"Walk in here," said Mother Claus, seizing Oswald by the hand and drawing him from the dark passage into a little room with one window, opposite to the larger room on the other side, into which Oswald, aided by the steward, had carried the sick servant the other day. She did not trouble herself about Albert, as if she knew that the young man possessed a talent for finding his way in the dark. "I have looked for you; for I know from of old that you love to run about in such weather, to cool your hot youthful blood. Are you quite wet through again, as usually? Well, not so badly this time! There, sit down in the easy-chair. None of you have ever sat there since the day on which Baron Oscar died in it, forty-three years ago."

"Not a particular recommendation for superstitious minds," said Albert, seating himself on a large wooden chest in the background of the room, while the old woman was pushing Oswald into the easy-chair and sat down at his feet on a footstool; "but honor to whom honor is due. You look quite grand, doctor, on that single gala-piece of furniture in this otherwise very plain room, especially in the Rembrandt light that falls on you, and with the old woman, Murillo fashion, at your feet, like a banished king who seeks shelter with an old fairy in the forest, while his faithful squire sits modestly in the background. I really believe our race has tired me, and I could sleep a few moments. Wake me, dottore, when it stops raining--" and Albert stretched himself full length on the old chest, put his hands under his head, and, in spite of the uncomfortable position, he seemed to have fallen asleep after a few minutes, while the monotonous ticking of the old cuckoo clock in the corner, and the dripping of the falling rain, alone interrupted the profound silence in the little room.

Mother Claus had taken up her knitting and was at work as busily as the other day at a tiny child's sock, busily, busily, that the needles clinked merrily. Only from time to time she would look up at Oswald and nod kindly, as if she was glad that he was sitting so comfortably in the soft old armchair, here in the cosey room, while the rain came down pitilessly outside.

"Is it not a good chair, young master?" she said, laying down her knitting for a moment, and putting her right hand on Oswald's knee. "The baroness gave it to me after the baron died. She could not bear to look at it, she said; for it reminded her always of the moment when they brought him in, after he had fallen with Wodan, and put him into that chair; and Harald came running in and cried, when he saw his father so pale and disfigured, and she, too, was running about in the room and wringing her hands, and I stood by the baron and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. I had no time for crying then, but I knew I would have time enough afterwards."

"And how old was Baron Harald when his father died?" asked Oswald.

"Ten years," answered Mother Claus, "and it would have been better for him if he had died too--for him and many others."

The old woman had taken up her knitting again, which had been lying idle in her lap, and was knitting more busily than ever, as if she wanted to make up for lost time.

"Yes, yes," she said; "it would have been better. Then he was a beautiful, innocent boy, with rosy cheeks and violet eyes, and when he died----"

The old woman paused--the needles clinked and the rain beat against the panes.

"Well," said Oswald, "and when he died----"

"Then he was a bad man, and it was a bad death. I alone know it, for I alone was with the poor man when death seized him with the iron hand. Then they struggled with each other, strong Harald and strong Death, and it was a horrible sight, so horrible that all the others ran away; but I would not abandon him in his last hour, for he was, after all, Oscar's son, and I had borne him in my arms when he was an innocent babe, and rocked him on my knees. So I held on and prayed, while he swore and cursed God, till Death struck him on the heart, and he cried out aloud and fell back on his pillow. Then it was all over with him, and his poor soul was at rest."

"And had the baron no friend who might have stood by him in his last hour?"

"Friends enough, and men among them who were not afraid of a death-bed; but they were afraid of Harald; he would have strangled and torn to pieces any one who would have come to him at that hour. I only wish they had come, one after the other; there was not one among them but deserved to have his neck twisted."

"And who were these sad friends?"

"First, Baron Barnewitz, not the one at Sullitz, who is still alive,--he is a good man and harms no one,--but he at Smittow, who afterwards lost all his money at play to Baron Berkow, and then sold him his daughter to pay his debts."

"Melitta!" groaned Oswald, and his hands seized nervously the back of his chair.

"What ails you, young master?" asked the old woman.

"Nothing, nothing," murmured Oswald, with a supernatural effort to overcome a mingled feeling of horror, pity, hatred, and revenge, which arose in his heart when he saw the image of his beloved one thus dragged through the mire of vulgar passions.--Melitta sold, sold by her own father, to a man who did not love her, whom she only married to save her father from disgrace! Oswald felt that such a thought would madden him if he followed it out, and at the same time he was afraid that cunning Mr. Timm, of whose profound slumbers he was by no means quite convinced, in spite of an occasional snore from the great chest, might notice his emotion. He forced himself, therefore, to sit still and to ask, with apparent calmness:

"Was Baron Berkow one of Harald's friends? Was he not too young at that time?"

"He was the youngest," said Mother Claus, "and the best too. He did what he saw the others did, without thinking whether it was right or wrong. He was not as powerful as the others. When he drank one bottle, Harald drank three, and yet Harald remained master of himself and Berkow fell under the table."

