Chapter VII (1)

Princess Isabella, too, was not enjoying a very happy time of it. For six days she did not see a human being save her maid and Fräulein von Martigny. That old lady was preaching repentance in every possible key and tune; Isabella did not listen. In these sermons Count Vierstein was not mentioned as often as he should have been, but the old lady continued to remark at frequent intervals that he would come the following Sunday without fail. Isabella was silent. The readings from the French classics were three times as long as usual; Isabella did not notice it. She only thought and thought of all the suffering she had endured in this stupid castle from her childhood on. She determined to get away from it at any cost. Yet she did not know where to go.

Saturday night had come. Fräulein was just reading in Boileau’s tenth epistle: “In vain do I stop you; my remonstrance is vain--go, depart!” when a distant, dull thunder shook the air, rattling all the windows. The old lady was startled, but kept on reading all the louder; she knew, it seemed, what the noise meant, and was trying to divert her prisoner’s attention. But it was not necessary: Isabella was so deep in thought that she had no more heard the report than she had the verses of Boileau.

It soon grew dark, and every one went to bed early, as usual. Isabella slept very little; at four o’clock the bright sunshine awakened her again. It was the Sunday at last on which the Count was to appear. She looked through the open window out over the dewy landscape; her eyes sought the distant castle, the only object which she ever watched with interest, often with tears in her eyes; but, oh, horrible! the castle had only one tower left! At first the Princess thought that the sun, shining into her face, had caused an optical illusion. She ran for her spyglass; then she recognized the sad truth: the castle had now but one tower, the other, the Hasen Tower, had been blown up last night when that dull report made the windows rattle.

Isabella was beside herself with grief and anger. She had firmly believed that her father would show mercy to the castle, if only to please her, and she hoped that such a sign of his love might lead to a reconciliation and help her to begin a new life in her father’s house, one more worthy of living. Such had been her thoughts during rare and more hopeful hours. And every day she had been looking upon the still intact castle as a promise of the future; but now, to-day, the first tower had fallen, her father remained unmoved, and--the Count was coming! She dressed herself, threw a shawl over her head, and stole on tiptoe from the room, down the staircase into the castle-yard. No one noticed her at this early hour. A small gate stood open; she hurried out, not knowing what she was doing or whither she was going; at least, she had once more willed something and done something. The fresh air was inspiring, and her spirits felt uplifted on the wings of the morning wind.

Instinctively she walked in the direction of the castle, at first hurrying like a fugitive, but soon moderating her pace, for, though no one recognized her, still she was attracting the attention of the few people she happened to meet. At last she asked herself, where would she go? Her resolution was quickly formed: to Neideck. And what then? She did not know. But once up in the castle, she would be far away from her own home, and for the present that was enough.

Not accustomed, however to such long tramps, she soon grew tired, her knees shook, her eyes filled with tears; but even then she did not give up, and two hours later arrived at Neideck, where in the castle-yard she fell to the ground, completely exhausted. It grew dark before her eyes; she heard the ringing of the church-bells, the humming of bees; she noticed the fragrance of the elder blossoms, but she did not realize where she was, and lay as in a dream.

A voice roused her. Some one asked anxiously: “What is the matter, young woman?” She looked up. A young man in traveling clothes, with boots and spurs, stood before her, looking at her kindly. She did not answer, but searched him sharply with her eyes; there was something familiar in his face, but she could not remember where she had seen it.

“What are you doing here so early in the morning?” he asked.

“I am looking for the schoolmaster,” stammered Isabella. It was all she could think of.

“I am looking for him, too,” remarked the young man. “This Burg Balzer is certainly a remarkable man: something of a fool, no doubt, like all original people. But he no longer lives here; he has been dismissed and sent away, as one of the peasants told me; sent away because he conducted himself very improperly toward the Princess Isabella.”

“That is not true!” said Isabella. “At least, not as far as the Princess is concerned.”

“Oh, yes,” the stranger assured her. “There is no joking with this Isabella; she _is_ such a bore!”

“Perhaps she is more bored than boring,” replied Isabella.

The stranger looked at her attentively. “Who are you, I wonder, that you know so much about this? Perhaps a lady’s maid from the castle?”

She stammered timidly: “Yes.” She had learned so little, did not know how to tell even a lie.

“Well, if that is so, I wish you would tell me a little about your mistress. I heard that she was quite a nice-looking puppet, pulled by a string, either by her father or her lady-in-waiting. Is she not going to marry Count Vierstein in the near future?”

“She is not quite such a puppet as you think!” cried Isabella, very indignantly, and in quite another tone. “The string is broken; she is _not_ going to marry this wild Count, not under any circumstances!”

“Oh, oh! Is the Count really so wild? And how do you know that?”

“He lives only among hunters, horses, dogs, and soldiers, and roams the woods all day long!”

“So, so! And why are you roaming through old castles all alone, my highly virtuous young woman?”

“I? Oh, I wished to see the schoolmaster and the--the tower that was blown up yesterday,” Isabella answered, very much embarrassed.

