Three weeks had slipped by, and Christmas was close at hand. Day after day the same glowing sunshine flooded lake and mountain. Every one said it was the loveliest December ever known on Lake Garda. And yet in the midst of this beauty of nature, the two in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele walked in the dull, uncertain twilight life.

Judith had recovered quickly. She came to table as formerly, and neither sigh nor reproach passed her lips. The count, too, adapting himself to the new conditions, never spoke of the past. But both felt acutely that a wide, wide gulf had opened between them. They lived as in a cloud, seeing each other dimly, and neither stretched out a hand to the other in compassion or in love.

Only twice during this week had they spoken of anything more than was necessary. The Augsburger Allgemeine Zeitung at that time the only large newspaper permitted in Austria, contained one day a lengthy leader concerning the new civil marriage law of the grand duchy of Saxe-Weimar. It was the first of those laws in Europe allowing marriage between Christians and Jews, without a change of faith on the part of the Jews. Judith had just finished reading it as Agenor entered the room. She asked if he knew of it.

He said, "Yes," adding, "it is very curious."

"Truly, and any one educated with us at home would be inclined to think it impossible. But since this miracle has been accomplished in one country, I suppose the others will follow. Perhaps the time will come when it will not be counted a crime for one to have a heart and to follow the mandates of that heart. May I keep this paper? If I had a prayer-book, I would put this in it."

He made no answer, but presently said, "The people in Weimar are rather given to innovation." She had hardly heard it, when an expression of deep pain overspread her countenance.

"Do you believe there is a prayer-book," she asked, "that would do for all mankind, no matter what their confession?"

"I don't know, but I will inquire."

"It would be useless, I suppose. As yet there is no occasion for such a book, but the time may come."

The second conversation, relating to something besides the dinner, the weather, or the health of the baby, took place just after a call from the podestÀ of Riva. Agenor paled when the chief official of the town was announced. But it was a harmless business he had called about. New-Year's Eve there was to be a festival in Trent for the benefit of the poor of Southern Tyrol. The podestÀ brought cards of invitation to the wealthy forestieri in person, so as to secure a handsome gift. As the stout, olive-complexioned gentleman bowed himself out of the room, elated with the splendid donation he had received, Judith said, "Are you not going?"

"No," was the somewhat surprised reply. "It does not interest me in the slightest degree. Besides, how could I leave you alone?"

"What could happen to me here? I have often thought, though I did not like to say so, that it would be a good thing for you to live for a few weeks in the world. And perhaps it would be--"

"Good for you, too? Has it got so far between us?"

"It would be good for both of us," she said, gently. "Perhaps there would be less restraint between us after a brief separation. Do not say more now," she continued, hastily, as she saw him about to speak. "This cannot be arranged by words, but I beg you to consider my proposal."

She arose and quitted the room.

A week after this conversation Agenor received a letter from his Vienna bankers, Messrs. M. L. Biedermann & Co., saying that he had overdrawn his account considerably, and that though, of course, they had no hesitation in forwarding the sum he asked for, still they would be obliged if he would straighten out matters as soon as possible. They also forwarded him two letters, one of which they had held for a week, the other had just arrived by special post.

The latter was from Stiegle, advising strict economy; the other from Wroblewski, in reply to that of Agenor, written on the 30th of November. He said that Raphael had opened the letter addressed to the deceased, and had placed it with other testimony, but he hoped to be able to evade danger if he received thirty thousand gulden. If they were not sent, he intended to escape disgrace by putting a bullet through his head, and he advised the count to do the same. There were a few lines extra from Stiegle, saying he had managed to secure the wished-for ten thousand gulden, but at forty per cent interest; and as he saw certain destruction looming up in the distance, he gave notice that his situation would be vacant by the end of March.