"Was he a handsome man?" asked Oswald.

"Not as handsome as Harald, and far less so than you are, young master. He was smaller and weaklier than either of you, and Harald could have mastered six like him. But then there was far and near no one as bold and as strong as Harald. He could stop the wildest horse running at full speed, and make it as gentle and obedient as a dog, and he always jumped in the saddle without touching the stirrup. They told wonderful stories of his gigantic strength, but it was just as I tell you. When he was angry--and he was very often angry--he would break a heavy oaken chair or table as if it were glass. Then the veins on his forehead would swell like thick branches, and white foam would froth at his mouth, so that it was a horrible sight; but when he laughed and was in good humor, you could not help loving him again. Then he could be so sweet, and say such nice things; no one would have thought him such a bad man. For bad he was, after all; whatever pleased him he must have, cost what it might, and if everything else should perish."

"Were you all that time up at the castle?"

"Why do you speak so politely to me, young master? You never did it before, I am sure. Yes, I was up at the castle. You know my husband was dead, and the boys were dead, and the girls, and I was the only one who looked a little after things up there since the death of the baroness. I did not like to stay there, Heaven knows, for Castle Grenwitz was no better than Sodom and Gomorrah. Every day came friends, and often half a dozen other visitors besides, and then playing and drinking till late in the morning."

"Did ladies ever come to the castle?"

"No, even the boldest were afraid of these wild men. And most of them were not married then, like Baron Berkow; or their wives had died, like Baron Barnewitz, and thus they could carry it on undisturbed. There never were any women there I would speak of, except one, except one----"

"And who was that one?"

"The last one--a beautiful, innocent angel, who might have converted devils even; but Harald and his companions were worse than devils."

"What was her name? Where did she come from?"

"We called her Miss Marie; where she came from I never heard, nor where she went to."

"Then she did not take her own life, as people say?"

"No--she was too good and too pious to do that; she would have borne her cross to Golgotha. Oh! she was so young and fair, and so gentle and so sweet; my eyes have never seen anything like it before or after. If I had known they meant her when Baron Harald, over the wine, betted Baron Barnewitz I do not know how many thousand dollars that the girl should follow him, of her own free will, to Castle Grenwitz--I would have poisoned them all in their wine, like a nest of vile rats."

"And how did Baron Harald go about to win his wager?"

"That is a long story, young master, and I will tell you. I tell you, if all the drops that are now falling out there were tears, and all were wept for the sake of the poor child--I would say they were not nearly enough.

"When Harald made that terrible wager with Baron Barnewitz, they had just been absent together for two or three weeks; I know not where, but I believe they had gone to a large city, far away, and there, I think, they had seen the poor child. Soon afterwards he left again, and this time he stayed two months. At last he wrote he would come back, but not alone. His Aunt Grenwitz, he wrote, would come too, and I was to air the rooms of the late baroness and let the furniture be attended to, and prepare everything for her reception. Now I knew the baron had a great-aunt, his grandfather's sister, but she must be eighty years and more; she had never in her life been at Grenwitz, and had never troubled herself about Harald, nor he about her. I was, therefore, not a little surprised at the strange idea to undertake such a journey at her time of life, for she lived many, many miles from here; but I did as I was ordered. They arrived on the appointed day; I received them and wondered how active the old lady was, though she walked with a crutch and had silver-gray hair and eyebrows. Harald was full of respect for her; he led her on his arm through all the rooms of the castle, and showed her everything very carefully, especially the family portraits in the gallery, where her own was hanging, as a girl of eighteen.--They stopped before it and laughed immoderately, and the old lady began to cough, and Harald slapped her on the back. I did not know why they laughed so--I thought it was because the pretty girl had become such an ugly woman, for then I did not suspect anything of the disgraceful plot.

"Early the next day the baron sent for his carriage and he and the aunt drove off. 'We shall be back to-night,' he said, 'though perhaps very late. We shall bring a young lady home, a young companion for Aunt Grenwitz. She is to have the room next door, do you hear?'--'But, master,' I said, 'the baroness died in the red-room, and everything is left there exactly as it was on the day of her death.'--'Then let everything be cleared out,' he said; 'do you hear, everything, and have it put in another room. Put some furniture in it. The young lady must sleep near Aunt Grenwitz.'--'What do you say, dear Harald?' asked the aunt, who was deaf in one ear and did not hear particularly well in the other ear, so that she could never understand me, even when I spoke ever so loud. 'Nothing, nothing, dear aunt,' said the baron, 'all right, Jake!'

"It was late in the night when they returned. I had sent all the servants to bed except the new valet, which the master had brought home with him from his travels. The young lady was in the carriage. When they entered the hall and the light of the candles, which the man--his name was Baptiste--carried in his hand, fell upon the rosy face of the young lady, his features grinned most unpleasantly. But I saw Harald frown and make a sign with his eyes, and at once Baptiste was all submission and zeal again.