“Well, I intended to see the tower too; the schoolmaster’s book interested me--”

“Have you read his book? That was the reason _I_ came here,” interrupted Isabella.

“It is an absurd book,” the stranger went on. “But the man’s feeling for his castle is true and strong. After reading his book you feel drawn toward this place, whether you wish to come or not.”

“That is just what happened to me,” whispered the Princess.

“There is a sentimental maid for you,” thought the stranger. “They are becoming very frequent in our philosophical century.”

“That young man has a good heart and clear head,” thought Isabella. As far back as she could remember he was the first person who had ever shown her any sympathy.

“Oh, see here,” he suddenly broke out aloud and straightened himself. “I can not play a part. I am Count Vierstein, whom you called ‘the wild Count.’ And if I do roam about in God’s nature all day long, I get more joy and pleasure out of it than do your pale people who live indoors. I can see the sun rising here from this enchanted castle, as I did to-day--and--I am furious at the people over there in Westerau who, without further ado, are barbarous enough to blow up the home of their ancestors. You may tell your mistress so; I shall see her myself to-day, but shall not have much to say to her, certainly nothing about this.”

For a while Isabella stood speechless with terror. But the Count did not look at all wicked; in fact, he was quite handsome; and not nearly so ill-mannered as Fräulein von Martigny had described him; on the contrary, he seemed to her kind and very tactful. This consideration lessened her terror. Should she tell him? But shame closed her lips. Finally she controlled herself and whispered: “Are you really on the way to Westerau? Several times you have been expected there, but always in vain.”

“Well, it is a rough road, this journey after a bride!” the Count sighed. “However, I must go through with it; my father wishes it, and children must obey their parents, so says the Bible. But there is a limit to our obedience; I will go to Westerau and do all that is necessary and proper, but if I then dislike this Princess as much as I do from a distance--and I have little doubt of that--and if she herself intends to give me, as you say, a very decided refusal--then I can ride back home with a light and happy heart, having done my duty. My attendants are awaiting me down in the village. It is too early to make a call, and I wish once more to breathe freely here in Burg Balzer’s incomparable castle before I start on the rough road I have to travel. There, now, you know my whole history!”

Isabella drew the shawl closer over her head and looked out into the valley. She saw there a group of horsemen, followed by a carriage; the horsemen were galloping toward the castle, and in the lead, as they came nearer, she recognized her father. With an imploring cry she turned to the Count: “Save me! That is my father there, the Prince! I am Isabella. Save me, protect me from my father. Do not let them take me back into that hateful castle; it would kill me!”

The Count was covered with surprise. “You are really Isabella, my dear cousin? But you don’t look at all like your pictures, and your speech is quite different from your letters. But why are you so afraid of your father. Did you run away from him?”

“Yes, because he tried to make me marry--you!”

“Well,” thought the Count, “she at least has a will of her own, and wishes to refuse me in her own way.”

“But not only on that account am I afraid,” the Princess continued, “but because I was shut into my room as punishment for wishing to save the castle and for taking the schoolmaster to my father on my own responsibility!”

“On your own responsibility?” the Count repeated very cheerfully. “Then you _did_ run away after all?” Isabella did not answer. “Why did you not run away long ago? We would have known each other so much sooner. And, and--are you often so excited as you are to-day?”

“Oh, no; that is only here in Neideck; below, in the castle, it is very different.”

“You see,” said the Count, “it is the bracing air that does it! You must be out of doors more, ride horseback, go hunting; then you will get rosy cheeks! By the way, the air in Vierstein is much better than it is down there in Westerau!”

But the poor girl only kept on imploring, “My father! Save me!” All at once they heard a voice whisper, “Quick, come here, this is the best hiding-place you can find! I wished to keep it a secret from every one, but to save the gracious Princess I gladly sacrifice my secret, my head, everything! Come here, the entrance is not far away.”

The Count turned and saw a strange figure, that would have made him laugh if he had not been provoked. “What does the fellow mean?”

“Pardon me, sir, I am Burg Balzer, whom you came to see. Sitting under the elder-bush here, I could not help hearing the whole conversation. I beg you to forgive me! But come, waste no more time!”

“My dear friend,” answered the Count coolly, “we will look at your vault some other time; on the contrary, you had better come over here, where I can protect both of you. I am not used to hiding.”

The Prince rode into the castle yard; his foaming horse reared in front of the group: Count Vierstein in the middle, at his right the Princess, at his left Burg Balzer.

At first the Prince did not recognize the Count; then answering the latter’s bow, he exchanged a few words with him, surprised at meeting him here and under such circumstances. After a while the Prince turned to Isabella: “Come here, you shameless girl!” And then to the Count: “Unheard-of things have happened, cousin! And before I do my duty as host, I must do my duty as father. Down there at the foot of the hill a carriage is awaiting you, Isabella; the curtains are closely drawn. You will step into the carriage; Fräulein von Martigny is expecting you; everything is so arranged that you can drive home and reach your room without being seen. A Princess of Westerau, who ran away! Who ever heard of such a thing in the whole history of our family!”

