Two days after, Jochen Prebrow was standing before the door of his house, just after his second breakfast, looking out to sea through a long spy-glass, which with his left hand he rested against the tall flag-staff that stood before the house. Worthy Jochen might often be found in the same spot, engaged in the same occupation It was not that he sought or hoped to find anything unusual out at sea; but in leisure moments the spy-glass, which usually rested on two crooked bars close beside the door under the shelter of the projecting roof, afforded an excellent amusement, even if, as at this moment, there was nothing to be seen on the sea except the waves, here and there crested with foam, dancing merrily in the morning breeze.
But to-day the worthy Jochen did not even see the foam-crested waves; he saw absolutely nothing at all; yet when, at the end of five minutes, he put down and closed the spy-glass, his broad face wore an expression as anxious as if he had perceived a large ship, driven by a north-east storm on the Wiessow cliffs, and his neighbor Pilot Bonsak had said she could not be saved.
And the same anxious expression rested upon the plump face of his Stine, who had just appeared in the doorway, and with both hands, usually so busy, idly folded under her apron, began to gaze at the blue morning sky and shining white clouds scattered over it, without even noticing her Jochen, who was standing scarcely six paces away.
"No, no," sighed Stine.
"Yes, yes," said Jochen.
"Jochen, how you frightened me!"
"And it is frightful, when one thinks of it," said Jochen.
He had opened the spy-glass again, and was evidently about to resume his former occupation; but Stine took it out of his hands, put it in its place, and said in a somewhat irritated tone, "You do nothing but look through the old thing, and I so worried that I hardly know whether I'm on my head or my heels."
"Oh! but if you don't know, Stine"--
"How am I to know? Why are you my husband, if I, poor creature, am expected to know everything? And she has just asked me again whether the Swede is not yet here. Poor girl! To go all that long way in such a nutshell of a boat! And who knows whether the people over yonder will want her. They are only fourth or fifth cousins."
Stine had spoken with great emotion, but in a suppressed tone, and had drawn her Jochen out to the blackthorn hedge that divided the sandy little garden from the sandy village-street. Jochen had a vague perception that as a man and a husband, and moreover sole innkeeper of Wiessow, he must say something, so he replied: "You'll see, Stine, we sha'n't carry it through."
"Jochen, I wouldn't have believed you were so bad," exclaimed Stine, as, sobbing violently and pressing both red hands over her eyes, she turned away from her husband and went back to the house.
Jochen was left standing by the hedge, and raised his arms; but the spy-glass was resting quietly in its place, and, in consideration of his wickedness, he did not venture to take down the care-dispeller. So he let his arms fall again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Thank God, here was his pipe! It now had many idle hours, for Stine could not bear smoking, and if she should see him now when she was so angry, she probably would not make friends again.
Jochen let the pipe slide back into his pocket, and gazed at the sparkling sea like one who, without any optical instrument, still sees only too distinctly the spot where just now a majestic ship went down with all on board.
"Good-morning, Prebrow," said a voice close beside him.
Jochen slowly turned his blue eyes from the distant horizon towards the gentleman who, with the collar of his coat turned up over his ears, had just passed along by the hedge with hasty strides.
"Good-morning, Herr In--"
"St--" said the gentleman, stopping and putting his finger on his lips.
Jochen nodded.
"To-night!" continued the gentleman; "I tell you, because, after everything has gone on well, until now, somebody might at the last moment get some suspicion, and inquire of you. Of course you don't know me."
"Heaven forbid!" replied Jochen.
The gentleman nodded and was about to continue his walk, but paused again as if struck by the troubled expression of Jochen's face, and added: "You needn't take it to heart, Prebrow; it serves the Rahnk right; their conduct is a disgrace to Wiessow and the whole region, and after all there is no one who would not be glad to have you get rid of the rascals. And when I come back next time, Prebrow, I shall of course lodge with you; this time I must keep out of the way."
The gentleman nodded, walked lightly away, and after casting a rapid glance around him, entered the pilot's house.
"A damned miserable business," muttered Jochen, without exactly knowing which of the two he meant, the one going on in his own house, or the other of which the Herr steuer-inspector had just spoken. It was probably the former; the second certainly did not concern him at all, but it was a secret the more, and he already had far too much trouble with one.
"Good-morning, Jochen."
This time Jochen was actually frightened. There was his brother Clas in the very spot where the Herr inspector had just been standing.
"Why, good Heavens, Clas, what brings you here?" he exclaimed.
"Ah! you may well say that, Jochen," answered Clas.
"Is the smithy burned?"
"Why, Jochen, how can you ask such stupid questions?"