Agenor crumpled up Wroblewski's letter in an ungovernable rage. He had credited him with a good deal of avarice and falsehood, but not with such dastardly conduct. Owing to his conversation with Judith, he had quite forgotten to countermand the check, and, besides, it would have been too late, and Wroblewski would perhaps regard it as an advance for future services. And now came this letter! He had delivered himself up into the hands of this scoundrel, though he was, perhaps; not entirely helpless, since this letter proved clearly Wroblewski's rascality. Still, this would do no good so long as the count, by his absence, showed how timorous he was. For that reason he ought to go home, see to his estates, and sell one of them. But Judith, could he leave her alone?

Hours passed in these painful reflections, and dinner-time came. He braced himself as best he could, so as to show Judith a cheerful face. It was not a great success, however, for as he lit his cigar after dinner she said, "You had bad news from home to-day. What has happened?"

"Nothing of importance," he answered. "Merely money complications. My cousin's old debts--"

"Then you must go home and arrange them. It is your duty. I will stay here with the baby, and you can fetch us in April, or we can go alone."

"You will be glad to be rid of me?" He said this with a forced smile, but his face was very grave, nevertheless.

She knew what he meant, and said, quietly, "You need have no fear, Agenor. You know well the child would hold me to life, under any circumstances. And how could I cause you such sorrow? No matter how you have erred in other ways, you kept your word and made me your wife. I say it openly, Agenor, I believe it would be a blessing to you and to me if I died a natural death."

"Judith!"

"Forgive me. I ought not to have said it, but it came from my heart, as it were, and forced its way through my lips. And it is perfectly true. Here life is hard enough; what will it be at home? But voluntary death would be a dreadful misfortune for you. Your conscience would never know peace. It is a frightful feeling that the death of a beloved one is on your soul. You, Agenor, shall never experience that. When will you start?"

"Let me consider it. How can I go when your mind is filled with such hideous fancies, and I know you are tormenting yourself in vain?"

"Do not let us talk of it. Words cannot change the circumstances. You ought to go, if only for love of me. I feel I should be better if I could be alone awhile. What else is there to hinder you? Fear of Raphael's revenge and the court? I have thought of it frequently the past few days, and cannot think you have much to fear. The defendant is a count, of an ancient line, who has brought another soul into the Holy Catholic church, while the plaintiff is a common Jew, and the trial will take place in Galicia. Believe me, Agenor, if you had dishonored and deceived me and then kicked me into the street, and I, the betrayed and ruined, had accused you and asked for judgment against you, the judges would have looked upon it as a good joke. I say this without bitterness; it is the unvarnished truth. Again, I say, you must go."

Again he besought time for consideration. "Suppose she finds all out in the meantime? But how can she when her address is known only to myself and the Vienna banker." These were his thoughts. He was convinced he would be unable to detain her in Italy later than April. If he went he might make preparations, and perhaps take counsel with a clever lawyer.

He took his departure soon after Christmas. Even that drew their estranged hearts no closer, despite the gentle and kindly words their lips uttered. She watched him with dry eyes as the carriage rolled through the park gates. "Au revoir!" he cried. "Au revoir!" she answered, waving her handkerchief.

It was more quiet than ever in the palazzo by the Porta San Michele. Only old Jan, who stayed behind to protect the women, went occasionally into the town. Judith never went beyond the park enclosures. She passed some of her time in caring for her child, some in reading books sent from Innsbruck by Agenor; but for the most part she sat motionless in a brown study.

Faithful Hamia crept about anxiously, continually inventing excuses for going into the drawing-room where Judith sat. This clever girl had entered Judith's service at Czernowitz, during their journey, and knew very little of her mistress's early history. But she knew of her father's death, and her pity made her very sympathetic.

"If the count only knew what I know," she sometimes said, angrily, "he would write oftener." But in this she was wrong. He was not careless, and wrote at every break in the journey. But the longest and most tender letters would not have lightened Judith's heart. He wrote that he had found much to do, and went out very little. Now, he said, briefly, that the fear of the courts was really superfluous, and now, that he had heard Raphael was quite well and was managing the factory with great energy.

