All day, it was evident from the features and actions of Father Peter that he was the prey of unusual excitement. He would draw himself together with a shiver as often as he met the triumphant glance of Idalia. The lady of the castle considered the victory certain. These confused looks, this stammering, this awkward manner, she regarded as the dying convulsions of this man's conscience. One blow more, and his pride, his vows, would be killed. At the evening meal, the three were alone together. After the long visit of their guests, this was quite unusual; but such an undisturbed family circle is usually very agreeable. Then husband and wife say to each other, "Our guests were dear to us, but now that they are gone, they are still dearer."

After the meal was over, Idalia sent the household to rest, and had the child put to sleep in her own room; the two were alone together. The lady took her harp and sang; she sang of Heaven, of Paradise, and of love; but Father Peter's soul was not with her. The great clock struck eleven. Father Peter seemed to be sitting on hot coals; he arose, and did not wait for the conclusion of the song, although a touching one.

"Good-night."

"What,—going so soon?" asked Idalia, astounded.

"It will soon be morning."

"I thought that with the morrow, Sunday would be over, and you would answer my question."

"This is the first Sunday, and I asked for two."

The lady knit her brows.

"And do you need so much time to settle your accounts with those above?"

—"And with those below."

Father Peter had involuntarily spoken the truth. The consuming flame of suspicion blazed up in the soul of this woman. In the presence of such love-charms, such fascination, such unconcealed passion, it is impossible for a man to persist in marble insensibility unless he loves another. Such deathlike calm is only possible to one who lives in another world, and is there blessed. She forced her countenance into a gentle smile.

"Very well, I wish you a restful night. But I have one favor to ask,—that you take my little boy back into your room; since he has been sleeping with me the bad dreams have returned. You know better how to manage him; let him spend the night with you."

Father Peter's features betrayed the uneasiness that had taken possession of him. This demand of the lady would only delay his meeting with Magdalene.

"Very well, I will take the child with me," he said with enforced calm.

"I will bring him to you myself at once," replied the lady. Idalia hurried to her room, and awakened Cupid, who was asleep in a small bed beside hers. The child awoke in terror.

"What's the matter—are you going to kill me?"

"No, indeed, my darling, my angel, how could I!"

"But your face looks just as it did when you threatened to put the pin through my head."

"You've been dreaming. Come, my dear, to-day you are to sleep with your father, with Father Peter."

"Beside Tihamer? Call him here. He can come to me, more easily than I can go to him."

"You must mind me, if you don't wish to make me angry, and be cast off."

At that Cupid began to cry. When a child wakens out of his first sleep and sobs himself half dead, sleep cannot be coaxed back in less than two hours; and this Idalia knew perfectly well.

"Listen to me, my little boy, you are a dear little boy, and I am your loving mother, and always will be if you mind me. I will give you everything that you want. But if you don't do as I say, I'll torment you, and let you go hungry, and dress you in rags. Now you are a clever little boy, and you know perfectly well that Father Peter is not what he pretends to be. The question is whether he deals with the good spirits, or with the bad. Only a good little boy like you can find that out. See, I'll give you a little silver whistle that you can hide out of sight. Now come into Father Peter's room. As soon as you have lain down, shut your eyes, and open your mouth, and act as if you were already asleep; draw a deep breath and leave your mouth open: meantime, notice carefully what Father Peter begins to do when he thinks you are asleep; if he leaves the room, slipping out carefully, dressed in his cowl, and does not go through the door where I should see him, or through the main entrance hall where the watchman would stop him, but lets himself out of a window, down by a trellis where the vines grow, then as soon as he is a little way off, blow this silver whistle; I will be near by, and hear you, and then I will come and we will find out whether Father Peter works with good or bad spirits. Have you understood me?"

"Yes," said the child, "and it shall be all right."

Curiosity was stronger in the child than fear. The thought that in keeping watch as his mother bade him, he was to find out Father Peter's secrets, pleased Cupid very much.

"Carry me there," he said, "and don't worry. I'll find out about him."

