture with which she spoke the words.
They had reached the shepherd's hut, Beata stood still in front of it. "Now hide yourself in here while I speak to the shepherd."
"Beata--devise some plan for God's sake--I dare not wait till evening, for if we miss the Duchess all hope is lost."
"I know of no plan--unless you will change dresses with the shepherd. He must give you his smock and you must give him your clothes instead."
"What! lay aside the dress of my order?" cried Donatus horrified. "I can never do that--the rules forbid it."
"Then you must stop here till night-fall--one or the other is the only possible course."
Donatus wrung his hands, "What can I do? disobedience and infraction of the rule are my fate wherever I turn. And yet if I must infringe one law it had better be the lesser. More depends on my saving the brethren than on the outward observance. Call the man here for God's sake; I will change clothes with him that I may go on unrecognised."
"But--one thing more," said Beata reflecting. "If afterwards the Count were to see the man in your monk's cowl--that might betray you. I would rather burn it and give the shepherd something more valuable for his smock frock."
"Have you any valuables then?" asked Donatus in surprise.
"Yes--here, feel; I have a ring that Count Reichenberg gave me. At first I flung it away, but my mother put it on me again, and said, 'who knows of what use it may be yet!'"
"The Count gave you a ring?"
"Aye--and a gold piece. That I have kept--we can buy bread with that when we have none left. He gave them both to me that night. The ring I was to show to the warder of the castle that he might admit me. He wanted to adopt me as his child."
"And you did not go?"
The child smiled.
"Why, how should I? I went with you."
"But by-and-bye--consider--the ring will be the key to a new life of pleasure and splendour."
"And even if it were the key to the cavern of the blessed--what do I want with it--I have you."
Donatus stood overpowered by this simple fidelity; at this moment the shepherd came forward, curious to see the strangers.
"Blessed be the name of the Lord!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "How comes a cloister-brother here?"
"Here, you man," said Beata quickly, "have you another smock frock?"
"Aye--my Sunday clothes and my cape; what does the girl want with them?"
"Give them here, coat, cape, and hat, this blind Brother has enemies--they are plotting against his life and that of his brethren--and if he cannot disguise himself in your clothes danger threatens him."
The man shook his head. "I want my clothes myself," he said, "particularly the cape and hat; I cannot do without them."
"Consider--you have a house to shelter you from wind and weather, and he has nothing if you refuse to give him the cape and hat. Look here, I will give you this ring for them, it is of pure gold--you may believe me, only don't consider any longer. I will mind your sheep--help him to put them on, and then we will burn the monk's dress."
"The girl is no fool!" said the shepherd, laughing and turning the ring about as it sparkled in the sun, "for such a jewel as this you might strip me of my skin as well as my shirt." He glanced at the girl as she ran lightly off to keep the sheep together. "A smart girl she is! and it all slipped off her tongue as easily as a Pater noster."
And he fetched the things out of the hut, and began to help the blind man to put them on. In a few minutes Donatus appeared from behind the hut, another man. His breast and arms were bare, for the scanty garment scarcely met round his shoulders and loins, and he had modestly wrapped the ragged cape round his slim white knees.
"How handsome you are!" said the girl, gazing up in innocent astonishment at the manly young form that had hitherto been so completely concealed by the monk's black frock and cowl. Donatus blushed involuntarily, the simple words disconcerted him; to this moment he had never thought whether he were handsome or hideous, and he was full of regret at having to exhibit himself in such a guise before the eyes of men. Already he was considering whether it might not be possible to face all the danger of proceeding in his monk's dress. He was overwhelmed with shame, shame at his undignified disguise--when he suddenly perceived the unpleasant odour of burning wool; the girl with quick decision had flung the monkish garb on to the fire by which the shepherd was cooking his midday meal; it gave Donatus a shock of horror, it was as if he himself were being burnt.
"The sacred garb that you wear smells of the scorching of your too-easily inflamed desires," Correntian had said to him in that last night. Now the flames had indeed taken possession of it and consumed it. He stood by in brooding silence, and with deep sighs he made the sign of the cross over the fire and himself. Then he pressed his breviary and the cross of his rosary to his lips and hid them carefully in the scanty robe that covered his breast.