The bridge of understanding seemed broken. The feeling that the whole world was one dark secret, and he the unhappy man who had to guard it, overpowered Jochen still more.
"Won't you come in, Clas?" said he.
He could not help saying that; he could not leave his only brother, who moreover was the elder of the two, standing in the street.
Clas Prebrow instantly accepted his brother's invitation, notwithstanding the unbrotherly tone in which it was given, shook hands with Jochen, and said, glancing towards the house, "You're very well off here, Jochen."
Jochen nodded.
"And probably have a great many guests."
"What business is it of yours?" cried Jochen violently, as if he had been bitterly insulted.
"Why, I only asked the question," said Clas.
"There is no one here at all," cried Jochen, "no one at all;" and he stepped before the other as he was making his way towards the house.
"That happens just right," said Clas; "then I can turn back and tell old Herr Wenhorf and Herr Gotthold that they can get lodgings in your house."
Jochen was perfectly horrified. What should he do? He had promised to keep silence, but what could silence avail if Herr Gotthold came straight into the house, and the old gentleman too, for whom he had such a wholesome respect. If the latter fixed his clear old eyes upon him, he must certainly tell everything, and--"Stine, Stine," shouted Jochen, as if the only inn in Wiessow were in flames from top to bottom.
"Jochen, have you gone perfectly crazy? Don't you think at all of--"
Stine, who had come running out of the house at her husband's loud outcry, suddenly slopped short and stared at her brother-in-law with open mouth.
"You see," said Jochen with great satisfaction.
"Where is he?" asked Stine.
Clas Prebrow felt that his diplomatic reserve would not answer with the clever Stine, and at this stage of his mission he must drop the mask. So he rubbed his large, hard, blackened hands contentedly, and showed his white teeth, but suddenly grew grave again, and said, while his glance wandered over the row of windows in the upper story, "Wouldn't it be better for us to go in?"
They went in and entered the little sitting-room directly behind the large coffee-room, which Stine only left for a moment to get from the cupboard a bottle of rum and two glasses, that the brothers might drink to each other's health, and Clas's tongue should not get dry in case he had a great deal to tell.
Clas probably would have had a very long story, but remembering that the gentlemen were awaiting his return, he cut it short.
They had come upon the right clew the very first evening, but lost it again the following day because the lady left the carriage she had taken at Ralow, in Gulnitz, and went on on foot, to conceal her route. She succeeded so well in this, that they spent a whole day and night in searching, and only recovered the lost trail late yesterday evening in Trentow. To be sure, it would now scarcely have been doubtful what direction she had taken; but they had left the carriage at noon at Herr von Schoritz of Schoritz, who was a friend of Gotthold's, in order to proceed on their journey on foot to mislead Herr Brandow, in case he was behind them, and therefore they had been obliged to rest a few hours in Trentow, and to-day they were coming from Trentow, and he ran on before, less to inquire whether the lady was here than to beg his sister-in-law to prepare her, that she might not be too much frightened.
"Oh! goodness gracious," said Stine, "poor, poor child! we were obliged to promise solemnly that we would not betray her."
"Stine, we sha'n't be able to carry it through," said Jochen.
In her heart Stine had never expected to do so; nay, she had always prayed that Heaven would interpose and send Herr Gotthold to them before it was too late. To be sure, she could not acknowledge this openly, but neither did she wish to be actually unfaithful to the promise she had given Cecilia, and in her perplexity began to weep bitterly.
Jochen nodded assent, as if he wanted to show his Stine that she had now taken the right course. Clas emptied his glass and said, rising, "So we shall be here in fifteen minutes. You're so clever, Stine, you can easily settle matters, and you can come with me, Jochen."
Jochen started up and went out of the room so hastily that he left his glass half full. Stine intended to pour the liquor back into the bottle again, but in her absence of mind drank it herself. Tears fell from her eyes: "We poor women!" she murmured.
After Stine had left the room, Cecilia still remained sitting by her child's little bed. Gretchen had fallen asleep, and it now seemed to the mother that the innocent little face looked paler, and the white, delicate hands often twitched convulsively. Suppose she should be seriously ill? Suppose she should die, and all the horror and grief of these hours had been endured in vain?
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. There was no one--no one who could counsel and help her. And yet she was with friends, with her good old Stine, who had received her yesterday with a flood of joyful tears, who was nearly beside herself with grief and joy at the unexpected visit, and with worthy Jochen, whose honest face mingled pleasantly with the happy memories of her girlish days--how deserted she would feel in yonder foreign land! Would they not look upon her, treat her as an adventuress? And could she blame them for it? Could she tell her pitiful story to all the world--nay, even to one human being?