When Idalia had given the child to Father Peter, and he had gone to his room, she concealed herself behind the secret door of a niche in the corridor; such as were to be found in many places in the thick castle walls. She had hardly waited half an hour when there was a shrill whistle. She hurried to the boy's room. Cupid sat up in bed; on his features could be read a mingled expression of astonishment, fear, and mischievous delight.

"You can come now," he said.

"Keep quiet," said his mother.

"He won't hear me, he's not there."

"Where is he, then?"

"He has gone underground,—to Hell."

"Tell me what you have seen."

"I did as you told me. While I was still saying my prayers, I began to yawn, and before we reached the Amen I was lying on my back on the bed and snoring. Father Peter sank down on his knees beside my bed and finished the prayer: 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.' And with that he struck his hand on his breast, and sighed deeply several times. At last he rose, his whole body shook as if he had swallowed down a bitter medicine; then he struck his head against the wall, and there was such a noise that I thought his skull would go to pieces; then he bent over me, listened to my breathing, and covered me carefully; then he went to his own room and shut the door behind him. Before, he always left the door open to hear me wake. I got up quietly and slipped to the door to watch what he was doing. When he caught sight of the gaily embroidered clothes lying spread out on his bed, how his eyes shone! He did not hesitate long,—quickly threw off his soutane and sandals, and put on the cloak, the laced stockings, and the spurs—what a fine young man he was! You ought to have seen him! And then when he had put on his sword, he drew it from the scabbard, and struck a few stray blows into the air; oh, how bright his face was! Nobody would have said it was Father Peter. I thought he was going to surprise you—that he was dressing himself to make you a visit; but he did nothing of the kind; he brought out a dark lantern and lighted the candle in it, and shut the cover down: then he put his monk's cowl over his knight's suit, and covered his fur-trimmed cap with its hood. Then he was Father Peter again. What he did then, I could not see, for he went to the window, but I heard the window creak, and I heard the vines rattle against the wall. I went to my window and looked out; it was dark; Father Peter hid his lantern under his cowl; but I could see this much, that he went toward the chapel of Saint Nepomeck, that is in the corner of the garden near the wall; you know, it is that saint that every peasant takes his hat off before, and we cannot play with our balls or our tops near him, for if we should accidentally hit the saint, a great curse would come on us, because this saint preserves us and all the villages from floods; he is a great saint, isn't he?"

"Who cares what kind of a saint he is! Tell me quickly what happened."

"Well, Father Peter went to the chapel, and threw his arms around Saint Nepomeck. 'See, see,' I thought, 'The monk and the stone saint are kissing each other;' instead of that, he pushed the statue of the saint to the ground and stood in its place. 'What now,' I thought, 'is Father Peter going to be Nepomeck?' No, for he began to sink down into the ground and when he had gone quite out of sight, the statue of Nepomeck got up by itself and took its old place. But why do you look at me that way, are you going to kill me? How ugly you look all of a sudden. Have I said anything bad?"

Idalia struck the child on the head. "Curses on you for what you have said." And even her voice sounded different—like the rattling of chains. This speech, this look and the blow filled the child with such terror that he crawled under the bed, and did not venture forth until he saw that he was alone; then he was afraid of the loneliness, and began to howl and cry. "Mother, mother, don't leave me alone; the souls of the departed come and wail, and try to carry me off!" But nobody came. Suddenly, there appeared on the ceiling a ray of light as if somebody were going through the garden with a lantern. Cupid crawled out from under the bed, and went to the window to call out to this person in the garden. It was the figure of a woman in black, her hair covered with a black veil, and with a dark lantern in her hand. By the light of this lantern, the child could see that it was his mother. He saw her go directly to the chapel of Saint Nepomeck. She too stepped up to the statue and threw her arms about its head, and the statue dropped down quietly. Idalia now in her turn took the place of the statue and vanished into the earth: the statue raised itself again.

"My mother too has gone down to Hell!" whispered the child, trembling, and sank down on his knees in terror. "Father in Heaven do not be angry at me, I will never again leave off the end of my prayer. 'Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.'"