"Beata, where are you?" at last he asked, putting out his hand.
"Here," said the child, going quickly up to him.
"Let us go."
"Here is the hat," said the little girl with prudent forethought, and she put the hat of coarse straw plait on his head. "Now we can go on. Farewell shepherd, and as you hope for salvation do not betray us, promise me that, by the Holy Virgin."
The shepherd laid his right hand in hers which she held out to him. "The Holy Virgin need not trouble herself when you forbid it. I think no one could refuse you anything. Go in peace, I would rather you should stay with me and help me to mind my sheep, but it is better so, for if I had you to look at I should forget the sheep! It is well that the pious brother there is blind, for if he had eyes to see you it would go hard with him."
"Farewell," said the child, interrupting him and hurrying Donatus away.
"You are trembling, Beata. Do not let his idle prating annoy you. The world is full of these baser souls, but they cannot come near us; they vanish before us like the dust clouds that whirl up beneath our feet."
"Ah! but you see, my lord, this is what happens to me wherever I go, first they torment me with friendly advances, and then when I fly from them they curse me and call me a witch."
"Poor little witch!" and an expression played upon his lips, a faintly sweet and merry smile.
"Oh! you are smiling, you are smiling," cried the child joyfully. "I can see you smile for the first time!" and again she would have said, "How handsome you are!" But for the first time in her life she coloured consciously, and the words died on her lips.
Donatus laid his hand on the child's head. "Let me feel how tall you are?" said he, "are you quite grown up?"
"I should think so," said the child, leaning her head on his breast. "See I reach up to there." Donatus felt the height with his hand.
"Only so far! Oh! then you will certainly grow taller yet. How many summers old are you then?"
"That I do not know."
"What, child, do you not even know how old you are?"
"Wait, not by summers, but I can count by trees."
"By trees?"
"Yes, wait a little. Every year since I could run alone my mother made me cut a cross in a young tree when the birds were building their nests. Now here in Münsterthal there was one tree," she reckoned on her fingers, "on the road to Marienberg there was one; two at Nauders, and five in Finstermünz, and in the Ober-Innthal three, that makes twelve, then there are three in Lechthal, and one on the way down, in Vintschgau; that makes sixteen little trees. So that since I came into the world there must have been seventeen springs, for when I cut the first cross I was so tiny that my mother had to guide my hand with the knife; so she told me, for I cannot remember it."
"Then you are already seventeen summers old? I thought you were still quite a child," said Donatus thoughtfully.
"And what colour are your eyes?" he went on presently. "Brown or blue?"
"Brown I fancy, but I cannot be certain, for I have no mirror but the water, but mother used to say they shone at night like owl's eyes."
"And your hair?"
"Reddish-brown. The children used to call me Hairy-owl when they saw me combing it, because I could cover myself all over with it like a cloak; here, feel my plaits, they are as long as I am tall. I have to fasten them up." And she laughingly drew the thick, half unplaced locks through his hand while he wondered at their length and weight.
"And your eyebrows grow together, the true sign of a witch?"
"Alas, yes."
"And a little rosy baby mouth?"
"Yes, may-be--I do not know."
"Beata! oh, would I could see you!" he said for the first time since they had been together. It thrilled her with delight as he said it, she herself knew not wherefore.
It was now noon-day; Beata and Donatus took a short rest to eat their bread. The forest waved high above their heads, and close to them the noisy Wildbach tumbled down the cliff, and the girl fetched some of the cool water for their frugal meal.
"I cannot hear you, Beata, are you there?" asked the blind man.
"Certainly, my good master, quite close to you!"
"Why are you so quiet?" he asked.
"I have been thinking of a little song that says in rhyme just what you asked me to-day. Would you like to hear it?"
"Of course; are you skilled in such things?"
"A little," and in a low voice she sang as follows.