The harassing anxiety drove her from her seat to the window of the next room. A broad expanse of blue sea flashed between the gable-roofs of the neighbors' houses and the white downs; a sail gleamed on the distant horizon. It was a fresh, bright scene that was framed in by the low window, and she gazed at it with the eyes with which he had taught her to behold nature; then she remembered that the empty waste of waters, with the lonely ship pursuing its solitary way into the unknown distance, was to her and her child a cruel, pitiless reality. Her head drooped; she did not notice the slight noise outside the door, and only looked up when it opened, and Stine, an expression of mingled timidity and joy on her face, which was swollen and red with weeping, entered, and then looked back towards some one who was standing behind her. A sudden foreboding, which drove every drop of blood to her heart, thrilled Cecilia's frame. Who could the dark figure in the entry be except the one person for whom she had so eagerly longed, for whose coming she had waited and hoped as the devotee waits and hopes for a miracle? Now he was here, because he loved her--and yet, and yet it could not, must not be; and her half-extended arms fell, her trembling hands did not return the clasp of his.
"Where is Gretchen?"
They went to the child's bed, where good Stine had already preceded them. The little pale cheeks were now deeply flushed, the hands twitched more violently; Cecilia's anxious eyes said, what did not cross her trembling lips until they had again entered the next room, "If she dies, I have killed her."
"She will not die," replied Gotthold, "but you must not decide upon anything hastily; you must no longer struggle on alone, must not disdain my aid as you have done till now."
"That I may drag you, who are guiltless of this misery, down to ruin with me? I have already involved you too far, but more--never."
"What do you call more, Cecilia? I love you; in those words all is said, in those words our lives are woven into one circle. What could you suffer that I would not suffer with you? Nay, has not even your past life become mine and always belonged to me? Has not all this ever brooded over my soul as a vague, anxious foreboding, drawing a veil over my brightest hours? Yes, Cecilia, when I consider this, I cannot help saying: 'Thank God! thank God that the veil is rent, that life lies before me as it is, although obstacles and difficulties of all kinds threaten to bar our way. We will conquer them. If I ever despaired, I shall do so no longer, now that you are restored to me."
He had bent his lips to her ear as he sat behind her; his deep voice grew so low as to become almost inaudible, but she caught every syllable, and each word pierced her to the heart.
"Ah! Cecilia, Cecilia! you would not have killed yourself and your child only--you would have slain me too. Well, since a voice you must ever hold sacred, of whose veracity you must never, never have the smallest doubt, has cried, live! live for me, Cecilia, for--you cannot live without me."
"Nor with you," cried Cecilia, wringing her hands. "No, do not turn your honest eyes upon me with such a questioning, reproachful look, my own dear love! I would fain tell you all, but I cannot; perhaps I might to a woman, yet to her, if she were a true woman, I should not need to do so, for she would understand me without words."
"You do not love me as you must love the man from whom you could and would accept every sacrifice, because love, the true love which bears and suffers all things, perceives no sacrifices, and yours is not the true love!"
He spoke without the slightest tinge of bitterness; but his chest heaved painfully, and his lips quivered.
"Am I not right in saying that no man, even the best, the most delicate in feeling, can rightly understand us?" replied Cecilia, bending towards Gotthold, and pushing his hair back from his burning brow. For a moment the old sweet smile played around her delicate lips and sparkled in her eyes, the smile of which Gotthold had often dreamed, and then spent the whole day absorbed in reverie, as if under the influence of some magic spell. But it was only for a moment; then it disappeared, and sorrowful earnestness was again expressed in every feature of the beautiful face, again echoed in the tones of her voice.
"True love! Dare a woman who has experienced what I have, even take the word on her lips? True love! Would you have called it so, when I--"
She paused suddenly, rose, went to the window, came back again, and standing before Gotthold with her arms folded across her breast, said: "When I procured still larger supplies for his avarice, when I would have suffered myself and my child to be sold, though you would have been compelled to sacrifice the last penny of your fortune to buy our freedom--"
"You might have done so, and did not!" exclaimed Gotthold, in the most painful agitation.
"I might, and did not," replied Cecilia, "but certainly not because I doubted, for an instant, that you would, without hesitation, sacrifice all, all; such a doubt is inconceivable to a woman who knows herself beloved, nay, she would, under similar circumstances, go begging for her lover; but--it is useless, Gotthold, I shall never find words. Ah! the misery that is even denied the relief of expressing its agony, which must consume away in silent torture."
She wandered up and down the room, wringing her hands. Gotthold's mournful eyes followed her as she paced to and fro, and a feeling of intense bitterness welled up in his heart. There had been a possibility, but she had not seized it, and now it was too late.