Six steps led from the statue of Nepomeck down into the earth, the seventh step was movable and turned on a pivot; if you stood on one end of this, the statue above raised itself, but if you stood on the other end, it sank gently down, The builders of this subterranean passage had chosen well the guardian of their secret. The place where stood the statue honored by all, was protected from investigation; it was not possible that in this vicinity any one could be found who would venture to overturn the sacred Nepomeck.

Lady Idalia had wrapped herself in a black cloak, and placed two pistols in her belt, and she carefully concealed the dark lantern. The mole-hole of the Hussites yawned before her! A long, dark, black defile, the more gruesome since it did not run straight but round about; the entire tunnel so like a catacomb, was vaulted, hewn out of the hard quartz. The walls were already as black as a scaffold, with the underground mould, which had so covered everything over that objects lying on the ground could hardly be recognized. And on this mould-covered floor were traces of steps,—fresh distinct traces of steps going and coming. One could see the imprint of the five nails in the monk's sandals, evidently he had been there often before; the freshest imprints, however, were of the spurred boots of a knight. Idalia followed these hastily. She feared neither the underground darkness nor all the terrors of the invisible world, which in their collected form bear the name of Night, great black mass—what she carried in her bosom was still blacker than this darkness.

At a turn of the tunnel, she saw moving before her a light, at a distance of perhaps two hundred feet; it was the gleam of a torch that he had evidently lighted here in the tunnel from his lantern, to see his way better. Now when a man carries a torch in his hand, he is so blinded by it that he does not see if some one comes behind him, especially if this somebody is wrapped up in a black cloak, keeps in the dark, and conceals her dark lantern. Idalia could approach so near the form striding on before her that she was in a position to recognize it. It was Father Peter in his cowl, but with spurred boots. He went rapidly, but Idalia went more rapidly, and almost overtook him.

The tunnel was long, with side passages opening into it, here and there. Feminine curiosity compelled Idalia to cast a glance into each one of these caverns; here she could use the full light of her lantern. One of these caverns might have been a wine-cellar; there were still some casks there; from this she concluded that there must be a still wider exit; for through the narrow opening by the statue of Nepomeck, one could not roll in such casks. A side passage led into a large, roomy hall, where in one corner were to be seen the remains of a wooden staging; what might have been here once?—a secret church for Hussite gatherings—or a court—or even a place of execution? This higher ceiling was not covered over with mould, but with a glistening dampness. In another corridor were heaped up rusty old weapons and armor. In a dome-shaped cavern was a cask on end, of a bright green; when she lighted it up with her lantern, she saw that the cask was entirely covered over with copperplate, and the green was from the verdigris; out of the bunghole of the cask hung a long twisted cord. "Suppose I were to set fire to this cord, what would result?" Idalia asked herself, and hurried on her way. Suddenly the figure before her stood still. An oaken door with bands of iron closed the tunnel; here the tunnel was walled with brick, and the threshold of the door was of hewn stone; the masculine figure placed his torch in an iron ring on the wall and approached the door. This was made fast by a lock with a secret combination, such as are used in closing cellars and underground doors; such locks, even when they are rusty, can be opened by those who know their secret, but if a man does not know this secret, he cannot open it in a lifetime. An iron pole, notched on the inside, runs through the iron rings; on the outside of the rings are engraved all kinds of letters; and the man who knows the word which is the key to the opening of the lock, will turn these ten rings until this name appears. Then are found on the inside of the rings the spaces in their order, and the notched pole can easily be drawn out, otherwise, one might turn these rings until the day of judgment and not succeed with the lock. The secret of this lock Father Peter had learned from the YAW DEREVOCSID EHT, and at every one of his underground visits he had made fast the lock. While he was busy opening the lock Idalia looked around her. Near by the door were two side passages opposite each other; she must conceal herself in one of them to keep better watch; she chose the right one, because this lay in the shadow, while the light of the torch shone into the other. It needed a self-control beyond woman's powers not to utter a shriek as she threw the light of her lantern into the cavern she entered. It was a square room, black with smoke, with wall of cement: it might once have been a sleeping room, for there were beds and benches; and in all the resting places lay the forms of women, some as if asleep, others still in convulsive attitudes crouching in the corners or leaning against the walls; one sat at the table, with her head resting on her hands, and a Bible open before her. She was reading while the others listened; one crouched under the table with a rosary in her hand,—she was a Catholic—all were richly dressed and their gowns were covered with lace and gold and silver embroideries; and yet their garments were decayed and those that wore them were skeletons. The fair blond hair of the one reading seemed to have grown even after death, for the floor all about her was quite covered. These were the women spoken of in the mystic book, who here await the resurrection. Evidently they too had come here to explore the secret of the strange lock when their provisions had failed them, and here they had miserably perished. On the wall above each figure was cut her name, her religion, and the day of her death. On the table lay a handsome enameled watch; by this they had reckoned how many days this long night here below had endured. Nobody had inscribed the name of the last. It was a maiden, with a maiden's wreath on her head,—perhaps she had been stolen from the altar.