She thanked him heartily each time, and assured him that she and the child were well; but her letters were laconic, and she wrote not one syllable of that which occupied her mind. If she really believed that isolation would heal her sore heart, she deceived herself. Day and night the picture of her father's death-bed was before her eyes; even by the cradle of her baby she heard her father's curse. And perhaps it was well that the illness of Annunciata caused the care of the child to devolve entirely upon the mother. Another nurse could not be found, and they were obliged to give the poor baby artificial food. The care and anxiety which this caused numbed somewhat the other grievous sorrow.

February came to an end. Spring flowers bloomed in the villa gardens, and the breezes were warmer than in June in the north country, where were her thoughts. The baby could now pass long hours in the open air, on the sunny terrace behind the house, where Annunciata, still his nurse, would hold him on her lap, Judith sitting beside him, leaning over now and then to kiss his tiny hands. The boy would smile when he saw his mother and stroke her face, and then only a ghost of a smile would light up her careworn features.

As they were sitting thus one March day, Jan announced a friar who desired to speak with the count. Although Annunciata was unable to understand the message given in Polish, still Jan's voice was lowered to a whisper when he added, "He is from Galicia, and knows our real name. I have told him repeatedly, 'The count is away,' but he always replies, 'Tell him; he is sure to receive me,' and he won't go."

"Bring him here, then," ordered Judith.

The monk, an old bent man, with long white beard, appeared.

"Praised be Jesus Christ!" he began, bowing low. When Judith made no response, he added, "In all eternity, Amen!"

"Do you wish to speak to my husband?" she asked. "He left here just before New Year's, and it is uncertain when he will return. He is now on his estate in Podolia."

"Most gracious countess," said the old man, in a quavering voice, "I must speak to him. Please tell him."

"If you do not believe me," said Judith, curtly and proudly, "I have nothing more to say."

The man fell back a step. "Forgive," he pleaded, "but it is so terrible for me, so terrible!" he repeated, in such a changed voice that Judith regarded him with astonishment. "I have made this long journey," he resumed, in his old weak voice, "only that I might speak to him."

"Can you tell me?"

"No, that is impossible;" but he retained his position, notwithstanding.

"What else do you want?" she asked.

The monk answered nothing, but Jan said, "The reverend gentleman would not despise a meal and a small gift, perhaps."

"You can give him both," said Judith, turning again to the child. When she looked up again the monk had followed Jan into the hall.

"Curious," mused Judith. "How did the man find his way here? Even Agenor's letters reach me through the bankers, and what did he want?"

An hour later, during dinner, Jan announced, "The old fellow is still in the servants' hall. Things are not quite in order."

"How?"

"When Hamia took him his dinner, he started. I saw quite plainly how he shuddered and trembled. But she says she does not know him. Then, again, the old man is guzzling more than three young men would. I have warned him that this Veltliner is the devil himself. But he keeps pouring it down, groaning he does not know what to do."

"Give him two francs and send him out of the house," ordered Judith.

Shortly after she was in her sitting-room, writing to Agenor describing this visit, when Hamia came running in, pale as death, and trembling all over.

"Most gracious countess," she stammered, in great excitement, "the monk is a swindler. He is Tondka, the scoundrel; I know him."

"What do you mean?"

"Ignatius Tondka, who was clerk to the lawyer with whom I was in service at Czernowitz. He courted me then and wanted to marry me, but luckily I found out that he was a swindler and that the police were after him. He used to dress himself like a priest and cheat the people."

"But the monk is an old man!"