He told her so, and why it was now too late, and that even if, by the income from his labor, he could satisfy the claims which others already had upon the small remnant of property that now remained, it would be a mere nothing to her husband's avarice, a sum which, if any one offered him, he would hurl back into his face with a scornful laugh.
Cecilia, pausing in the centre of the room, had listened eagerly, gasping for breath. "My poor Gotthold," said she; "but for me--it is better so, even the temptation cannot assail me now, and the matter is decided. Yes, Gotthold, it is decided; besides, perhaps it was only a momentary thirst for money, which the deadly hatred he bore you has long since swallowed up. He will not release me; I have not chosen, will not choose death as long as the last possibility of deliverance, flight, remains. Let me fly, Gotthold, before it is too late; do not detain me. You wish to save me, and are only driving me into the arms of death."
"I will keep you, save you, and tear you from the arms of death," cried Gotthold, clasping Cecilia's hands, "you and your child, whom you would kill, if, while ill and feverish, you exposed it to the dangers of a journey, which, under any circumstances, would be a useless cruelty, for he would know how to find you there or anywhere if he wants to do so--there as well as here, and therefore you must not stay here. You can remain nowhere, except under my protection, I repeat it. I will guard you. Cecilia, have you then no faith in me, my courage, my strength, my judgment? And I too cannot tell you all, how I intend to save you, will save you; I must beg you to let me take my own way, without explanation. Is not what is fair for women, right for men? May not cases occur for us also, in which we act as duty and honor command, and which we can confide only to a man? And, Cecilia, when I tell you that I have trusted to a man, to whom from childhood you have looked up with deep reverence, without suspecting that you owed him the respect so freely paid--and this man approves of my plan and resolution, and will himself do all in his power that the plan may not remain a plan, that the resolution may be executed--and this man will assure you of the fact with his own lips--Cecilia, I will bring this old man, your ancestor, to you, and when kneeling before him with his hand resting upon your head, the past, which seems as brazen and immutable as fate, reels and totters, you will perhaps believe that the present is not unalterably fixed for those who live and love!"
Gotthold hurried out of the room. Cecilia, trembling with a strange foreboding, gazed steadily at the door through which he had disappeared. It opened again: the tall form that entered was compelled to bend its head, and thus, with drooping head and downcast eyes, approached her. A strange conviction shot through her mind: even so had her father looked when he called her to his bedside an hour before he died, and at that moment he had resembled the picture of his grandfather, which hung in the sitting-room beside the old clock. Her knees trembled, and almost refused to support her, as he held out his hand.
Gotthold closed the door. The words spoken between the two must ever remain a secret.
The last rays of the setting sun trembled on the heaving water in crimson light, and crimson light glittered on the nodding grass of the broad swamp that stretched from the western shore to the downs, and bathed the figures of Gotthold and Jochen Prebrow, who, coming up from the narrower strip of ground that rose from the eastern beach, had just reached the highest point of ground. Gotthold, shading his eyes with his hand, was already gazing into the fiery sea, while Jochen kept pushing the spy-glass in and out of its case. At last he found the narrow mark on the glittering brass. "Here," said he, handing the glass to his companion, and then added as if to apologize: "One can see a devilish long ways with it."
"My good fellow!" replied Gotthold smiling.
Jochen showed his white teeth, and then both suddenly grew very grave again. Gotthold looked through the glass as eagerly as if he were actually trying to see the boat, which had sailed four hours before with a fair wind, and must now surely be off Sundin, if not already in the harbor, and Jochen was as downcast as if he had seen the round cheeks of his Stine, who positively insisted upon accompanying Frau Brandow for the last time.
But the worthy fellow was not thinking of himself. He could do without his Stine for a few days or weeks, if necessary, and things generally went so pleasantly with him that he had more than once doubted whether he was not too well off; but his poor, poor Herr Gotthold! O Heavens! how they looked at each other when she was going to get into the boat, and they shook hands on the bridge once more; with such large, wide-open eyes, which were full of tears! And then when she reached the boat, she instantly rushed down into the cabin, where Stine had carried the child, and then, as the wind took the sails and the boat began to move, came out again, and stood leaning on the old gentleman's arm, waving her handkerchief, with her big wide eyes looking steadily towards him, though she certainly could see nothing through her tears.
"But the boat is as good as any that can be found," said Jochen, "and as for my father-in-law, he was glad to get something to do again, and my brother Clas is a wonderfully clever fellow, and has often been in Sundin. He can take good care of them all; he said he knew where Wollnow lived, too, and one can depend upon the old gentleman, and nobody can do more than he can; and when one has done everything within the bounds of human possibility, he has done all he can."