Firmly, though very respectfully, Count Vierstein came forward. “Forgive me, most gracious prince and cousin, if I do not give up the Princess to you; at least, not against her will. She has placed herself under my protection, and as a man of honor I must grant it to her.”

The Prince was astounded completely. What! Isabella had placed herself under the Count’s protection, and at the same time had run away only to escape the Count.

Burg Balzer, taking advantage of his bewilderment, pressed forward, forgot his fear of horses, until almost touching that of the Prince, and begged for mercy toward his castle. For answer the Prince called to his outrider: “Drive this fool down the mountain with your whip!”

Again the Count interceded: “This man, too, is under my protection, and I beg your Highness to leave him to me for the present!”

“My dear cousin,” laughed the Prince angrily, “do you claim sovereign rights over my family and my subjects? Perhaps I am no longer master here on my own soil!”

“Indeed,” answered the Count, “I would be very much pleased if you would place that, too, under my protection! The castle would be a perfect gem in my dear cousin’s dowry, and I am beginning to hope that she may not repulse this wild fellow when once she comes to know him better!”

“What! Courting and marriage contract here in the open road? Preposterous!” said the Prince. But all at once he seemed to be in the best of humors. Burg Balzer pulled the Count’s sleeve and whispered mysteriously: “I have discovered the most beautiful place for the wedding ceremony; it is right here under our feet.” Even the Prince was listening now. “While I was in hiding, and having nothing else to do, I succeeded in clearing out the rubbish from the passageway, and oh, joy! I found a beautiful crypt under the old chapel. For centuries it had been buried underneath, and it has three heavy antique columns, the capitals of which are ornamented with eagles and lions--”

“A wedding in the cellar? Preposterous!” interrupted the Prince. “You are a fool, schoolmaster! There! I have called you by mistake ‘schoolmaster’; you may be one again! A man’s word is as good as his bond!”

As this did not seem the proper place for further discussion, the Prince decided to lead his daughter to the carriage and to accompany her with his attendants to the castle. The Count was to stay here about two hours longer--perhaps visit the crypt--in order to give the people in Westerau time to prepare a reception with all honors. Everything else could then be arranged in proper form.

* * * * *

Four weeks later the schoolmaster, who had received by decree the additional dignity of castellan in Neideck, ordered ten men to come to the castle yard and raise from the well the old cannon that had been buried there since 1757. After three days’ labor they succeeded in dragging it out and hoisting it into its old place near the castle gate, ready to salute at the wedding of Princess Isabella and her cousin Frederick, which was to take place the following day in the chapel of Castle Westerau.

While Balzer was leaning against the cannon, in a very comfortable and contemplative frame of mind, the inspector came up the mountain, put his hand on the schoolmaster’s shoulder, and said: “Well, schoolmaster, what about your prophecy of the lady of high rank who was to save the castle? It seems to me the Princess did _not_ do it after all, and the Count did. And who are the men that have been put to shame?”

Philip replied: “Count or countess, it does not matter, so long as the castle is saved! But it is a pity they did not let that tower stand one day longer; it could have lasted a thousand years to come. Prophecies never are fulfilled to the letter, or people would all be superstitious. With regard to the humiliated men--well, what about the steward and the Prince himself? Only one must not even think of that, far less say so. After all, we can see in all this again how a just power guides the fate of men as well as of castles. Neideck has always been a good, true stronghold: in its first youth it was the cradle of our ruling family; in the prime of its existence it was a place of refuge for all around; now it has grown old and has retired into private life. But even so it has given to our Princess an excellent husband, and to a poor schoolmaster the prospect of a happy old age. May it prosper for many years to come.”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] About eighty cents.

THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI
BY PAUL JOHANN LUDWIG HEYSE

_Heyse, creator in the art of poetry, fiction, and the drama,
is opposed to the new materialism._

_First known as one of Germany’s most original writers of
narrative poetry, he gradually worked his way into the short
story. Brandes, most influential of living critics, once said
of these “Novellen” of Heyse’s: “The Novelle, as he has made
it, is an entirely original and independent creation, his
actual property.”_

_Heyse was born in Berlin in 1830. After devoting himself
to the study of languages, he settled in Munich, and with a
collection of “Märchen” began that remarkable series of tales
which he has brought, as Robert König says, to such genuine
artistic perfection. Popular as they all are, the two best are
thought to be “L’Arrabiata” and “The Young Girl of Treppi,” in
which his peculiar talent, the portrayal of strong, passionate
feminine nature, is signally displayed._

_Heyse’s style has been called the most perfect of modern
Germany._

THE YOUNG GIRL OF TREPPI
BY PAUL HEYSE

Translated by R. W. Howes, 3d.
Copyright, 1907, by P. F. Collier & Son.