"He has a false beard. For it came off in Jan's hands when he took hold of it. When Jan told him to go, he kept asking for more wine, yelling, 'I can demand what I wish in this house.' He raised his fist to strike Jan, but he was so drunk he fell down and Jan on top of him. When I heard the noise I rushed in, and saw Jan getting up with the beard in his hands, but the monk lay still. 'Who is that?' I cried, and then I recognized the scamp. 'So it's you! I will spoil your game of playing priest. I'll fetch the police on the spot.' No sooner had I said that than he grew almost sober with fright. He got up and said, 'You are mistaken. I do not know you.' 'What,' I cried, 'I do not know my old lover! You just wait, you villain.' Then he whispered, 'Be quiet, as you love your life!' 'Rubbish,' said I, 'I won't spare a cheat and scoundrel like you. Jan, pitch him out!' But Jan must have seen him before, too, for he stared at him and turned quite pale. 'Where have I seen that face?' he kept saying. 'You have never seen me,' said Tondka. 'Yes, I have,' said Jan, 'in Borky.' But you are pale also, gracious countess."

Judith's face had indeed grown ashen. Every drop of blood seemed to have oozed from it. She sank back into her arm-chair and murmured, "Go on, go on."

"There is nothing more to tell, and why are you so frightened? Ought I not to have told you? I thought I ought, as Jan is like that old woman in the Bible who turned to stone. He stands there saying, 'In Borky! in Borky,' and Tondka answers, 'No, no!' But, mon Dieu, you are fainting."

So it seemed. Judith's eyes were closed and her head bent low on her heaving bosom. But she mastered her weakness and arose. "I must speak to him."

"With Jan--shall I fetch him?"

Judith shook her head and moved on. But her knees shook so that she would have fallen had not Hamia supported her. "For God's sake," cried the girl, "what is the matter? Where do you wish to go?"

"Give me your arm," said Judith, and they went to the servants' hall.

The door of the large, low room stood wide open. Jan was by the table, opposite him the stranger, whose knavish face, with his short cropped hair, peered curiously out of the monk's hood. The false beard was on the floor by the side of a broken bottle. The poor faithful servant had just emptied his money-bag on the table, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Here are all my savings," he sobbed. "Two hundred and four gulden. They will take you home, and the count will give you what you want. But go, for God's sake, go! The poor thing must not find it out."

Judith entered. "Thank you, Jan. But I wish to speak with the man in private."

The poor fellow staggered backward. "My most gracious countess," he moaned, "he lies! he lies!"

"Go," she repeated, "or I shall not be able to stand it."

Weeping bitterly, he crept out of doors, and motioned Hamia away, who was plaguing him with questions.

"We must watch her day and night, for the lake is close at hand."

The conversation lasted but a few minutes. Then Tondka came slinking out with the beard in his hand. "Really, Herr Jan, I am downright sorry for her. But I am to send you in. She has something for you to do."

Jan entered the room. Judith was sitting on a bench by the table. "Take this," she said, giving him a key. "Open the safe in my room, and give the man the three hundred francs I have promised him. Then send Hamia here."

The girl, who arrived a minute after, found her mistress senseless on the floor.

It was a deep swoon. The doctor, who was called by Jan, remained until late in the night, seemingly very anxious. "Brain fever is threatening," he said, when leaving. "I am afraid the case will be a serious one."

He was mistaken, for when he came the following day he found his patient out of bed. She had aged suddenly, and looked like a shadow, and it shocked him greatly to see silver threads among her auburn tresses.

"My dear madam, I do not know what has happened, but I hope you will remember you are a mother."

"I assure you I will not forget it," and she thanked him for his sympathy. He left her with a quiet mind.

Hamia was relieved, too, when she heard her mistress talking as sensibly and reasonably as ever. Only Jan was suspicious. He feared it would not end well, and prayed all day long that God would preserve the balance of her mind. His anxiety was still greater when she sent for him in the evening, and said: "You were about to sacrifice your savings for me. Since you love me that much, will you lend them to me if I ask you?"

"With the greatest pleasure; but there is still a good sum in the safe."

"Still, I ask them from you. I will certainly repay you."

He took the money to her, but said sorrowfully to Hamia: "Now I am sure she is not right in her mind."

He was to discover the next morning that she was perfectly sane.