Out on the porch, which also served as a kitchen, were Thomas and his mother. He had removed his false beard, was cleaning his black face, and now said:

"Mother, do you know what I'm sorry for?"

"What for?"

"Why, that I didn't shoot the young count the other day. I won't have as good a chance at him again. I could have shot him through the back of the neck and that would have been the last of him. I'd have given the daylight a chance to shine through him."

"You're a nice fellow to talk repentance."

"Yes, and I'd have done a good deed if I'd shot the fellow. Just think, mother, that's the kind of people the grand folks are who own the forest and all the game in it. Just think of it, mother! I'm a good fellow, after all."

"How so?"

"Only think, mother! Do you know why the count was in the forest? He wanted to be out of the way while his father was dying; and so he rode off and let the old man end his days alone. I promise you, if you were going to die, and I were about, I'd stay with you to the last. I'd deserve to go to heaven, if I'd put that fellow out of the way. If I'd known all about it at the time, I'd have done it, too. Indeed, I did want to, just for the fun of the thing. But it's great fun to think how the fellow must have shook, to be riding in front of me while I had a ball ready for him and could have shot him at any minute. Oh, you Wildenort!"

At the mention of her family name, Irma fell over as if shot and, with bated breath, listened while Thomas continued:

"Since then, I've been as if bewitched. I haven't chanced across a bit of game and I feel like a fool. Something happened to me about twilight--the devil take it, one can't help believing in spirits. Mother, I saw a beautiful horse, and no one was on it. If it had only been a real horse, one that would fetch money! But I, like a fool, was frightened when it galloped past me, with its flying mane and clattering hoofs. But, before I'd made up my mind that it was a real horse and that ghost stories were stupid stuff--heigho, it was gone."

"Nay, Thomas, take care! There's something in those stories after all. Come, stand here, hold your hand over the fire and swear that you'll keep quiet, and I'll tell you something."

"What do you happen to know?"

"More than your thick head can hold. I tell you there are spirits, and the Lady of the Lake is lying on the bed in there."

"Mother, you've gone crazy."

"Take care! she's ordered me to cook some soup for her."

"And so the water-fairies eat soup. I'm not afraid of any creature that eats cooked victuals. I'd like to take a look at the Lady of the Lake."

The old woman tried to keep him back, but he forced his way into the room. When he beheld Irma, he stood still, as if rooted to the spot. Suddenly he exclaimed:

"She's a woman like yourself, only she's much handsomer. If she were the Lady of the Lake, she'd have swan's feet, as far as I know. Mother, who is it?"

"I don't know."

"Then I'll ask her."

The old woman tried to restrain him, but Irma had already risen to her feet. She looked about her with a vacant stare and opened her lips, but could not speak.

"It's you!" cried Thomas suddenly. "That's splendid."

He wanted to seize her, but Zenza held him back.

"It's you!" he cried again. "You've lost your way and here you are; that's splendid."

"Do you know me?"

"Why, who doesn't know you? you're the king's sweetheart and now you're--"

Irma's loud shriek of despair drowned the last words of the brutal fellow.

"Hurrah!" shouted Thomas. "Out with you, mother; and you, too, Esther. I don't need either of you."

"Let her go! You shan't touch her," cried the mother.

"Shan't I? and who's to hinder me?"

The mother struggled with him, but he hurled her aside. Unable to think of any other expedient, she seized the vessel of boiling broth and swore that she would dash it in his face. He warded it off and staggered back, bellowing like a bull.

Esther rushed up to Irma and hurriedly whispered:

"Come, come! I'll save you, for your father's sake. Come! Away!"

She dragged Irma away with her, and with breathless haste they ran down the hill. Irma was out of breath and wanted to rest. Esther, however, dragged her a little further, until they reached a spring, where they seated themselves. Dipping up some water in her hands, she bathed Irma's brow and her own.