"'Show the ladies to their rooms, old one,' said Harald to me, and then he bowed gracefully and wished the ladies a good-night.

"'Will you give me your arm, dear Marie?' said the aunt, as I was showing the way with the light in my hand; 'my limbs are a little fatigued after the long ride to-day.'--'How shall I ever thank you for your kindness?' said the girl, with a voice so soft and sweet, that I could not help turning round and looking at her. The old woman and the girl were standing on the landing of the steps. There were three candles in the branches which I held, and the light fell bright upon the two, and I shall never forget the sight, if I were to live another eighty years. The aunt had never looked so hideously ugly to me, and in all my life I had never seen anything half as fair and sweet as the young lady. 'You know best, dear child,' said the old lady, making a good-natured grimace, which made her look still uglier, if that was possible. 'I have only one wish upon earth; it lies with you to see it fulfilled or not.' The girl did not answer, but great tears started in her eyes, and then she bent her tall, slim figure quite low and kissed the old witch's hand. 'Well, well,' she said, 'you are a good child; we shall agree, I doubt not, and my Harald, my pet, will be happy yet.--Tell them to give you your candle, dear Marie; I know the home of my ancestors well enough, although I have not seen it for more than sixty years now. You can go to bed, Claus; I do not like to trouble the servants unnecessarily.'

"And that was true. We heard her bell very rarely. She dressed herself and undressed herself; it took her several hours, it is true, but none of us was allowed to render her the slightest assistance; once, when one of the maids had come into her chamber while she was dressing, she was very angry, and ever after locked herself in. She had strange ways about her, the old lady. Thus she never was tired at night, and I have seen her wander about in her room till early dawn; but then she slept till late in the afternoon. At table she never had any appetite, but in her room she could eat and drink without end; sometimes she had two, and sometimes three bottles of wine sent up stairs. But the most remarkable thing was this: to-day she looked fifty, and tomorrow she looked eighty; at one time she was stone deaf, and at another time she could hear a mouse slip across the room; now she scarcely could drag herself along with her crutch, and then she came down the steps faster than I, although I was only sixty then, and quite active yet. I felt very uncomfortable about the old lady, and was glad when I could keep out of her way."

"And what was Miss Marie doing in the mean time?"

"She was almost always with Harald. I saw them together early in the morning, wandering among the dewy flowers in the garden, arm in arm; she with bashfully cast-down eyes, he talking eagerly to her. I saw them in the afternoon, sitting in the cool rooms which face the park; he reading aloud from a book, or more frequently his arm leaning on the back of her chair, and she looking up at him very happy, whereupon he would cast burning glances at her, and smooth from time to time her silken brown hair. I saw them in the evening, wandering once more in the garden, or slowly walking up and down in the brilliantly lighted rooms, while Aunt Grenwitz was sitting on the sofa, reading, or pretending to read. Ah! those were glorious times for the poor child, and she always looked so perfectly happy that I feared and trembled how it all was to end; and when she met me she always had a kind word for me: 'How are you, dear Mrs. Claus?' or, 'Can I help you, dear Mrs. Claus? You work too hard. I am ashamed to be so idle here.'