Jochen drew a long breath; he was astonished himself to find how he could talk to-day--even his Stine would have done no better--and Herr Gotthold had said nothing at all--what could he say against it? Jochen continued in a still more persuasive tone: "And so you mustn't be so sad, Herr Gotthold, for the night doesn't last all the time, and unexpected things often happen, and when a horse once gets the bit between its teeth, a man may pull his arms off, but it will run away for all that; and what a horse can do, a man can too."
"I shall not fail, Jochen," replied Gotthold, "and I am no longer wretched, for I know I shall fight my way through, although it is a difficult matter so long as we don't have Scheel. But I think we shall get the fellow yet; at least he isn't dead, and that is the main thing."
Jochen Prebrow shook his great head. "It's a damned, miserable business, Herr Gotthold," said he. "Old Arent in Goritz saw him a week ago,--well, he certainly knows him, for the old man was at Dahlitz till Hinrich Scheel drove him away, but at night all cats are gray, and besides--there are so many chances of getting away from here by sea to Sweden or Mechlenburg or elsewhere. Therefore, it is very probable that he came here; but that he could be here still--no, that I don't believe."
The crimson glow which blazed in the western horizon had faded, and as they turned towards the east in descending from the summit of the down, the sea from the shore to the farthest horizon spread before them in a deep blue expanse, against which the white sand of the beach was relieved with singular distinctness. The chain of downs, upon whose highest point they had just been standing, stretched towards the north in a vast confused mass, which in the twilight seemed endless, here overgrown with coarse grass and broom, yonder in dreary baldness, rounded, lengthened, flattened, with sharp overhanging edges, like a sea which, while lashed by a tempest, had suddenly been converted into sand. Yonder, where the western shore projected farthest--Wiessow Point they called the narrow tongue of land--a roof, just visible to the eye, appeared above the downs, and Jochen Prebrow pointed towards it with his spy-glass.
"Do you see that house?"
"A part of it."
"That's where the Rahnkes live; I shouldn't like to be in their skins to-day."
"Why, what is going on there?" asked Gotthold.
"Another of the good chances," continued Jochen, involuntarily lowering his voice, although, as far as the eye could reach, no living creature was to be seen except the sea-gulls hovering over the waves. "They pretend to be fishermen, and when we were under Swedish rule also had the right to sell liquor, and say they have it still. But that is probably only a rumor in order to have a reason why every moment boats run in full of people, who, like the Rahnkes, call themselves fishermen, and have just as little right to the name. There must often be a half-dozen there at once, the custom-house officers say, and when they come--either by land or water--all are away, just run out to sea. They have kept watch here on the downs, and cruised in the offing for days together; but then no boat has ever arrived except some innocent fishing-smack, and the Rahnkes have stood and laughed when the officers were disappointed again. But they'll get paid for it to-night."
"What, this evening?"
"I really ought not to tell, but it's different with you, and besides they must certainly be there already. Do you see the three sails standing towards the north? Those are Uselin fishing-boats, and this is the right time and the right course; but they have no fishermen in them, but custom-house officers in peajackets and southwesters, and when they are near enough they will heave to and stop close by Wiessow Point, and the moment they heave to, a dozen custom-house officers and gendarmes will come marching, marching up from the land-side. I have it all from Herr Inspector from Sundin, who has already spent two days in Wiessow, and I'm an old acquaintance of his, because I've often driven him to different places; so he told me about it. Look! Herr Gotthold, look! there it begins."
Jochen, with an eagerness most unusual to him, pointed towards the three vessels, which, in fact, after holding their course in line directly towards the north, suddenly tacked and stood towards the land. At the same moment, two boats that must hitherto have lain concealed behind Wiessow Point appeared, and it was soon evident that they wished to escape between the coast and the three vessels, while the foremost was trying to cut them off. But it was already doubtful whether it would succeed, as it had a longer distance to run before reaching the point where the two courses crossed, and the smugglers sailed quite as fast, besides laying closer to the wind. In fact, at the end of ten minutes, a small gray cloud that rose from the pursuing boat, followed at shorter and shorter intervals by other little gray clouds, showed that the custom-house officers were beginning to despair of the success of the chase, and soon the cessation of the firing proved it had failed. The smugglers already looked like a mere speck on the horizon, the pursuing boat had tacked, and was standing back towards Wiessow Point, where the two others had arrived long before, "probably, with the men who now came hurrying up from the land-side, to find the nest empty once more," Gotthold said to himself.
"The damned rascals!" cried Jochen Prebrow.