For some time, neither of them spoke a word. At last, Irma asked:

"Do you know the way to the lake?"

"Very well. That's my path, too--the only one left me."

"How? what do you mean?"

"I want to do just what you mean to do, and I suppose I'll have to."

"What do I mean to do?"

"To drown yourself."

Irma started with surprise when she found her purpose known.

"I don't know why," continued Esther, "but I can easily guess. My brother spoke bitter words to you; but, I beg of you, don't do it. Just think of it! You're so beautiful, so young, so rich. You may live for many years, and things may be much better for you in the world. Don't do it.--Hush!" said she, interrupting herself, "don't you hear something? We'll stop talking, so as to hear every sound. He's following us, and won't leave us. Get up! we must be off."

They got up and walked on further through the gloomy forest.

A vision of hell passed through Irma's mind. Through all eternity, the noble and the lowly would be linked to each other and suffer a like fate; for sin, like virtue, knows no such distinctions.

They were passing a wild, roaring stream, when Esther asked:

"So you're his sister?"

"Who's sister?"

"My Bruno's. How goes it with him? I saw him the other day, when I was looking for ants' eggs, but he didn't see me. Is it true that he's married happily?"

"Yes. But why do you call him your Bruno?"

"Well, I'll tell you. You're the first one who's heard his name pass my lips since that day. Has he never mentioned it to you himself?"

"No."

"He can't have forgotten it. Come on! Thomas might find us here. Take my hand and go backward; then the dogs will lose the scent."

Esther took Irma by the hand and led her away. After they had seated themselves under a projecting rock. Black Esther thus told her story:

"My mother knows nothing of it, nor does my brother. No one knows the right story; but I can tell you. This isn't our real home, but we're often here in the summer, looking for gentian, and herbs, and ants' eggs. I was fifteen years old, a merry devil of a girl, and could have run a race with any stag, when your brother found me in the woods. He was handsome--very handsome. There never was another man in all the world so beautiful as he was. He was so clever and so good, and we loved each other so much; and I cried every time I had to go home to my mother again. I would have liked to stay out in the woods, just as the deer did; and it almost pleased me when I got home and mother gave me a beating, for then I could cry without having to give a reason for it. I longed for him every moment, and never wanted to leave him. He once told me who he was, and that his father was a very stern man, and that, if it weren't for that, he'd take me home to his castle, and make a countess of me. And what do you think I did--I've thought a thousand times since of how foolish I was, but I'm sure I meant no harm. As Bruno had complained so bitterly, I thought this bad father might be brought around; so I went to the castle, and went right up to him and told him that he oughtn't to be so cruel and hard-hearted, and that he ought to allow Bruno to marry me, and I'd surely be a good daughter-in-law, and that there had never, in all the world, been truer love than ours. And your father gave me a glance--I'll never forget his eyes. I can see them before me now, so large and bright. And a little while ago, when Thomas started toward you, you had just such eyes, and that made me take pity on you and help you away."

"Go on," said Irma, after a long pause.