"One afternoon I met her in the garden. It was a hot, sunny day; she wore a white dress, and a broad-brimmed straw hat was hanging on her fair round arm. The baron was out riding, the first time for a long while, and the aunt still asleep. I had long determined to speak to the girl at the first opportunity, and to open her eyes. I gathered courage, therefore, as she was about to pass by me with a 'Good-day, Mother Claus, how are you?' and said: 'Many thanks. Miss Marie, have you a moment's time? I should like to say a few words to you.'--'What is the matter?' she said, and as she looked into my face, which was probably quite sad and sober, she cried: 'For heaven's sake, I hope nothing bad has happened?'--'No, Miss Marie,' I said, 'but that might easily come about if you do not look about you; and I should be heartily sorry for that, for you are so young and good, and you look so chaste and good, and as innocent as an angel.'--'What do you mean?' said the poor child, and turned deep red. 'Come this way, Miss Marie,' I said, and drew her into the beech avenue, where we could not be seen from the castle; 'I will tell you everything I have on my conscience. I am an old woman and you are a young girl who knows little how the world goes, and how things go here in Grenwitz!' And then I described to her the life at the castle as it had been before she came, and what a wild, sad man Harald was, and how he was as false and as cruel as a tiger. She turned to me with glowing cheeks, never once raising her long silken eyelashes to look at me with her beautiful blue eyes, and without interrupting me once; then she said, in a low voice: 'I thank you, Mrs. Claus--but what you tell me I have long known.' I was thunderstruck. 'You knew it, and yet you accompanied the old lady here? You know it, and you remain here. You know it, and you are not afraid to stay alone with the baron for hours and days? Oh, child, child! what must I think of you?'--'Think nothing that is bad of me,' she said, placing her hand on my shoulder, 'and think a little better of the baron. He will never again be as wild and as bad as he has been.'--'How do you know, Miss Marie?' 'Because he has promised me.'--'And you think he will keep his promise?'--'Oh, certainly.'--'Why?'--'Because he loves me!'--'Oh, child! child!' I cried, 'for heaven's sake, it is high time: flee, or you are surely lost. Poor child! to believe his vows! He shoots the horse that he likes no longer, and he breaks the vow that becomes a burden to him. What he has promised you is an old song; he sings it as a bird whistles his air, without thinking what he does. What he has promised you he has promised a hundred others, who perhaps were no better than he is.'--'Stop,' said Miss Marie, vehemently, 'I cannot and must not listen to you any longer.' And then she added, smiling: 'You will soon see, my good woman, how you have wronged my Harald--how you have wronged Baron Harald.'--'Your Harald?' I said, 'poor child! He'll never be your Harald. He takes whatever chance throws in his way, and as you happen to be here----' 'And if I should not happen to be here,' she said, laughing merrily; 'if I should not be here for the sake of the baroness, but the baroness for my sake, and if I should not go away again, but remain here forever?----' At that moment Harald came suddenly into the avenue in which we were walking up and down. He started when he saw me alone with the girl. 'Miss Marie,' he said, 'I believe my aunt wants you.' And when the girl had left us, he came up to me and said, hissing the words through his white teeth: 'What did you tell her, old one?'--'That you cheat her, Harald.'--'I shall twist your neck for that,' he said, and the vein swelled on his forehead. 'Better that than to break the poor thing's heart.'--'Listen, old one,' he said, 'what if I meant it in good earnest this time? What if I am really tired of this wild life, which must, after all, lead me sooner or later to the devil? What if I want to marry the girl?'--'Is she of noble birth?' said I, Harald laughed: 'She is a tailor's daughter. I shall have to put a goose and the shears in my coat of arms.'--'If she is not of noble birth,' I said, 'you will never marry her, and at best it would only be one cruel act more. The poor creature would die amid the gibes of your friends, like a hunted stag under the teeth of the dogs. Send the girl home; I beseech you, Harald, rather to-day than to-morrow. And the old baroness, too,' I added. He looked at me with open eyes, and laughed and said: 'You are less clever than I thought, old one.' Then he turned his back on me and went singing into the castle.

"I did not know what to make of all that. Had Harald really promised to marry the girl? Did she, who knew his former manner of life, really believe he would keep his promise? She looked so bright and sensible, with her big blue eyes; how could she let him deceive her so? How had Harald gone about to get the better of her so completely? It troubled me day and night, until I was made sick. I should have liked so much to save the poor innocent child, and to save Harald that additional sin. But I did not know how to go about it. Since that conversation in the garden Miss Marie avoided me everywhere; the aunt did not leave her rooms till evening, and kept her head wrapped up, in spite of the warm weather. Harald had not said another word to me for days. He really seemed to have changed entirely. Since Miss Marie had been at the castle he had not been drunk once; he had not beaten the servants; he had not killed a horse by furious riding, while formerly not a day passed without some such calamity. Then he had flown into a rage upon the slightest provocation; now he was mild and kind towards everybody, only not towards myself, because he knew he could not impose on me, who had known him from childhood up,--and towards his new valet. That was a hideous creature, constantly smiling, and constantly running after the girls, who could not bear him. He had nothing to do all day long but to lounge about, his hands in his pockets, and to make faces at everybody. He did nothing for the baron since Harald had one day kicked him, so that he was disabled for a fortnight. None of us could understand why the baron did not turn him out.--During this whole time not one of the gentlemen had been here who formerly used to come and go at the castle. I had been hoping some of them might come, so that I might have a chance of speaking to Miss Marie. But Harald never left her alone. If they formerly had seemed to be fond of each other, matters were very much worse now. Whenever they thought themselves unobserved they were in each other's arms, and such kissing and caressing! Well, well, such things happen between lovers, and I did not do differently when I was a young girl, and I knew myself very well how the Barons Grenwitz flatter the girls,--but I also knew what the girls have to pay for it in the end. One fine morning, when I met Miss Marie again and asked her how she was, she turned purple and stood and trembled like an aspen leaf. When I saw that I knew what had happened, and my heart felt so heavy that I sat down on a bench and cried. When Miss Marie saw that she began to cry too, and sat down by me, and wound her arm around my neck and said: 'Don't you cry, dear Mother Claus! It will all come right!'--'God grant it, child!' said I, 'but I don't believe it'--'But,' said she, 'don't you see yourself how kind and good the baron is, and yet he is so only because he loves me, and if he did not mean to marry me, why should he have brought the aunt here? And if the aunt does not object, she who Harald says is so proud and haughty, how can the other relations say anything against it?'--'Then you are not the old lady's companion?' I asked, surprised.--'No!' she said, 'I saw her here for the first time!'--'But how in Heaven's name did you get here, if you did not come as her companion?'--The poor child cried more violently than before. 'I must not tell you,' she cried. 'I have promised the baron to keep it from everybody till----' she paused as if she had said too much already. 'I dare not tell you,' she repeated, 'but you may believe me, I am not a bad girl, as you seem to think.'--Then she kissed me on my forehead and hurried away toward the castle.