They had been standing at the top of one of the higher downs, eagerly watching the exciting spectacle, every separate phase of which was as distinct to the two sons of the coast as if they had been in the midst of the action. In this the excellent spy-glass had done them essential service; it had been passed from hand to hand, and Gotthold had just taken it. He thought, if Jochen's information was correct, they must at least see some of the custom-house officers on the farthest downs, and slowly turning from hillock to hillock was searching the ground before him, already growing dim in the mists of evening, when he heard a low exclamation. At the same moment, however, he dropped the spy-glass, and pulled Jochen away from the crest of the down, so that their heads were concealed by the long waving grass.
"What is it?"
"Hinrich Scheel! I saw him distinctly. He was standing about a thousand paces away on the top of yonder down, with his back towards us."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know; but it was he; I should know him among a thousand: there he is again."
But it was not on the same down, but farther to the right, and, as it seemed to Gotthold, nearer than before; besides, the man, in whom through the spy-glass Jochen also thought he recognized Hinrich Scheel, was no longer standing erect, but crouching behind the crest of the down, like the two companions, gazing in the direction of the Rahnkes' house, from which he had come. At least Gotthold did not doubt it. The whole situation instantly grew plain to him. Hinrich Scheel, in some way or other, had been delayed in his flight, and found in the Rahnkes' house, which, according to Jochen's description, was nothing more than a den of thieves, a shelter, from which the attack of the custom-house officers had just driven him. He had now fled before them to the downs, and had every prospect of making his escape even if pursued, since the approaching darkness and extreme inequality of the soil greatly favored his designs.
Jochen was entirely of Gotthold's opinion, but what should they do now? Wait to see whether Hinrich, who was still lying motionless in the same spot, would continue his flight in the same direction, and so come nearer and nearer to them, or make the attempt to crawl up to him, as he evidently expected no danger from this quarter? Both plans were almost equally uncertain. The darkness was now increasing very rapidly: at his present great distance the man would soon look like a mere dark spot on the light sand, and must disappear entirely in a short time; on the other hand, he need only glance around, if they were not wholly concealed, and then the next instant would surely slide from the down on which he lay, and of course overtaking him could not be thought of.
Gotthold's heart throbbed as if it would burst, as he thought of all this, and discussed it with Jochen in a whisper. In all probability, his fate and hers depended upon his getting yonder man into his power. A few moments before, he had had scarcely the shadow of a hope that he would ever succeed in doing so; now an almost miraculous chance seemed to desire to aid him. There was the man, and here he himself with his faithful Jochen, the space that separated them so short that it could be crossed in a few minutes, and yet the turning of an eye, a breath of wind, a nothing, might tear his prey from him, as if he had only dreamed all this, as if it were but a delirium of his excited fancy, and he need only rub his eyes, and the dark spot yonder, which seemed to be a man, would disappear.
He had disappeared. Had he seen the pursuers approaching from that side, and continued his flight, or had he thought the way was now open and he could begin his retreat? The place where he had just lain was empty. A mistake was impossible, in spite of the dim twilight the crest of the down was still sharply relieved against the sky. Would he appear again? And would it be nearer or farther?
A few seconds elapsed, during which the two men did not venture to breathe. There! There he was again, and nearer--considerably nearer; he seemed to be coming directly towards them, and there could no longer be a doubt of it. Within a few minutes the distance had lessened at least one-half; they scarcely dared to look through the waving sedges, necessary as it was to watch the movements of the man, who even at the last moment might take another direction. And now he glided down the slope of the next hillock in the chain, and came straight up the down behind whose crest they lay. It was the highest of them all, and he probably wished to look around him a short time, in order to assure himself that no danger was threatening from any quarter.
They had slipped down a few feet, and crouched as closely as possible among the sedges. In a few moments Hinrich Scheel's head must appear before them; they distinctly heard him toiling up the tolerably steep slope on the other side, and muttering curses when the sand gave way under his feet.
"Now!"
They started up, and darted to the summit. With a lightning-like movement Hinrich glided from under Gotthold's hands, but as he turned to the left ran directly into Jochen's arms, and the two in one indistinguishable ball, slipped, rolled, and tumbled down the hillock faster than Gotthold could follow them. Jochen had taken a firm hold, but in the last turn he fell underneath; with a desperate effort Hinrich released himself, and was dealing a furious blow with a large clasp-knife he had drawn from his pocket, when Gotthold seized his arm and turned the weapon aside. Jochen had already started up again, and the next instant Hinrich Scheel, in his turn, was lying on the sand, face downwards, and Jochen, kneeling on his shoulders, was in the act of tying his elbows behind him with a small rope, which, after the manner of old coachmen, he always carried about with him.
"If you tie me, you'll crush me at the same time," gasped Hinrich Scheel. "I won't get up."