Idalia stood looking at this abode of death. It seemed to her as if all the skulls, with their eye sockets staring into eternal nothingness, grinned at her, as if they would say to her, "We have waited for you. Now you have come; you too are one of us." Should she flee this place, turn back home and throw herself in penitent prayer before the statue of the Virgin Mother of God? Was it a dream that she saw here? And what she felt—the anguish, the revenge, the terror—was all this only a dream? Do such feelings come in waking moments? The creaking of the door recalled her consciousness. She looked out, and what she saw gave back all her kindling rage.

Father Peter had laid aside his monk's cowl, and stood there in knightly costume, like a bridegroom ready for the marriage altar. He was proud and handsome! The noble fearlessness of the man was mirrored in his countenance. Ah, in this guise he belongs to another! He is hers only in that hateful, hideous, coarse cowl, which she contemptuously pushed aside with her foot, as he stepped through the door to close it behind him. So the jealous woman stamped her foot upon this deceitful cover of hypocrisy. "You cloak of lies! You sacred mask! Pious costume of a comedian! Chrysalis of a golden butterfly! The chrysalis is fixed to my tree, but the butterfly flies to the flower of another. Shame, curse and ruin upon you, and upon him who has worn you and shall wear you again!" And at each curse, she stamped again upon the cowl. Then she opened carefully the door. She set the lantern on the floor. The distance before her now was not great, for the straight corridor with brick walls extended about a hundred feet farther. By the light of the lantern in the hand of the man before her, she could press forward with sure step—there was no hindrance in her way.

At the end of the corridor, the knight stepped aside into a recess, and as he disappeared, there shone forth a dull light on the opposite wall, which indicated that a door had been left open, and that the wanderer had reached his goal. Quietly, she too slipped into this place; the opening was the frame of Saint Anthony's picture; she looked through and saw the interior of the chapel before her. Who was in the chapel? A knight and a maiden. What are they doing in the chapel? They stand in close embrace. The listening woman had heard no outcry through the stillness of the night. Evidently the maiden was not surprised; she had surely been waiting for him. They might have agreed long ago to meet here at this hour, and that was why the monk was in such haste. The kiss lasted long. Perhaps only a minute by the watch, but a thousand years of torment to the jealous watcher. This endless time sufficed for her inflamed imagination to paint the picture of the previous moments. Yes, without doubt, here waited for him this maiden with mourning, despairing, broken heart. She waited for her former lover in monk's cowl, who now laid aside the vows that forbade his heart to beat. She waited for the disgraced, scourged monk; perhaps with the firm resolution, that they would together mourn all this sorrow which is without relief here below, and then together abandon this world in which they have nothing more to seek.

But when instead of the humble priest, she saw step forth from the frame the handsome knight of old, she forgot at once that a church arched over her, and that a crypt was beneath her feet: she forgot that she had come here to weep, to pray, to prepare herself for death,—and threw herself into the arms of her fascinating lover.

All this the feverish fancy of the jealous watcher saw during the eternity of that kiss. And when they separated, and she saw their expressions, they were those of the blessed. How is it when one looks out from the gateway of Hell at the smile of the Blessed? She played with the trigger of her pistol. How easily she could kill them both. But the cup of bitterness, too, must be drained in swallows, as well as that of pleasure. Perhaps she can yet offer this cup to another and say, "My Lord, I drink to your health!" Such a festivity should not pass without the drinking of healths. But first she must watch through to the end what they were doing, and hear through to the end what they were saying.