"After that day I saw that Miss Marie had often been crying. She had cause enough for it, the poor child. Harald did what I had long apprehended: he commenced his old life again; of course only gradually. The friends did not come to the castle yet, but he himself rode out frequently and remained away half a day or a whole day. When he returned he was often in bad humor, treating the servants to whippings and kickings, and demolishing the furniture; still times were golden in comparison with what had been before, and he was still always quite gentle with Miss Marie, especially after his violence had once frightened her nearly to death. With the aunt he seemed to have nothing at all to do, after they had been quarrelling once or twice in the parlor at night, so that we heard it down stairs. I thought the old lady was scolding him, and so I sent her as many good dishes and as much wine to her room as she wished, although it was inconceivable what she could consume.

"Then it was that I was one night walking through the house after all had gone to bed, as I always did, to see if all the lights were out, that suddenly a bright light struck me, which came towards me in the passage that leads from the tower to the old castle, where the ladies were staying. In my fright, and hardly knowing where the danger was, I cried Fire! Fire! as loud as I could. At the same time I ran along the passage towards the place where the fire was. Suddenly Harald was by my side. I knew but too well where he had been.--'Hush, old one,' he said, 'it is only a curtain!' And then he commenced to tear it down and to stamp the fire out with his boots. Suddenly the door opened which led to the rooms of the baroness, and which lay just opposite the burning window, and out rushes the old witch with a bundle under her arm, and the valet with a still larger bundle on his shoulder. They had nearly run over us; but Harald seized the valet by the shoulder and hurled him back so violently that man and bundle rolled on the ground. 'Are you again together, rascals,' he roared at the old woman, who began to tremble in all her limbs when she saw the baron in such a fury; 'trot back to your room or I'll help you!' All of a sudden he commenced laughing again, and I also could not help laughing when I saw that the old lady, in her hurry, had forgotten to put on her wig, and her own red hair was hanging down from her soiled cap in not very short braids. This and some other changes made her look so different that I hardly recognized her.--'Go to the devil, old witch,' cried Harald, still laughing heartily, 'and get yourself painted up again, or the world will see too clearly where you come from.'--The old lady murmured something which I did not understand, and went back to her room; the valet had in the mean time gathered himself up again and slipped down the narrow staircase which led from the passage into the garden. 'Go to bed, old one,' said the baron to me, 'and think you have dreamt all this, or think what you like. It is all the same to me. The comedy has lasted long enough.'

"And the comedy was played out. Next morning the old lady and the valet were not to be found, and none of us has ever heard or seen anything of either of them; none of us has learnt where they came from and who they were. This only was certain, that the old lady was as little the baron's aunt as I was his mother. The servants laughed and the baron laughed, although they had carried off as much plate and clothing as they could manage; but I did not laugh, and there was somebody else who did not laugh. The poor dear child! At first she would not believe it that the baron had deceived her so badly. She walked about with open, fixed, and tearless eyes, and when she met me she looked so sad, so anxious and grieved; it wrung my heart. Alas! I could not help her! I could only weep with her, and that I did as soon as the poor child had recovered from her first horror and found tears once more. We were now often together, for since that night Harald cared less for Miss Marie. He rode out every day, and now the gentlemen also came back to the castle, as of old, and the former life began once more. Harald became wilder and more reckless than I had ever seen him, and the servants avoided him wherever they could. Perhaps he wished to silence his conscience or make up for lost time; who knows?

"One evening, when the gentlemen were again at the castle--it was about seven o'clock, and they had been at table since three--Miss Marie was in my room, where she now spent most of her time, when Harald suddenly came in. I saw at the first glance that he was drunk. His face was all aglow, and his eyes shone like those of a wildcat. When he saw Marie, who had started up at his entrance, frightened, he laughed and said: 'Do I find you here, my dove? I have looked all over the house for you. Come, pet, I want to introduce you to my friends; one you know already--but you must be quite nice and polite, you hear?'

"Marie had turned pale as death when he said this, and was trembling in all her limbs. I saw how she moved her lips to reply, but she did not produce a sound. I could not bear it any longer.