On a height of the Apennines where the mountains rise between Tuscany and the northern part of the Papal States stands a lonely village of herdsmen called Treppi. The paths that lead up to it are none of them accessible by wagon. The road for post and vetturino, away toward the south, many an hour’s travel, goes winding in and out over the mountains in a wide, roundabout course. By way of Treppi pass only the peasants who have business with the herdsmen, and occasionally a painter or pedestrian who wishes to avoid the highways, and during the night-time the contrabbandieri, or smugglers, with their pack-horses that know better than any of them the way over the rocky passes leading to the desolate village.

It was about the middle of October, a time when the evenings on these heights usually grow clearer. But now, after the heat of the day, a fine mist had rolled up out of the ravines and was spreading itself slowly over the bare, rocky outlines of the majestic highlands. It was perhaps nine o’clock at night. In the lowly, scattered huts of stone, which by day were guarded only by the very old women and the very young children, still feebly glimmered the lights of their hearth-fires. Around the hearths, over which the big kettle swung, the herdsmen and their families lay sleeping; the dogs stretched themselves beside the ashes; on a heap of hides some sleepless old grandmother was still sitting up, perhaps, mechanically plying her spindle back and forth while she mumbled prayers or rocked a child that slept restlessly in its cradle. Through holes in the walls, as big as your hand, the night air oozed damp and earthy, and from the hearth-fire that was quickly burning out, smothered by the fog, the smoke choked thickly back and rolled along the ceiling of the huts without seeming to trouble the old woman in the least. After a while she, too, slept as well as she could, with her eyes wide open.

In one home alone was there sign of life. Like the others, this hut was but one story high; but the stones were better laid, the door was wider and higher, and against the broad, square building that formed the dwelling proper were supported various sheds, lean-tos stalls, and a well-bricked oven. Before the door of the house stood a group of packed horses, from whose noses a young lad was tugging away at the empty meal-bags, while from the house came six or seven armed men out into the mist and hastily got their horses ready. As they started, a very old dog that was lying near the door waved his tail in a leisurely fashion; then he lifted himself wearily from the ground and swung slowly into the hut, where the fire was still burning brightly. By the hearth stood his mistress, facing the fire, her straight figure motionless, her arms hanging down by her hips. As the dog touched her hand with his soft nose, she turned, startled out of a reverie. “Fuoco,” she said, “poor dog, you are sick!” The dog whined and moved his tail gratefully. Then he crept near to the hearth onto an old hide and stretched himself there, coughing and moaning.

In the mean time some of the servants had come in and seated themselves around the great table before the empty platters which the departing contrabbandieri had just left. An old maid-servant now filled them again with polenta from the great kettle, and taking her own platter sat down with the others. As they ate, not a word was spoken; the fire crackled, the dog moaned hoarsely in his sleep, the grave young girl sat down on the stone slab of the hearth, leaving untouched the small plate of polenta which the maid had placed before her, and gazed about the hall, lost in self-forgetfulness. The mist was now standing before the door like a white wall. But behind the edge of the crags the half-moon rose clear into the heavens.

Up the street came a sound like the beating of hoofs and footsteps. “Pietro!” called the young mistress of the house in a quiet, reminding tone. A tall fellow rose quickly from the table and disappeared into the fog.

The footsteps and voices were now heard coming nearer; at length the horse stopped before the hut. Still a little while and three men appeared under the doorway and entered with a curt “good evening.” Pietro approached the young woman who was gazing without interest into the fire. “They are two men from Porretta,” he said to her, “without any merchandise; they are guiding a signor over the mountains, whose passport is not in order.”

“Nina!” called the young woman. The old serving-maid got up and came toward the hearth.

“It isn’t that they only want to eat, padrona,” continued the fellow. “Maybe the signor can have a night’s lodging, too. He wishes to go no farther before daybreak.”

“Make up a straw bed for him in the lean-to.” Pietro nodded and went back to the table.

The three had taken their places without the servants deigning to give them any particular attention. Two of them were contrabbandieri, well armed, their cloaks thrown lightly about them, their hats drawn well down over their foreheads. They nodded a friendly greeting to the others, as to old acquaintances, and after they had given place to their companion, they made the sign of the cross, and began to eat.

The gentleman who had come with them ate nothing. He removed the hat from his high brow, passed his hand through his hair, and let his eyes wander over the place and the company. On the walls he read the sacred texts drawn in charcoal, saw in the corner the picture of the Madonna with the little lamp burning before it, and close by the fowls asleep on their perches; then the ears of corn, strung in rows, hanging from the ceiling; a board with jugs and wicker bottles on it, hides and baskets arranged in rows one upon the other. At last his eyes were arrested by the young woman at the hearth. Her dark profile showed severe and beautiful against the flickering glow of the fire, a great mass of black braids coiled low on her neck, her hands were lying locked together over one knee, while her other foot rested on the stone floor of the hall. What her age was he could not guess. But by her bearing he knew that she was mistress of the house.