"The blind man to the maiden said:'O thou of hearts the truest,Thy countenance is hid from me;Let not my questions anger thee!Speak, though in words the fewest!"'Tell me what kind of eyes are thine?Dark eyes, or light ones rather?''My eyes are a decided brownSo much, at least--by looking down--From the brook's glass I gather.'"'And is it red--thy little mouth?That too the blind must care for!''Ah, I would tell that soon to thee,Only--none yet has told it me.I cannot answer, therefore!'"'But dost thou ask what heart I haveThere hesitate I never!In thine own breast 'tis borne, and so'Tis thine in weal and thine in woe,For life, for death,--thine ever!'"[4]
"The blind man to the maiden said:
'O thou of hearts the truest,
Thy countenance is hid from me;
Let not my questions anger thee!
Speak, though in words the fewest!
"'Tell me what kind of eyes are thine?
Dark eyes, or light ones rather?'
'My eyes are a decided brown
So much, at least--by looking down--
From the brook's glass I gather.'
"'And is it red--thy little mouth?
That too the blind must care for!'
'Ah, I would tell that soon to thee,
Only--none yet has told it me.
I cannot answer, therefore!'
"'But dost thou ask what heart I have
There hesitate I never!
In thine own breast 'tis borne, and so
'Tis thine in weal and thine in woe,
For life, for death,--thine ever!'"[4]
"Beata, who taught you that song?" cried Donatus, starting up from the soft moss. The tender words had gone to his head and heart like sweet wine. He passed his hand across his brow as if to wipe away the spell which had been lightly woven over him.
"Who taught you that song?" he asked again.
"No one, who should? No one could have heard what we were talking of to-day."
"But who taught you to say what you felt in that sweet fashion?"
"My father," said the child, and a deep melancholy rang through the words.
"You have never told me about him, Beata, how is that?
"Because I never can help crying when I speak of him, and that will not make you happy."
"Beata," said Donatus gravely, "you share my sorrows, and shall I not share yours? Tell me who was the wonderful man that taught a wild wood-bird to sing with such sweet art?"
"He was a troubadour; it was his profession to turn thoughts into artistic verse, and so he taught me. Poor father! The song of his lips was most sweet, and whoever heard him and his beautiful lute-playing, was made thankful and merry of heart. And yet he had to wander from place to place like me, and hide his handsome face under hideous disguises. For he was an exile and an outcast, and every man's hand was against him."
"And what crime had he committed?" asked Donatus.
"I never knew--my mother said I was guilty of it all. It was because I had come into the world that things went so hardly with him--oh!--and how could I help it!" she hid her head in her hands and wept bitterly.
Donatus drew her hands away and took them consolingly in his own. "My child, my dear child!"
"That is just what my father always used to say when he came to see us and took me in his arms. You know he never could stay with us; he was obliged to go into the towns and sing to people for his daily bread. And when he did come it was by stealth, and only when we were at Finstermünz, or the valleys of the Inn or the Lech, where no one from these parts was likely to see him. He used to bring us as much food and money as he could spare, and would stay a few weeks with us in the forest. There he taught me a number of little proverbs and sayings and pretty tunes, and the arts of rhyming as far as I could learn them, but I was still quite young when he died--I could not count more than twelve trees that I had marked."
"How did he die?" asked her companion.
The child's hand trembled as she answered.
"They fell upon him like a wild deer--some people out hunting who recognised him--and he dragged himself to us almost bleeding to death. We nursed him as best we could, but it was too late to be of any use. Oh! and he was so patient and gentle even when he was dying; he laid his hand upon my head and blessed me, and said, 'May God never visit the guilt of your parents on your head--expiate in faithfulness their sin against faithfulness.'"
Donatus took her hand solemnly in his. "Yes, you will be faithful and expiate the guilt of your parents whatever their sin was--a strange divination tells me this, and my soul is possessed with a deep sadness for your sake. What dark secret hangs over your birth, poor child--Who may you be? Did you never ask your mother Berntrudis?"
"No--why should I? What good could it do me? I am a poor, useless creature, I come and pass away like a wild heath-flower, no one asking whence came you or why do you bloom?"