"'Are you not ashamed, Harald,' I said, 'to tease the poor, innocent lamb in this way? Fie, Harald--I have always known you were bad, but I did not think you were so bad!'--He started up with one bound and seized me by the throat.--'Say another word,' he ground out from between his teeth, 'and I break your neck, old witch.'--I knew he could do what he threatened, but I was not afraid of death. 'Do what you like,' I said, calmly, 'but as long as I have a breath in me, I will tell you to your face you are a wretch.' I looked firmly into his eye; I saw how his anger rose in him, and I felt that his fingers were encircling my throat as with an iron band. I thought my last hour had come.--Suddenly Marie was standing by our side; she put her hand on Harald's arm, and said, in a low voice: 'Let her go, Harald, I will go with you!'--That was all she said, but it was enough to move even Harald's wild heart. He dropped his arms and stared at Marie, as if he were aroused from a dark dream. Suddenly he fell on his knees before her, hid his burning face in the folds of her dress, and sobbed: 'Forgive me, Marie, forgive me!' Then he started up when he saw her smiling, lifted her up in his arms like a child, carried her up and down in the room, caressing and kissing her. Then he put her down into an arm-chair, the same chair you sit in, and knelt down before her, kissing her hands and her dress, and turning to me, he said: 'Go, old one, and tell Charles to have the horses saddled. I am unwell, or whatever they choose to say, but I cannot see the gentlemen to-day again, nor to-morrow. Is that right so, darling? I am not quite so bad, am I, as the old one says?' I went, crying for joy, and thought: 'Maybe after all it will all come right!'

"But it did not. After a few days all was as of old. Similar scenes occurred again and again, but Harald's good resolves lasted only a few days, and we had to pay with bitter tears for every laughing remark of the gentlemen. I say we, for I loved the poor girl now as if she had been my own child. And now the poor child needed help and counsel more than ever. She was sorely concerned for the fate of the child she knew she bore--'What is to become of me,' she said, 'matters little. I would die to-day if I could; but I must live and will live for my child's sake. And I will not cry and complain any more; it does no good, and Harald says he hates nothing more than red eyes.'--I asked her if she had no parents, no relations, no friends, to whom she might go. She shook her head sadly: 'I have no one in this wide world; no one but you, good Mother Claus, and one other, who would do anything for me, if he knew where I was; but he does not know it, and never shall know it.'--She had never said anything about her former life: 'I have promised the baron to keep it secret till he is publicly married to me, and,' she added, sadly smiling, 'you see yourself that it will probably remain secret forever.'

"She hardly ever left me now, and as for Harald, he seemed to have forgotten of late that Marie was still at the castle. Only at times, when I was alone with him, he would ask a few abrupt questions about her, which showed me that he knew everything about her condition.

"Thus matters were standing. The summer had come to an end; autumn came, with wind and rain, and the dry leaves were dropping fast from the trees. It was one afternoon, when Harald had been away for several days; I was with Marie in the garden, and tried to comfort her, as she was particularly sad that day. Suddenly a Jew, a pedler, looked over the fence, and when he saw us he cried into the garden: 'Nothing you want? Nothing you want?' I happened just then to be in need of something, I forget what, and so I called him in. He came. It was a dirty old man, with a white beard and spectacles of blue glass on his nose. He showed us his goods, and as the things were nicer than what such people generally had, Marie and I bought several things. He asked very moderate prices, but yet it amounted to more than we had, and I went back to the castle to get money. By chance I could not at once find the key to my drawer, and when I had found it, it occurred to me that I had to attend to something in the kitchen; thus half an hour might have passed before I came back in the garden. I found Marie alone. 'Where is the Jew?' I asked.--'He is coming back to-morrow.' 'What is the matter, child?' I asked, for I saw that she had been crying, and looked very much troubled.--Then she fell on my neck, crying, but much as I asked her to tell me what had happened, I could learn nothing.

"The Jew did not come back the next day, but Baron Harald. He brought several gentlemen with him. They had been hunting, and were very tired. This made them retire earlier, after having drunk a few bottles of wine.

"I might have been a few hours in bed without being able to sleep, for it rained and blew that night fiercely, and the shutters creaked, and the hounds howled.--Then I heard a soft step in the passage before my door, and a hand seeking the knob of my door; somebody came in and walked up to my bed.--'Who is that?' I cried. 'It is I, Mother Claus,' said a low voice. It was Marie. 'Are you sick, child?'--'No,' she said, sitting down on my bed, 'I only come to say good-by to you, and to thank you for all the love and kindness you have shown me.' I thought she was going to take her own life, and said, horrified: 'For God's sake, child, what do you mean?'--'Don't be afraid, Mother Claus,' she said, and embraced me amid hot tears; 'I am going, but only from here. I have long wished it, and now the hour has come.'--'Why now?' I asked, 'where will you go to now, at night, and in such a night? Don't you hear how rain and wind howl with the hounds? And you know not the way.... You run into the jaws of death, and if you do not think of yourself, think at least of the child.'--'I am thinking of it,' she replied. 'It must not see the light here where its mother has been so very wretched; it must never know who its father was. Farewell, dear Mother Claus! may God bless you and preserve you! And fear not for me: I am not going alone; I have somebody with me, who will protect me and watch over me, and who would give his life for me.'--'Are you quite sure of that, child? I thought you had learnt what to think of the vows of men? Who is it?'--'I cannot tell you,' she replied, 'and now I must be gone.' She had risen from the bed. 'Wait,' I said, 'I will at least see you out of the castle.'

"She begged me to stay, but I did not mind her; I had soon put on some clothes; I was firmly determined not to let her go, till I was quite sure that she knew what she was about. I was still afraid she might think of suicide.