“Have you any wine in the house, padrona?” he then asked. Scarcely had he spoken these words when the young girl sprang up as if struck by lightning, and stood rigidly by the hearth with both arms supporting her against the ledge. At the same instant the dog, too, started out of his sleep. A savage growl broke from his coughing breast. The stranger saw all at once four kindling eyes fastened upon him.

“May I not ask if you have wine in the house, padrona?” he now repeated. Before the last word was finished, the dog, howling loudly, sprang upon him with unaccountable fury and with his teeth tore the cloak from the man’s shoulders, and would have broken loose upon him again and again had not a sharp command from his mistress restrained him.

“Back, Fuoco, back! Peace, be quiet!” The dog stood in the middle of the room, beating heavily with his tail, his eyes fixed on the stranger. “Shut him up in the stall, Pietro!” said the young woman, half-aloud. She stood at the hearth, rigid as always, and, as Pietro hesitated, repeated the order. For the nightly place of the old dog had been for years by the hearth. The servants whispered one to the other, the dog followed reluctantly, and from without the howling and whining penetrated unpleasantly into the room until it seemed to cease from sheer exhaustion. In the mean time the maid-servant, at a sign from her mistress, had brought wine. The stranger drank, handed the beaker to his companion, and fell into silent reflection over the surprising disturbance he had so unwittingly caused. One after the other the servants put down their spoons and passed out with a “good night, padrona!” At last the three were alone with their hostess and the old serving-maid.

“The sun rises at four o’clock,” said one of the contrabbandieri to the stranger. “Excellency, it is not necessary to start much earlier to be at Pistoja in good time. It’s on account of the horse, that must have his six hours’ rest.”

“Very good, my friend. Go and sleep!”

“We will awaken you, Excellency.”

“By all means,” replied the stranger. “Though Madonna knows, I do not often sleep six hours at a stretch. Good night, Carlone; good night, Master Giuseppe!”

The men removed their hats respectfully and stood up. One went to the hearth and said: “Padrona, I have a message from Costanzo from Bologna, who wants to know if it was at your house he left his knife lying last Saturday.”

“No,” she said sharply and impatiently.

“I told him you would have sent it back to him long ago if it had been there. And then--”

“Nina,” she broke in, “show them the way to the lean-to if they have forgotten it.”

The maid-servant rose. “I was only going to say, Padrona,” continued the man calmly, with a quiet twinkle in his eyes, “that this gentleman here would not look twice at his money if you gave him a softer bed than ours. That is what I wanted to tell you, Padrona, and now may the Blessed Virgin send you a good night, Signora Fenice!”

With that he turned to his companion, and, like him, bowed low before the picture in the corner, crossed himself, and with the serving-maid both left the room. “Good night, Nina!” called the young girl. The old woman turned at the threshold, made a sign of inquiry, then closed the door behind her quickly and obediently. Scarcely were they alone, when Fenice took up the brass lamp that stood at the side of the hearth and quickly lighted it. The fire was gradually dying out in the hearth; the three tiny, red flames of the lamp lighted only one small corner of the room. The darkness seemed to have made the stranger drowsy, for he was sitting at the table, his head lying on his arms, his cloak wrapped close about him, as if he intended to pass the night that way. Then he heard his name called; he looked up. The lamp was burning on the table before him; opposite stood the young padrona who had called him. With irresistible power her look drew his toward her. “Filippo,” said she, “don’t you know me any more?” For a long time he looked searchingly into the beautiful face which was all aglow in the light of the lamp, and still more so from anxiety. The long, yielding eyelashes, as they slowly lifted and fell, softened the severity of the forehead and of the slenderly formed nose. Her mouth was a bloom of the rosiest youth; only, when it was silent it had a touch of resignation, sorrow, and wildness, which the dark eyes did not contradict.

And now, as she stood at the table, the stern beauty of her figure showed itself, especially the superb lines of her neck and throat. Nevertheless, after a minute’s thought, Filippo said:

“Truly, I do not know you, Padrona.”

“It is not possible,” she said, in a strange, deep tone of assurance. “You have had seven years to be thinking about me. It is a long time--surely long enough for the picture to have made an impression.”

This unlooked-for reply seemed all at once to break the spell of his preoccupation. “Of course, my girl,” said he, “who thinks for seven years of nothing else save the beautiful head of a young woman must come at last to know it by heart.”

“Yes,” said she with meaning, “it is quite true, you said so then, that you would think of nothing else.”

“Seven years ago? Seven years ago I was a light-hearted, joking fellow. And you believed that in good faith?”

She nodded three times, earnestly. “Why should I not believe it? Indeed, I have even learnt it through my own experience that you said right.”

“Child,” said he with a relenting look that well became his determined features, “I am sorry. Seven years ago, very likely, I still thought all women knew that the tender words of men were worth little more than the counters which we occasionally exchange for ringing gold, a matter of course that has been expressly agreed upon beforehand. What did I not think of you women seven years ago! Now, truly, I seldom think of you at all. Dear child, there are things so much more important to think about.”