"Ah, yes," replied Esther, collecting her thoughts. "And then your father came toward me. I stooped, for I thought he was going to strike me; but he put his hand on my head and said: 'You're a good child, even if you've done wrong, and it shan't be my fault if you don't keep good.' Then he called a servant and ordered him to go for Bruno. When Bruno came in and saw me, he was frightened; but I said: 'Don't be afraid; you're father's a kind-hearted man, and he'll let me have you for a husband.' Bruno didn't stir from the spot; his face was as white as the cloth on the table he was leaning against. And then your father said: 'Very well, so I'll come to you. You've not acted honorably, but you shall still have chance to do so. I permit you--nay, I command you--to take this child of the forest for your wife--' Bruno laughed--it was a devilish laugh, and I'll never forget it--and your father said: 'Speak, Bruno.' Then he said: 'Father, don't be ridiculous,' and your father's face changed as suddenly as if he had grown thirty years older in that one minute. He could hardly stand, and sat down on a chair. 'What do you say?' he asked. 'Repeat it once more! Speak!' And Bruno repeated his words, twisting his mustache while he spoke. Your father tried to persuade him, and told him that he'd teach me, that I should learn to read, and write, and do everything else, as well as any countess, and that Bruno had better not take a load upon his conscience which he'd never get rid of as long as he lived. And Bruno answered: 'If you don't send that girl away, I'll leave the room. Go, Esther. Leave the room, and don't come again till I send for you.' He said something to your father, in a language I didn't understand. Your father grew pale, came up to me, gave me his hand, and said: 'Go, Esther.' He didn't say another word, but that he said kindly. And so I went away. That was the last time I ever saw Bruno. I heard, afterward, that there had been terrible goings on between your father and him, but I kept out of sight, after that. I didn't want to be the cause of ill-feeling between father and son; I saw that it wouldn't do. Our child meant kindly toward us, for it was born dead. That was far better than to find only misery in the world, and die at last. Don't you think so, too?"

Irma did not answer, but she felt for Esther's hand.

Esther continued:

"Mother and Thomas don't know that I ever knew your brother. But Thomas is a terrible fellow, and he hates your brother just as if he had a notion of it; but I don't say a word. I'm lost; but what does it matter? There's no need of his being ruined too. Oh! how I loved him. I can't forget it, even now."

Esther, who had, thus far, told her story in a calm and quiet tone, suddenly cried out:

"He's got a beautiful, fine, rich, noble wife! Yes, that's all we are here for--so that nothing may happen to you in your silken beds out yonder. Ha! ha! ha! And when they get a child in wedlock, they get some poor woman to suckle it. Walpurga's well off; her milk's turned to gold. Oh, if I could only stop thinking."

She tore her hair and gritted her teeth. "It's a wonder that the wild and burning thoughts that pass through my brain haven't burned away the stupid black hair long ago. Oh, my head's burning, and I get blows on it every day. But it's hard--just feel--it's as hard as steel."

Irma stood there, as if rooted to the spot.

"Hush!" said Esther. "Hush. I hear the dogs. I told you he'd hunt for us. Fly! fly! There, to the right! that's the path; but, I beg of you, for the sake of everything in the world, don't do it--don't do it. You haven't gone far enough for that. But, be off. Down there you'll come to a small, wooden bridge. Cross it and hurry on. I'll stay here; the dogs will come to me and I'll detain them. You're saved. Away! Away!"

She urged Irma away, and remained behind.

Irma hurried on, alone. She often pressed her hand to her brow. Grateful remembrance of her father had saved her from unspeakable horror. When his hand rested on Esther's head, it had been in token of forgiveness. But the characters he had branded on Irma's brow, told her that he had forever put her away from him. "The brand upon my brow can only be cooled by the waters of the deep lake," she kept saying to herself, while she hurried across the wooden bridge, and then over the rising ground until she again entered the dark forest.

Black Esther stood her ground quietly, and waited for the dogs to approach. She called them, and they ran toward her. She heard Thomas whistling, and the dogs answering. He was still far off, but he was on the right track. She counted every pulsation; for with every heart-beat, Irma was one step further from where her pursuer must halt. She was willing to suffer all. What did it matter?

"Yes, yes; I know you're fond of me," said she to the great wolf-dog, that fawned upon her. "Yes, you're the only creature in this world that loves me. I wish I'd been a dog, too. Why wasn't I born a dog? If it were only true, as mother says, that there once were times when people were changed into other beings."

Thomas's whistle and cry were again heard. The dogs answered. He drew nearer and soon stood beside her.

"So it's you, is it? I thought as much. Where's the other one?"

"Where you'll never find her."

A cry of pain resounded from the woods.

"Kill me at once!" cried Esther. The dogs howled, but knew not which of the two they would help.

Thomas went off, leaving Esther lying where she had fallen.