"Poor heath-flower--lonely and sweet, how sacred you are to me. The perfume refreshes the weary pilgrim, and the dreaming spirit, like the dainty bee, gathers golden honey from the blossom of your lips. You grow firmly rooted in the dry rock, and humbly bend your head to the wind as it sweeps over the desert spot--and yet you stand firm and live on through sunshine and rain, through the fury of wind and weather! Oh! heath-flower--I will not ask whence you came--I only rest my weary head in your shade and bless you!" And he threw himself on his knees before her, and bent his brow on her hands. Thus he rested for some time in silence; not a breath, not a sound roused him from his dreams.
In such a moment of exquisite rapture the girl almost held her breath--feeling herself like a holy vessel into whom the Lord was pouring out his mercies.
But suddenly he started up. "Great God!" exclaimed he, "time is flying and I am delaying and dreaming. Come, Beata, 'of hearts the truest,' lead me onward."
And on they went again, on and on, these two who might not rest; but was it the intoxicating perfume of the heath-flower, or his rising fever that made his steps uncertain? He knew not which; but he felt that his strength was failing.
"Hold Thou me up, O Lord!--for this day only hold Thou me up, till I have brought succour to my brethren!" so he prayed fervently, as he put his arm round the girl's shoulders for a firmer support.
"Am I too heavy for you?"
"Oh no--never!" cried the child, though she could hardly hold herself up under the beloved burden, for her long walk through the night had by degrees crippled even her young limbs and made them feel like lead. But she would rather have died than he should know it.
"Poor little one, how much rather would I carry you!" he said, and he involuntarily dropped his head on to hers which reached just to his shoulder. He felt her silky hair like a soft pillow under his cheek, and the breath of her lips came up to him like incense. Then he whispered softly--and the words sounded like a sad caress--
"Is it your heart that I have to carry in my breast that is so heavy that my feet totter under the weight of it?"
"If love and truth can be weighed in an earthly scale, then, indeed, dear master, you could hardly carry it."
"I could almost believe that you are a witch, and that your little heart was an incubus that weighed on mine!"
"What you too! you say so?" cried Beata pitifully. "Then it must be true."
Suddenly they heard a distant rush through the wood on each side of them, like the tramp of hoofs, and the startled creatures of the wood scampered through the brushwood, or whirled across their path in hasty flight.
"God help us! it is the mounted soldiers!" exclaimed Beata. "But collect yourself--your dress disguises you perfectly. Do not betray yourself." And she hastily snatched the bandage from his eyes and hid it in her bosom; then she pulled the hat low over his brow so that his eyes might not be seen under its broad brim.
"Do not say that you are blind," she whispered.
By this time the riders broke through the bushes; they were the followers of Count Reichenberg and the lord of Ramüss. They were heated and angry.
"Have you met a Benedictine?" said one of them, in a tone of authority.
"A Benedictine! what was he like?" asked Beata.
"We had taken him prisoner and he has vanished--his name is Porphyrius, he was tall and stout, and had blue eyes," said the man.
"That does not matter," interrupted his companion. "We will take every Benedictine we find, whether his eyes are blue or green. Our master Reichenberg gives a ducat for every cowl."
Beata turned pale, but she preserved her presence of mind.
"This morning I saw one at Saint Mary's in Münsterthal; he was resting there, and meant to go on again at noon," she said with prudent forethought.
"Where to?"
"To the Engadine, I believe. If you make haste, you may easily overtake him."
"Good, forward then to Saint Mary's," cried the first speaker.
"You had better come with us," cried his companion to the two wayfarers. "So stout a lad can surely fight, and so pretty a wench can surely kiss. We will take you on horseback, and when we have caught the shaveling we will make merry together out of the ducat. Come, little one, I will lift you into the saddle."
"Get away with you, we are not for the like of you; my brother is ill, I must get him home."
"Your brother is it? Then all the more you belong to me!" said the rider with a laugh.
"Do not come near me, I am a witch!" screamed Beata.
The man spurred his horse forward, and tried to snatch at her from his saddle. But she had quickly drawn a knife from the folds of her dress, and she plunged it into the horse's flank, so that he started aside with a leap.
"Good God, she really is a witch!" cried the others. "Let us be off or she will bewitch our horses."
And thereupon the whole troop rode off; the danger was past.