The knight looked about him, and then seized the maiden by the hand. "Come away from here," he said in a hurried whisper. "What I am going to say, the church and sacred picture must not hear."

The maiden drew back. "For Heaven's sake, what can you have to say to me of that kind?"

The listener must leave her place quickly, for she must reach the oak door before the lovers stepped through the recess of the altar picture into the passage, otherwise the light of the torch shining in when they opened the door would betray that somebody had been watching for them; and then must they kill her, and she did not wish to lose her life so cheaply. She had closed the door before the maiden had allowed herself to be persuaded to follow her lover. Idalia concealed herself again in the room of the beautiful women of old. She leaned against one of the eternal sleepers, concealed her face in her veil, and hid the lantern under her dark cloak. Soon she heard the creak of the door, gliding steps, and the clink of spurs.

"I tremble," said the maiden.

"What do you fear when I am with you?"

"Everything, and myself."

"I will defend you against the whole world."

"And against myself?"

"Do you not love me still?"

"Because I do love thee, I fear for myself."

"If you do love me, you will come with me."

"Whither?"

"Out into the world where I shall lead you."

"But you are a priest!"

"No longer. In the same way that I could put on the monk's cowl, I can lay it off again. That blow on the cheek that I received is the expiation for the sword stroke that I gave."

"And your vows?"

"God will not count this against me, and as for man, I care not. I have read the Holy Scriptures through to the end, and nowhere in them can be found that to love is a sin, and that to renounce love is a sacrifice pleasing to God. This monstrous idea is an invention of man."

One of the many occupants of the room of the dead stirred at these words, for she heard her own words—repeated to another. This was the fruit they bore!

"Listen, something moves in that room over there!"

"Don't look that way," said Tihamer.

"Who's there?"

"Noble ladies who have been asleep for two hundred years." Magdalene took his lantern, and threw its light timidly into the dark space.

"What a frightful sight—skeletons in bridal attire!"

"Leave the place."

"One of them has her head covered with a veil."

"Perhaps it is a widow; under the veil is a death's skull."

"It seems to me as if it moved."

"Only your imagination."

"There's a light shines through her cloak."

"Decayed bones do sometimes shed a light."

The knight drew the maiden away from the sight. It is true that sometimes a light does shine through decayed bones and a death skull does see and hear. The maiden in her terror burst into tears. The youth encouraged her tenderly as he took her in his arms.

"Listen to me, my Heaven, my all of happiness; we have no other choice except this passage under the earth, or that other to Heaven. For I cannot return to my monastery, and I will not be condemned to the temptations of my tormenting devil."

("His tormenting devil! that's what I am," whispered the figure under the veil.)

"And what fate awaits you?" continued the knight; "—to be chained to a beast—to be sacrificed more horribly than if you were offered up to a bloodthirsty idol!"

"No, no! Death rather!"

"My plan is for you to live and be happy."

"Did you not promise me to take me to a convent?"

"I thought then that I too should end my days in woe; but now I know that I am not yet a consecrated priest. Bishop Thurzo told me so to my face, and reprimanded me for usurping the name of Father. But even if I were a consecrated priest, I should still be free to change my fate. If I become a Protestant, no vow binds me any longer. We will go to Transylvania, and adopt the Hungarian faith; you know ever so many belong to this faith, just, pious, God-fearing people; a third of the population of the country is Protestant. God will not punish us either for this."

("Ah, he learned that too from me; how well he remembers!")

"We will go to distant lands, where no one has ever heard our name. I will buy an estate where we can live in comfort. I may become as rich as I please; look in this niche here; here are treasures heaped up that we need only to take; all is mine. It was left me as an inheritance by the one who hid it here in former days. I have the proof in writing. The treasure is doubly mine; on the casks of gold and silver are inscribed my family arms; the Hussites of old stole it from our castle Lietava. It is my inheritance, see there!" The knight threw the light of his torch into this niche of the wall; the maiden's eyes were blinded by the sight of the treasure heaped up there.