"Release him," said Gotthold.
"But we'll take care of this ourselves," said Jochen as he drew a pistol from the pocket of the prostrate man, and handed it to Gotthold. "There!"
Hinrich Scheel stood erect. His squinting eyes stared horribly at his assailant from a face distorted with rage. Suddenly he started back.
"You," he cried, "you! What do you want of me?"
There was a wild terror in Hinrich's look and gesture, and the rattling tone of his harsh voice.
"What is the matter?" cried Gotthold, shaking the man, who still stood before him as if petrified, rudely by the shoulder.
The powerful grasp produced a strange, mysterious effect upon the man. He stretched his long arms towards the dark sky, shook them wildly, waved them up and down, and then threw himself on his knees, bracing his left hand against the sand, and striking several furious blows with the right, as if he wished to murder some one he held by the throat; then he rose and shrieked, in answer to Gotthold's question:--
"What's the matter? I wish I had him!"
"Whom?"
"He lied; he said you were dead, and they wanted to arrest me, and imprisonment for life would be the least punishment; and did I wish to bring misfortune upon him, who had always been such a good master to me, and would give me money enough to last all my life? But when he came that night to the giant's grave, where I had concealed myself, he only gave me five hundred thalers; he had no more, not another shilling; he was obliged to give the rest to the lawyer, as bail for his appearing at any moment if he was summoned. And all that was a lie, wasn't it, sir, all a lie, every word?"
"All," said Gotthold, "all, every word."
"All, every word," repeated Hinrich, as if he could not yet understand it. "Why did he need to lie? I should certainly have gone if it had been necessary--for him. I did it for him, and as for the money, I had it in my hand. I could have done what I chose with it, and I gave it to him. Not a thaler was lacking; it was the whole package, just as I took it out of the Assessor's pocket."
"You did it for him," said Gotthold; "did you also do it by his orders?"
"By his orders?" replied Hinrich, "what need was there of orders? I did it because--because--I don't know why; but he rode on my back until he got his pony, and then I taught him to ride; he learned all, all he knows from me; and if Brownlock wins and brings him in a pile of money, whom has he to thank for it but Hinrich Scheel?"
While speaking in this manner, they walked on over the downs, Gotthold and Hinrich leading the way, while Jochen Prebrow followed behind, though not so far that he could not overtake them in a few bounds if necessary. It had grown very dark, so dark that they could scarcely see the wild rabbits which glided through the coarse grass at their feet, and a large owl soaring towards them fluttered aside in terror, as Hinrich, after a pause, continued with a savage imprecation:--
"I did it, because I knew how hard up he was. He had five thousand thalers to pay Herr Redebas the following noon, and if he did not pay them he might be refused a place in the races. I knew that--I have been at them often enough, and know as much about the rules as any of the gentlemen--and I knew that he would make no fuss afterwards, although he had said nothing about it, and I believe had not even thought of the money the Herr Assessor carried in his pocket. But I had thought of it all day long, and even looked out the place as we drove to Dollan. It had long overhung the morass, and the rain had made long cracks in it, so I said to myself: 'If they drive back to-night, and the carriage is turned out of the road here, the earth will break off, and the whole thing will slide down, and that's an accident which might happen to the best driver, on a stormy night such as this will be.'"
"Only you might easily have gone down with the rest," said Gotthold.
"You mean, if I hadn't jumped out of the carriage at the right time? Bah, sir! It's no harder than to get off a horse that is running away, when one sees it is going to fall. I jumped out at the right time, and then the ground broke away, and slid down with a thundering, crashing sound, and then all was perfectly still, except that one or two small pieces cracked off and rattled down the slope, and the tempest swept howling and moaning over the morass; but that was nothing new to me, and it was perfectly still below.
"I stood up and looked down, wondering how far the land-slide had probably gone. If the marl had held together well, it had doubtless fallen into the bog, and with its speed and weight had been buried nobody knows how deep; but it had jolted violently on the way, and I had heard it; the whole carriage must have broken to pieces, and in that case everything might still be lying on the edge. I must know how matters were, so I made up my mind to climb down.
"But it was hard work; I could not find the right place in the dark, and nearly fell myself; at last, however, I reached the bottom of the slope."
"Well!"
"Well, then I groped around there; the moon had also broken through the clouds a little, and I soon found the carriage, or what was left of it; it was smashed into small pieces, and one horse was lying among them; it had broken its neck and was dead as a door-nail. Close beside the horse lay the Herr Assessor, but he was still breathing, and when I turned him on his back he groaned heavily, and then twitched several times; he would die without my help, and I had already taken the money out of his pocket, and buttoned up the coat again so that it might look as if he were lying just as he fell."