She was silent, as if she understood nothing of all this and was willing to wait quietly until he said something that really concerned her.

“It is surely beginning to dawn upon me,” he said after a moment’s thought, “that I have traveled over this part of the mountain before. Perhaps I should have recognized this village and this house if it had not been for the mist. Yes, yes, it is the place in the mountains, of course, where the doctor sent me seven years ago, and where I stormed up and down the most inaccessible places, like a fool.”

“I was sure of it,” she said, and a little ray of joy lighted on her lips. “I was sure you could not have forgotten. The dog, Fuoco, certainly did not forget it, neither his old hate of you--nor I--my old love.” She said this so cheerfully and with such assurance that he looked at her with increasing surprise.

“I do seem to remember now a young girl,” said he, “whom I met once on a height of the Apennines, and who guided me to the home of her parents. I should otherwise have been obliged to pass the night on the cliffs. I even remember that I was pleased--”

“Yes,” she broke in, “very much!”

“But I didn’t please the maiden. I had a long conversation with her, to which she contributed not above ten words. When I thought at last to awaken the sleeping, sullen, sad little mouth with a kiss--I see her now as she sprang away from me to one side and picked up a stone in each hand, so that I hardly came off without being well stoned. If _you_ are the maiden, how is it that you now talk to me about your old love?”

“I was fifteen years of age, Filippo, and very shy. I was always defiant and solitary, and did not know how to express myself. And then, too, I was afraid of my parents, who were still living at that time, as you afterward came to know. My father controlled many herds and herdsmen, and this inn here. There has been little change since then. Only he orders and scolds here no more--may his soul rest in Paradise! And before my mother I was shyest of all. Do you not know, you were sitting then at this very spot and praised the wine we had brought from Pistoja? I heard no more than this. My mother was looking sharply at me, so I went out and placed myself behind the window so that I could still look at you. You were younger, of course, but not better looking. You have to-day the same eyes with which you used to conquer when you wished, and the same mysterious voice which so aroused the jealousy of the dog, poor beast! Till then I had loved no one but him! He knew it, that I loved you more, he knew it better than you did.”

“He was like a mad dog that night, and justly,” said Filippo. “A wonderful night! But you had seriously bewitched me, Fenice. I know that I had no rest when you were unwilling to return to the house again, that I started up and went out to look for you. I caught one glimpse of the little white kerchief you wore on your head, and then no more of you, for you sprang into the room next to the stable.”

“That was my bedroom, Filippo. You did not dare to go in there.”

“But I was going to. I still remember how long I stood and knocked and begged, bad fellow that I was, and thought that I should lose my head if I could not see you once more.”

“Your head? No, your heart, you said. I remember all the circumstances, the words, everything!”

“Yet you wished to know nothing of them then.”

“I was in a mood to die. I stood in the farthest corner and thought that if only I could still the beating of my heart, creep to the door, put my mouth to the crack through which you were speaking, I could feel your breath.”

“Foolish, doting time of youth! If your mother had not come I might have been standing there still; for in the mean time you might have opened the door. I am almost ashamed, even now, to think how I went away in vexation and fury, and had a long dream about you all that night.”

“I sat up in the dark and watched,” said she. “Toward morning I fell asleep, and when I awoke and saw the sun--where were you? No one spoke of it to me, and I dared not ask. To see a human face was hateful to me, just as if they had killed you so that I should not see you any more. Out I rushed, running and then stopping still, up and down the mountain, all the time calling for you, cursing you, for because of you I could now love no more. At last I came down into the valley; then I got frightened and turned back again. I had been away two days when I got home. My father beat me and my mother would not speak to me. They knew very well why I had run away. And the dog went with me, good Fuoco; but when I shouted your name out into the stillness, he growled.”

There followed a pause, while the eyes of the two rested on each other. Then Filippo spoke: “How long have your parents been dead?”

“Three years. They died that same week--may their souls rest in Paradise! Then I went to Florence.”

“To Florence?”

“Yes, you said you were going to Florence. The wife of the café-keeper outside the walls over there by the side of San Miniato, to her some of the smugglers directed me. For one month I lived there, and every day they sent into the city to make inquiries about you. In the evenings I went down there myself and looked for you. At last we heard that you had gone long since--no one quite knew whither.”

Filippo stood up and restlessly paced the room. Fenice turned toward him, her eyes followed him, yet she showed no sign of agitation, such as now moved him. Finally he came up to her, looked at her a moment, and then said:

“And to what purpose do you confess all this to me, poveretta?”

“I have been seven years getting my courage together. Oh! if I had only confessed to you then, it would not have caused me so much sorrow, this cowardly heart. But I knew that you must come back, Filippo; only that it would last for such a long time, that I did not know--that made me sad. I am a child to speak so. Why trouble myself about what is past? Filippo, you are there, and I am here and yours always, always!”