"All praise to your cunning, Beata, you are as soft as a dove, and as wise as a serpent."
Beata supported herself, breathless, against his shoulder. "Oh, my lord--oh, my angel! If they had carried you off from me, and perhaps killed you--" she burst into convulsive sobs, and threw her arms round him as if even now he might be torn from her.
Donatus stood trembling in her embrace; then he felt that her knees failed her, and that she sank speechless before him.
"Beata, my child!" he said, kneeling down beside her. "What is the matter, what has bereft you of your strength for the first time since we have been together?"
"It is only the fright--it will soon pass off--in a moment--" but her voice died away, and she lost consciousness.
He felt for her drooping head, and laid it on his bosom; he rubbed her forehead and temples; a stream of unutterable feeling ran through him, a sweet compassion, a rapture of anxiety.
"Beata!" he cried, "poor stricken deer, wake up, listen to the voice of your friend. I cannot go to the stream to fetch you water as you did for me. I am blind and unable to return you even the smallest service for all you have done for me. Listen to my voice, sweet soul! wake up."
And she opened her eyes, and found her head resting on the breast of the man who to her was so sacred and dear, and she would fain have closed her eyes again, and have slept on into eternity; but obedient to his call, she collected her strength and answered, "My good master!"
"How are you?" he asked softly.
"I am quite well, I can go on now," she said, though her voice was weak.
He felt, however, that she was still exhausted, and required rest.
"No, my child," said he, "I have already made the most unreasonable demands on your strength. I should have a heart of stone if I could drive my poor lamb any farther. The rest that I would not give myself, I must grant to you," and he took off his cape, and laid it under her head for a pillow.
"There, rest for an hour, and repair the mischief that my negligence has occasioned."
"But you, my lord, what will you do if I go to sleep? For since I have lain down sleep weighs upon my eyelids like lead."
"I will watch over you, and though indeed my eyes are closed, my ear is sharp and will warn me if danger threatens."
"Give me your hand," she said, and as he gave it her she laid her head upon it, and fell asleep. The blind man sat by the sleeping child without moving.
"Now, Angels of Heaven, spread your wings over us," he prayed.
She slept soundly and calmly; exhausted nature drew refreshment from the dark fount of sleep.
He waited patiently for her awaking; he knew not how long a time had passed, he could not see the sun's place in the sky and his mind was so full of wandering thoughts, so steeped in the charm that the breath of the sleeping child cast round him, that he lost all estimate of time. Suddenly he felt a burning ray of sunshine fall on his cheek, as sharp as a bee's sting; a single ray that had pierced between the boughs from the westward. By this he knew that the sun was sinking; the sultriness of noon too had much diminished, and there was more life stirring in the brush-wood and in the air than during the midday heat. He perceived at once, by many vague and yet unmistakeable signs, that evening was drawing on, and he lightly touched the girl's eyelids to feel if they still were closed. "Beata," he whispered, leaning over her, but the call had only a magical attraction; she turned towards him in her sleep, as a flower turns to the light. He felt her lips close to his and a thought flashed through his brain, a thought at once intoxicating and terrible. And yet, no, not a thought, only an involuntary impulse of his lips, as when a draught of water is withheld from a thirsty man. He shrunk in horror of himself; was he still capable of such emotion--he, the blind man, the ascetic, cut off from life and its joys? He drew back far from the tempting lips so that their breath could reach him no more. Why did his heart throb so violently? Was it from anxiety at the long time the child was sleeping? He was sparing the girl, and neglecting to rescue his brethren. Should he awake her? No, she must awake soon of her own accord, and then they will make up for lost time all the quicker. By evening they will reach Trafoy, then he can speak with the Duchess at once and by night ride home again with the armed escort. But Beata! oh God what will become of her? Can he ever find it in his heart to turn her out, a wanderer on the earth?
"Sleep, poor child, that heavy hour will come soon enough," cried his tortured soul.