"Did you not look for me?"
"I looked, but I didn't find you; he told me afterwards that you were lying half-way down the slope, and besides the time I was crawling about in the dark seemed very long, and there was a rustling among the reeds, and then the other horse, which had broken loose from the carriage and run out into the morass with the pole--stupid beast!--began to scream, and it is a pitiful sound to hear a dying animal shriek in its agony, and so I came up again on dry land."
"And was Herr Brandow already there?"
"How do you know that?" asked Hinrich in astonishment.
"I only imagined so."
"No, he wasn't there then, but he came directly after, and I was furious because he had taken Brownlock; besides, what business had he there? I told him so too, and said he must go back at once; but he wouldn't; people had seen him ride away, and where should he say he had been when this story came out? I had offered him the package, but he knocked it out of my hand, and it lay on the ground between us, and I said it might stay there. 'So it can for aught I care,' said he; 'I didn't do it for the money;' and then he asked what had become of you? I gave him a short answer, for I was angry, and then he said I must turn back at once, and--and--'Do it alone, sir,' said I, 'I'll have nothing more to do with it.' He begged my pardon, but I wouldn't make up, out of pure ill-temper, and now he again grew anxious about what account he could give of his whereabouts during this time, till I said to him: 'As you have Brownlock under you, sir, you can just as well ride across the bog, and then you will get to Neuenhof as soon as if you had ridden away from Dollan directly after the gentlemen: I mean, of course, over the road.' He saw this too, but his courage failed, although he generally had plenty for such things, and I myself had ridden across the bog a week before under his own eyes; so I said to him: 'Then do what you choose, I must go and knock up the Prebrows now, or I shall come in for all the blame,' and then he rode away, and it was a splendid sight--I could see it distinctly, for the moon had come out--and the water dashed up under the hoofs--yes, it was a splendid sight to see how he rode."
Hinrich walked on a few steps in silence; suddenly he stopped short.
"And the way he has treated me is a sin and a shame; may God punish me if I don't pay him for it. He promised me ten per cent, of all Brownlock won, and he had ten thousand in his book then; but it may easily amount to as much again. And he knows I would give one of my hands to see Brownlock on the course, and have people point to me and say: 'That's Hinrich Scheel, who trained him; he understands those things better than all the English jockeys.' O Lord! Lord! and I'm to do all this for him, while he leaves me for a whole week in this kennel of Rahnkes' and I'm to come to Goritz the night before the boat, in which I'm to take passage, sails for Mecklenburg, and I must meet him in Goritz woods, and get the two thousand he promised me, but he was not there, and probably thought, 'He must go tomorrow, with or without the money;' but I'll pay him for it, by Heavens! I'll pay him for it."
"That would cost you quite as much as him," replied Gotthold; "or do you think the law will set you free because you did everything solely for your master's sake?"
"The law, sir! You won't deliver me up to the law," cried Hinrich.
"And if I should, could you blame me for it?"
Hinrich stopped short, but there was no possibility of escape. Jochen Prebrow's heavy hand rested on his shoulder, and Gotthold had just cocked the pistol, whose barrel glittered in the light of the nearest beacon, of which they were already within a very short distance. A single cry would summon the watchman, if he chose to push matters to extremities.
"I am in your power, sir," said he, "and I am not. Neither you nor any other man shall compel me to repeat what I have just told you before a court of justice. I may have imposed upon you with a false tale."
"That excuse will not avail you much, Hinrich; we have proofs that the money was not lost, but stolen and placed in your master's hands."
And in a few words he told him the contents of Wollnow's letter, adding what he had just learned from old Boslaf, that while searching the bog--to the great astonishment of the men--they had followed the hoof-prints of a horse several hundred paces; and Hinrich's denial would produce little effect in opposition to this and other well-established facts.
Hinrich had listened attentively.
"I still think you won't give me up to the law, sir," said he; "it's an ugly story, and the less said about it the better, for--for all concerned; but if it must be, why, sir, we poor men are never much better treated than dogs, and these last few days I have fared even worse; so I don't mind going to jail, if he only comes too."
It was too dark for Gotthold to see the cruel smile that played around the man's thick lips, as he uttered the last words.
"I think I can spare you the jail," he answered, "if you will promise to make no attempt at flight, and obey all my orders implicitly. I will require nothing unreasonable."
"I know that, sir," said Hinrich, "and here is my hand."
The hand that rested in Gotthold's was as hard as iron; but he thought he felt in its nervous pressure that the man intended to keep his word.
"Come, then," said he, "and, Jochen, show us a path by which we can reach your house without being seen, if possible."