"When she saw that I was not to be turned aside from my purpose, she helped me to dress, and said: 'Well, then, come, Mother Claus; at least he will see now, that I have not been forsaken by everybody here.'

"We went, holding each other's hand, on tip-toe down the passages, then down the staircase which leads from the old castle into the garden. It had ceased raining, and the moon was shining at intervals through the black drifting clouds. I still held Marie's hand in mine; she hastened onward, drawing me after her through the familiar avenues. When we passed a bench in one of the darker walks, where she had often been sitting with Harald, she stopped for a moment, and I felt her hand tremble. But she recovered herself instantly. 'No, no,' she whispered: 'he is right, Harold has never loved me, and I must not stay here any longer.'

"We went through the garden into the court-yard, and through it and the great gates into the forest, on the road to Berkow. When we had gone a few hundred yards, a man came to meet us. 'It is he,' said Marie; 'you must leave me now, Mother Claus; I have promised him to come alone, and not to tell anybody that I am going.'--'You ought not to have promised that, child; I think I have a right to know what is to become of you.'

"In the mean time the man had come near, 'Is that you, Marie?' he said. 'Why do you not come alone?'--'Because I did not let her,' I said, 'and because I shall not let her go until I know what is to become of her.'--'She is in God's care and under the protection of a friend,' said the man. His words sounded so truthful and safe, that all my anxiety vanished in a moment.

"The moon peeped forth from the clouds, and I could see the man, who was now walking by our side, more distinctly. He was small, and not very young, and had a hooked nose, like the Jew of the day before. He had on a long overcoat, and when the wind blew it open I noticed by the light of the moon the muzzle of a pistol, which he wore in a belt around his waist.

"A few yards farther, a carriage with two horses was standing. 'It is high time,' said the man on the box. He spoke Low German, and I thought I knew his voice. 'Quick, quick,' said the man with the spectacles, and drew Marie to the step, which had been let down. 'Good-by, good-by,' she sobbed, embracing me once more; and as her head was resting for a moment on my shoulder, she whispered in my ear: 'Tell him I have forgiven all, all!'--'Quick, quick! Marie,' exclaimed the man impatiently, stamping with his foot, and helped her into the carriage; then he turned to me: 'If you really love the unfortunate girl,' he said, 'keep this secret for forty-eight hours. I am prepared for everything, but I should wish for Marie's sake that we should have no use for this;' and he struck his hand upon the pistol.--'Rely on me,' I said, 'and I will rely on you.'--'You can do that safely,' he replied; 'all men are not scoundrels and barons.'

"He jumped into the carriage and closed the door. The horses started, and already, a few minutes later, I heard nothing but the wind in the pine-trees.

"I walked slowly back to the castle, and reached my room without having been seen by anybody. I locked myself in; then I threw myself on my bed and wept as if a dear child of mine had died; and yet I was happy, and thanked God that he had taken pity on the poor child and rescued her from this hell.

"When I awoke next morning the sun was already standing high in the heavens. It was a cool, bright morning, and Harald went hunting with his guests. I was glad of it, for thus Marie's flight could be kept from him at least till evening. The servants, to be sure, had to be told towards noon that I could not find Miss Marie,--had they seen her anywhere? They were not a little frightened, for there was not one who had not liked the gentle, beautiful girl. They searched the houses, the country around, the forest down to the shore, and even the great fosse; for they all agreed that the poor child must have taken her own life.

"Late at night Harald came back. He was alone. As he entered the house he read in the disturbed faces of the servants that something had happened. His bad conscience told him at once what it was. 'Is she dead?' he asked, and turned as white as chalk. 'We do not know, master,' said old Jake, 'we have been looking all day, but we have not found her.'

"He went past the servants to his room without saying a word. When he was in the door, he turned around and beckoned to me.

"He was walking up and down in the room; at last he stopped before me, and said, with a hollow voice: 'Did Marie ever tell you she would take her own life?'--'No,' I said. 'Was she particularly sad of late?'--'Yes.'

"Again he walked up and down, with uneven steps, and murmuring unintelligible words. Then he stopped once more before me. 'And if she has taken her life, I am her murderer,' he said.--'Who else?'

"He started as if a knife had been thrust in his heart. 'It cannot be,' he said, 'it would be too fearful.'

"I knew the anguish he was feeling at that moment; but I also knew that the proud man would rather know her dead than belonging to anybody else, and besides, I had promised secrecy. Thus I remained silent, and waited to see what he would do.

"He ordered me to ring and send for all the servants. They came.

"'Those of you who are tired may go to bed,' he said; 'those who are willing to search on with me shall have whatever they may ask.'

"All expressed themselves willing to help him, not for the sake of the reward, but because any way none of them would have been able to sleep from excitement.