“Dear child,” he began softly, and then silenced what was on the tip of his tongue. But she did not perceive how quietly and thoughtfully he was standing before her, staring vacantly beyond her toward the wall. She continued speaking calmly; it was as if the words had long become familiar to her, as if she had imagined them a thousand times in her loneliness: He will come and thus and so will you speak to him.

“I had many an opportunity to marry up here, and while I was at Florence. I wanted you only. When they implored me and spoke honeyed words to me, your voice sounded out of that far-away night, your speeches that were sweeter than all other words in the world. For several years now they have been leaving me in peace, although I am not old yet, and am still as--fair as ever I was. It was as if they all knew you were coming back soon.” Then again: “Where are you going to take me now? Will you remain up here? No, for you, that will never do. Since I was in Florence I have learned that life in the mountains is dreary. We will sell the house and the herds, then I shall be rich. I am tired of the wild life of these people up here. In Florence they had to teach me all a young city woman should know, and they were astonished how quickly I learned everything. Truly I had little time to spare, and all my dreams kept telling me that it would be up here where you would seek me again. I inquired, too, of a fortune-teller, and it has all turned out just as she said.”

“And if I already have a wife?”

She looked straight at him from her full height. “You are only wishing to prove me, Filippo! You have no wife. That, too, the fortune-teller told me. But where you lived, that she did not know.”

“You are right, Fenice, I have no wife. But whence does she know, or you, that I shall ever be willing to take one?”

“How could you _not_ wish for me?” said she with unshaken confidence.

“Sit down here by me, Fenice! I have much to tell you. Give me your hand; promise that you will hear me patiently to the end, my poor little friend!” As she did none of all these things, he continued with a quickening pulse, standing in front of her, his eyes resting sadly upon her, while her own, as if foreboding something that would threaten her very life, now closed and now strayed to the ground.

“For years I have been compelled to keep away from Florence,” he began. “As you know, there were at that time those political uprisings, that kept wavering so long, this way and that. I am a lawyer, and so know hosts of people, and write and receive a great number of letters throughout the year. Added to this, I was an independent, spoke my mind when it was necessary and was heartily hated, although I never wished to thrust any hand of mine into their secret game. Finally it became necessary for me to fly if I wished to escape an endless trial and imprisonment that would be neither for profit nor purpose. I went to Bologna, practised law for a living, and saw few people, women least of all; for of the gay young fellow for whom you have been wearing your heart out for seven years, there is nothing left, except that my head, or my heart, if you will, is still ready to burst if I can not be conquering something--in these days to be sure something other than the bolt of a pretty girl’s bedroom door. You have heard, perhaps, how at the last there was also a disturbance at Bologna. They had arrested certain highly respected men, among them one whose way of living I had known for a long time, and knew, too, that his spirit was far from these matters. After that a miserable government undertook to reform matters, much as if a sickness had broken out among your sheep and you sent a wolf into the fold. But that is neither here nor there. Enough that my friend begged me to plead his cause for him, and that I helped him to gain his freedom. No sooner had this become known, when one day a wretched fellow came running up to me on the street and covered me with insults. I could not get rid of him except by thrusting him aside with my arm against his chest, for he was intoxicated. Scarcely had I found myself out of the crowd and had stepped into a café, when there came toward me a relative of this man, also intoxicated, not with wine but with venom and anger, and upbraided me as if I had been guilty of answering words with blows, instead of doing what every man of honor would have done. I answered as calmly as I could, for I now perceived that the whole affair was a preconcerted plan of the government to force me shamelessly into a duel. So one word led to another until my enemy at last won his game. He pretended that he was obliged to go into Tuscany, and insisted that the affair should be settled over there. I agreed, for it was time that one of us calm members should prove to the hot-heads that the cause of our restraint was not lack of spirit, but simply the hopelessness of all private intrigue when opposed to such superior power. But when, the day before yesterday, I applied for a passport, it was refused me--unless I were willing to give my reasons; these were the orders of the supreme authority, so they said. It was now clear to me that they wanted either to draw me into disgrace by causing me to miss the duel, or to force me to steal over the border in some sort of disguise, where I could safely be caught in ambush. Then they would have pretext enough to bring legal action against me and to prolong the trial to suit their convenience.”

“The wretches! The God-forsaken!” broke in the young girl, and clenched her hands.

“So nothing remained but to trust myself to the contrabbandieri in Poretta. Early in the morning, so they tell me, we can reach Pistoja. The duel is arranged for the afternoon, in a garden just outside of the town.”

Impetuously she grasped his hand in both of hers. “Do not go down there, Filippo,” she said. “They will murder you.”

“Of course, that is what they want, child, nothing less. But how do you know it?”

“I know it here and--here!” and with her finger she touched her forehead and her heart.

“You also are a witch, a soothsayer,” he continued, laughing. “Yes, I think they do wish to murder me. My adversary is the best shot in Tuscany. They have done me the honor to oppose to me a distinguished foe. Now I, too, will not altogether disgrace myself. Yet who knows how regular the proceedings will be? Who can tell? Or perhaps you have magic enough to prophesy that too? But what good would it do, child? It could not alter facts.”