"I can take as much of it as my shoulders can carry off."

But the maiden said sadly, "I have no desire for the treasure. Who knows what curse is resting there!"

"I too am willing to renounce it. Then we will go away poor, and we will journey to some poor little village, whose church tower is surmounted with a weather-vane; you shall be the wife of a poor Calvinist pastor, and take care of your own kitchen and vegetable garden. A thatched roof shall be our shelter, and happiness shall dwell within."

("These words, too, did I put into his mouth.")

"How beautiful it would be," sighed the maiden, "if it were not a dream!"

"All can be real, if you will but say yes."

"Ah, do not tempt me! Already have I gone so far that I can no longer cast a stone at any sinful woman. I am the most sinful of all. I have allowed myself to be overpersuaded—not by you so much as by my own heart—at night, and Sunday night too—when all good people are asleep, to steal out of the house, God's house, the church I chose for a meeting place with you! I have drawn the veil over my face in the presence of men, and drawn it aside in the presence of the saints. I am more sinful than the Lady of Madocsany, for I do what she only meditates. I come here under the cloak of innocence."

"I swear to you, you are more holy than the saints there on the wall. If your soul condemns you because you only half-love, quiet it by saying that you love me wholly."

"What would you have me do?"

"Follow me now,—this very moment. The way of escape is open. In the summer-house of Madocsany Castle are two horses saddled, the key is in the rear gate; we can escape unnoticed. When the morning dawns, and our escape is discovered, we shall be beyond the mountains."

("My own plan of flight.")

"Leave me, for Heaven's sake, tempt me not. A week to consider."

"No, no!"

"One day then at least, to consider this whole plan of yours. If I am to turn aside from God and all the saints, let me at least finish weeping in their presence; let me tell them why it is I love you more than Heaven."

("Ah, you too know that? And yet you did not learn it from me!")

"Let me go back for a day—just for one day—I must take leave of the memory of my mother, must beg her gentle picture for forgiveness, must collect my few relics, set free my poor little dove, and once more kiss the hand that has so often abased me, but that I still bless. I cannot go with you until I have kissed my father's hand for the last time."

"Very well, it shall be so; but promise me that you will come again to-morrow."

"By my eternal happiness, I will come."

"And follow me out into the world?"

"God pardon me for what I am doing!"

"And so I let you go. God be with you."

And he kissed the maiden's brow.

"Accompany me with your light back into the church; now that I am sinful, I am afraid of the darkness of the church."

Both went back through the door into the passage way, and the door closed behind them. Idalia came out of her hiding-place—the bones of the widow——! She shook the mould off her cloak. She came near letting loose the hot lava of her passion. In the ring of the closed door hung the ring of the secret lock: the name that served as key was Hieronymus. She had only to put the iron pole across the door, shake up the rings, and then pound with her fist on the heavy door, and cry,—"I wish you a pleasant journey, you turtle-doves! You can go out past the two bears, and that third one, your father. I send kind greetings to all three." But she knew how to control herself; it should not be done this way. To-morrow is yet to come, and that shall be the dies irÆ. She had nothing more to say. She caught up her lantern, and ran hastily back, so hastily that she slipped several times on the damp ground. When she had run about a thousand feet, she looked back. She did not see the torch-light coming near her. Naturally they must take leave of each other, and that required time.

It was still the dead of night when she reached the end of the passage-way. Saint Nepomeck stood aside for her, and then took his place again. Idalia hurried up the secret stairway to Father Peter's room.

The child in his fear had fallen asleep on the bearskin in front of the bed. The mother laid him on the bed and covered him over, and he did not awaken. Then she looked out of the window to wait until the saint's statue came down again. It was a good half hour before the figure of Father Peter appeared from underground. So then their parting must have lasted half an hour. He had escaped through the window; through the window he must come back. She waited until he began to climb up the trellis-work; then wrapped her sleeping child in her cloak and carried him to her own room. Father Peter should not speak with him again.