Far and wide all was as still as death. A sharp ear could hear the squirrels' little claws scratching against the branches, and the birds twittering in the tree-tops, while on the ground there was not a sound but the light foot of some wild animal or the rustle of a beetle in the grass. Donatus felt the dancing sunbeams that fell here and there between the trunks, he felt the cool breeze that came down from the nearer glaciers. Perhaps they were looking down through some cleared opening in the thicket, those royal, shining forms, and bathing the sleeping child in their broad reflected splendour! "How beautiful it must all be," was his involuntary thought, and he hid his aching brow in his hand. He felt again and again as if, like another Samson, he must break through the dark vault that imprisoned him, for every power and muscle and nerve in his body was in a state of tension; and in the next instant he sank back overwhelmed by the mere thought of the ineffectual effort. For those walls, intangible and incorporate, would yield to no earthly force; no earthly ray might pierce them even if the blind man stood in the very eye of the sun--that was over for ever. Now at this hour, when he was alone for the first time since meeting Beata, now he is conscious that it is the child's presence that has this day kept him upright. For so soon as he is left to himself, despair lifts its dragon head and threatens to darken his soul with madness.
And he had to summon all his self-command to keep himself from crying out aloud, "Beata, wake and save me from myself!" At this moment the girl awoke and opened her eyes, as if she had heard the dumb cry for help that came from his struggling soul. Donatus was sitting motionless, his hands convulsively clasped and his head leaning against the trunk of a tree. She thought that he slept, overcome by fatigue, and she propped her head on her hand and silently contemplated the pale suffering face with the sunken closed eyelids, a still and sublime martyr's face, while her heart overflowed in tears that coursed each other down her cheeks. She folded her hands in worship of him. What were earth and heaven to her, what was God even? All were contained in this one man. He was love, he was patience, he was goodness. In earth and Heaven there was none but he; and she rose to her knees softly, not to wake him as she thought, and prayed to him, the martyr, the blind man who could see no light but from whom all the light of her life proceeded. She gazed at his sunken eyes and unutterable pity came over her; he was fast asleep, he could not know--gradually--irresistibly--it took possession of her. She did not know what she was doing, nor even that she was doing it--her lips breathed a kiss on those closed lids; a soft, deep, tender kiss. He started up and pressed his hands to his eyes. "What has happened, what was that? Beata, you kissed me--on my eyes. Holy Father, what have you done?"
"Forgive me!" cried Beata, sinking into his arms almost distracted. "Or kill me, kill me, my lord, my angel, my deliverer?"
"Oh wonder of wonders! I see again! it is fire, red fire that I am gazing into. Woe is me!--you have opened my eyes, and I see that which I ought not to see. I see you Beata, just as you are, your tawny shining eyes that gaze at me so imploringly, your rosy mouth that kissed me so sweetly. I see your waving hair, I see your whole sweet figure down to your little feet that have followed me so faithfully, I see it all, and I would fain sink in those fathomless eyes, and bury my face in that soft hair and drink death from those sweet lips. What is this feeling that shakes me to the very stronghold and foundation of my being? All-powerful God, this is love--it has come, it has come! I have suffered in vain." And he clasped the tree-trunk against which he was leaning as if to chain himself to it by his own arms, so that he might not snatch the girl to his breast and sink with her in the overwhelming torrent of fire.
The child stood by trembling like a young sapling in a whirlwind; Donatus pressed his face against the bark of the tree and a few blood-stained tears ran down his cheeks. St. Benedict slept on stinging nettles when temptation approached him, and he, what should he do? "Quench, oh quench the fire!" he groaned. "Let it rain, let the brooks overflow, oh God! to cool my fever. Water, Beata, for pity's sake; lead me to the spring or I shall perish." The terrified girl took his robe, as if she dared not touch him again, and led him to the torrent which fell with a sudden leap over the rocks, foaming till it was as white as the glacier snow from whence it came. It had worn a deep channel in the earth into which it fell, and the spray leaped up again in a fountain. The blind man flung himself into the icy glacier water, as if he were pursued by the fire-brands of hell, and the cataract came splashing on to him, throwing him down; the cold waves of the pure and purifying element rushed over him with a deafening roar; the burning pulses of his blood turned to ice under it, his limbs grew rigid, and it penetrated to his very heart like the icy touch of death.