“Now you must drive it out of your mind,” he continued after a short silence, “this following the bent of your foolish old love. Perhaps everything has had to turn out so, that I might not leave the world until I had set you free, free from yourself and your unhappy loyalty, poor child. Think, we may have been poorly suited to one another. Your loyalty was given to another Filippo, a young coxcomb with giddy lips, and carefree except for love. What would you have done with a melancholy brooder, a hermit?” During the last half of the sentence he spoke to himself, pacing up and down, but now he went up to her, and as he was about to seize her by the hand he stopped, shocked by the expression of her face. All the gentleness had gone from her manner, all the color from her lips.

“You do not love me!” she said, slowly and dully, as if another spirit were speaking out of her, as if she were listening to her own words in order to learn what was really meant. Then she drew back her hand with a cry, so that the tiny flames in the lamp threatened to go out. And from without the ear was suddenly chilled by an angry whine and howl from the dog.

“You do not love me, no, no!” she cried, as if beside herself. “Can you give yourself over to death rather than into my arms? Can you speak calmly of your death as if it were not mine, too? It were better for me if these eyes were blind rather than see you again, and these ears had become dumb before they were forced to hear the cruel voice by which I live and die. Why did the dog not tear you to pieces before I knew that you had come? Why did your foot not slip on the edge of the precipice? Alas! Alas! Behold my sorrow, O Madonna!”

She flung herself before the picture, lay with her forehead to the ground, her hands spread far from her, and seemed to pray.

Between the murmurs and groans of the unhappy girl the man heard the alarm of the dog, while the moon now gained its full power and illuminated the whole room. And now before he could collect himself or speak a word he felt her arms about his neck again, her mouth on his throat and hot tears falling over his face.

“Do not go to your death, Filippo!” sobbed the poor girl. “If you stay here with me, who will ever find you? Let them talk as they will, the crowd of murderers, the cowardly wretches, more detestable than the wolves of the Apennines! Yes,” she said, and looked up at him through her streaming tears, “you will stay. The Madonna has sent you to me--that I might save you. Filippo, I do not know what angry words I spoke, but that they were angry I felt by the icy contraction here at my heart from which the words relieved me. Forgive me for that. It puts me in hell to think that love can be forgotten and loyalty trodden under foot. Let us sit down here and consider the matter. Do you wish a new house? We will build one. A change of company? We will send every one away, even Nina, even the old dog shall go. And if you think then they may betray you--why we will go ourselves, even to-day, now. I know all the paths, and before the sun rises we will be deep among the ravines on our way toward the north, and wandering, wandering to Genoa, to Venice, wherever you will.”

“Stop!” said he sternly. “It is enough folly. You can not be my wife, Fenice. Even if they do not kill me to-morrow, it will not be for long, for I know how I am in their toils.” Quietly but firmly he released his neck from her arms.

“See! my child,” he continued, “things are unhappy enough as they stand, and we ought not to make them worse through want of reason. Perhaps when you hear of my death later, your eyes will be resting on a husband and beautiful children, and you will be thankful the dead man of this night had more wisdom than you, even as in that other night you had more wisdom than he. Let me go to rest now. Go you, too, and take care we do not see each other again in the morning. You have a good reputation, as I learnt from my contrabbandieri on the way here. Should we see each other in the morning, and should you make a scene--you understand, my child? And now, good night, good night, Fenice!” Then once more he begged her earnestly for her hand. But she did not give it to him. She looked absolutely white in the moonlight; her brows and lowered eyelashes all the darker.

“Have I not sufficiently atoned for having enjoyed seven years ago one long night of too much happiness? And now he wills that this thousand-times accursed happiness shall make me unhappy again, and this time for the length of an eternity? No, no, no! I will never let him go! I would dishonor myself before all men if he should go away and die.”

“Did you not hear,” he broke in sharply, “that it is my will to rest? Why do you talk with such infatuation, making yourself ill? If you can not feel that honor must tear me from you, then you can never be fit for me. I am no doll on your lap to be fondled and joked with. My paths I have marked out before me, and they are too narrow for two. Show me the hide on which I am to pass the night and then--let us forget each other!”

“Though you drive me from you with blows, I will not leave you! If death places himself between us, with these good arms I will save you from him. In death and life--you are mine, Filippo!”

“Be still!” he cried aloud. The color rose suddenly to his forehead, as with both arms he pushed the impetuous figure from him. “Be still! And now it is over--now and forever. Am I a _thing_ that can be dragged to any one that calls for it--to any one whose eyes take a fancy to it? You have been sighing for me for seven years--does that give you the right to make me untrue to myself in the eighth? If you wished to corrupt me, your method was badly chosen. Seven years ago I loved you because you were different from what you are to-day. If you had flown to my neck then, and had hoped to win my heart by boldness, I would have set boldness against boldness, as I do to-day! Now, all is over between us, and I know that the pity that moved me before was not love. For the last time, where is my room?”