"He ordered all the lights to be brought that could be found, and now they commenced the search once more--below in the cellars, through all the rooms down stairs and up stairs, in the garrets, up into the old tower,--Harald always ahead, searching every nook and corner, with his eyes everywhere, giving his orders with a firm voice, indefatigable, till morning broke.

"Now the women were sent to bed, but the men followed him still, as many as could stand it. With these he searched the shrubbery, the garden, from the fosse to the drawbridge, and the fosse itself. It was raining that day as fast as it could come down, and the servants were nearly exhausted; but Harald, for the first time in his life, I believe, spoke to them kindly, and besought them not to give it up, and promised them a mint of money. Thus they stood it till noon; but then they had to give it up. Now Harald took the others, who had rested in the mean while, and with these he went out on the moor near Fashwitz, and into the forest of Berkow, and down to the sea-shore.

"Towards evening they came back, dripping with rain and the moor-water, in which they had been wading about for hours. The men were so tired they slept as they walked, but Harald's strength was unbroken. He told me to bring a few bottles of wine, and while he poured them down his throat he said to me, 'Listen, old one; I do not believe she has drowned herself. It would be too horrible; it would drive me mad. She cannot have intended to avenge herself on me so cruelly; she was too good for that, and she was too fond of me. Did she ever tell you that she would leave me? Did she ever speak to you of a man who was at all times ready to receive her at his house?'

"I thought I ought to leave Harald some little hope, and said:

"'Yes, Maria has often told me so, especially of late.'

"'You see,' he said, and put the glass out of which he had been drinking, so violently down on the table that it broke into pieces; 'now the hounds scent the track. Now we'll have a regular fox-chase.'

"He pulled the bell-rope till the handle came off. 'Order horses!' he cried to old Jake, who came in, 'instantly!'

"I begged him to sleep at least a few hours, for I saw that his eyes were burning with fever, and he trembled in all his limbs.

"'Pshaw!' he said, 'I sleep? I have other things to do than to sleep. I do not know how long I shall be away, old one, but I shall either bring her back or,--will you make haste!' he cried into the hall; 'I'll teach you how to hurry, you scamps!'

"And he went off without having changed his clothes, even. He stayed away four weeks; no one knew where he had been. One evening he came back. The first question he asked me was: 'Have you heard from her?'--He looked so pale and haggard that I hardly knew him again. His eyes had sunk deep into his head and were burning like coals of fire. 'I did not find her,' he said, when we were alone in the room; 'give me wine, old one; I must drown the hellish fire that burns within me in wine.'

"I pitied the unhappy man; for I felt now only how very dearly I loved him. I told him all I knew about Maria's flight. Contrary to my expectation, he remained quite calm! 'It amounts all to the same,' he said, 'whether she is dead or not. She is dead for me; she could not help herself; she had to leave me; she was too proud to suffer herself to be treated like a dog,--I have treated her like a dog, worse than a dog,--wretch that I am!'

"He beat his forehead with his closed hand; then he threw himself into an arm-chair, put his head in his hands and sobbed. 'And yet I loved her! And I love her still! Oh my God, my God!'

"It was a fearful sight to see wild Harald weep! I lifted up his head; he put it against my bosom and wept, as he had often wept there when he was a boy. I begged him to calm himself. I told him what Marie's last words had been: 'I forgive him all!'

"'And if she has forgiven me, I shall never forgive myself,' he cried. 'Go to bed, old one; we will talk about it tomorrow.'

"But when old Jake came into his room next morning, Harald was lying in high fever. That lasted seven days, seven terrible days. Then it was all over with Harald Grenwitz!"

The old woman paused, smoothed the sock she was knitting over her knee, folded it up and said:

"Well, young master, now you go home. I have to look after the children, who are sleeping in the other room on Jake's bed. It does not rain just now, but it is going to rain worse. Therefore don't stop on the way. Good-by!"

"Come!" said Oswald to Albert, who had just risen from his hard couch and was yawning and stretching his arms. "It is high time, if we mean to reach the chÂteau in time for supper. Good-by, Mother Claus."

"Good-by, good-by, young master," said the old woman.

When the young men found themselves in the muddy village street, Albert pointed with his thumb over his shoulder at the hut they had just left, and said:

"Odd old lady that! Was not that a famous story, dottore?"

"You were not asleep, then?"

"Not a bit! At first I wanted to sleep, but you did not let me sleep, and then when she commenced the story about Baron Harald I could not sleep. But I remained quietly where I was, and snored from time to time to reassure the old lady, who evidently did not want anybody to hear it but her young master. Why does she always call you her young master, dottore?"

"I do not know," said Oswald.

"Or you do not mean to know," replied Albert; "well, no harm done. We must not wish to know everything. Why did Baron Harald want to know what had become of that pretty girl Marie? Without that quite superfluous curiosity he might have drunk his Burgundy to-day. Strange that a sensible man should have had such absurd romantic notions in his head! Can you understand it, dottore?"

"Well, perhaps I can," said Oswald; "but let us speak of something else."

"As you like it, my dear sir. What do you think of immortality?"