"Did your mother often speak of me?"

"Oh, very often, constantly; not a day pa.s.sed that she did not tell me something about you; but her recollections were always of a little boy, so I could only fancy you one, just as we always picture the Lord Jesus Christ as a baby in a manger. And oh! I loved you so dearly. At first, to be sure, when I was very little I was often jealous of you when my mother cried for you, but as I grew older she taught me to love you as she herself loved you, and taught me to pray for you."

"Oh wondrous Providence! There lived on earth, though far from me and unknown, a soul that had thoughts of love for me while I, alone and a stranger to the world, prayed within convent-walls. Was it you who were present to me in the spirit when I flung myself with fevered longing down in the gra.s.s, or on a grave, and believed that some response must come to my soul"s cry, either from above, or from the abyss below! Was it you?"

"Indeed it must have been, for I often shouted your name to the distance, and thought you would hear it and come. We waited for you, day after day, but at last my mother could wait no longer and she took me to Burgeis, to be nearer to you. Yes, and when I saw a pretty little boy, with dark curls and brown eyes, I asked my mother if you had not looked like that, and if she said "yes," I would take him up and nurse him and kiss him and call him Donatus. And when I saw you in the procession, I did not know you, because you were no longer a boy, but tall and dignified. I took you for an angel; but mother knew you again.

Still, now I have you with me and you are so poor and helpless I can quite make you out to be the same with the little boy I used to picture. Oh! I wish you were still so little."

"And why?"

"Because then I could carry you in my arms and shelter you in my bosom from wind and weather and every danger."

"Oh merciful Providence--what wonders dost Thou create. Yes, you are a wonder, you pure and holy child-spirit. It is such as you that G.o.d in his mercy sends to lonely pilgrims on the way to Heaven to fare forth with them and strew the path of death with flowers. All my wild longing was but a vague seeking for you--pure and holy child--for you too are not of this world; you, like me, are not of the earth, earthly; you, like me, have no hope but in the other world."

The girl leaned her face on his arm and wept softly, but she was weeping for happiness; for had he not himself said that G.o.d had created them for each other, and whether for life or for death, it was all the same to her. They were two stricken souls flung together into a dark sea; for an instant they might cling to each other, and then, clasped in that embrace, must sink in the hopeless depths--but that one moment was worth a whole lifetime.

Thus they went on to the little village of Saint Mary--the namesake of Marienberg. It was only three quarters of an hour from Munster, but he had to gather up all his strength to drag himself along; Beata felt with increasing anxiety how he gradually leaned more and more heavily on her shoulder, and how his power was failing. If only they could reach their destination, thought she with an anxious sigh, then he could rest. But no such good fortune was in store for them.

They had reached St. Mary"s, here was the same terrible news. "The d.u.c.h.ess is gone."

"Whither?"

"On a pilgrimage to Trafoy, to the three Holy Wells."

"All-merciful G.o.d!"

Trafoy was eight miles away--a day"s journey; and his feet would hardly carry him. They must return all the way to Glurns, almost three miles, for there was no path which a blind man could climb across the mountains that divide the three valleys. Past the convent at Munster and the towers of Reichenberg, where they might meet the dreaded Count, once more under the burning sun, over the shadeless fields of Galfa, which they had traversed last night in the cool moonlight, and all this with strength impaired by fever and pain.

"Almighty G.o.d, Thy hand is heavy upon me!" sighed Donatus. But he did not pause to consider, he did not hesitate.

"Forwards," he exclaimed seizing the child"s hand, "G.o.d will help us; Beata, we must go on!"

A short rest, for Beata"s sake and not for his own, at the farm in the village he did however allow; once more she dressed his wounds. Then they set out on the whole weary way back to Glurns, and from thence to the wild valley of Trafoy and the three Holy Wells.

"Oh, my brethren, how anxiously you will be waiting," lamented Donatus.

"Woe is me, for a useless worm that can only crawl when wings are needed. Woe is me--I have done you an injury by injuring myself, and you were very right to punish me; my eyes belonged to you, I had no right to rob you of them."

"Do not be disheartened, dear master. When we reach Trafoy you can moisten your eyes at the Holy Wells; perhaps that may make you see again."

Donatus shook his head with a bitter smile.

"Everything else on earth may heal and grow again--a withered stick may blossom again as a sign of grace; the body of the Lord may grow for us in the dryest bread, but eyes cannot grow again--never, never."

He was forced to stand still, a dull groan broke from his lips. He felt something light and soft laid upon his breast; it was the child"s hand, she dared not speak, but she longed to comfort him, and a stream of sweet peace seemed to flow from that little hand; the tumult of his despairing heart subsided under that innocent touch. He stood for some time struggling for breath and holding the consoling hand tightly to his breast.

"You heal every pain," he said. "You are one of those of whom the Lord said, "Behold, in thy hands I have signed thee"--!"

"They belong to you, so you may make use of them; my hands, my eyes--all that I have is yours," said the child, and a solemn thrill ran through the blind man.

The sun shone with pitiless heat down in the valley, the naked cliffs of gneiss and micaceous schist that shut it in reflected the burning rays with double fervour, and out of the sea of glowing vapour uprose the frowning towers of Reichenberg on their rocky height. The girl shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up--a line of armed men at that moment were riding up the mountain-side, at their head a leader on a black horse--the child thought she recognised the Count; she clung to Donatus in terror.

"There they are," she whispered, "they can see us as well as we can see them--your black robe betrays you."

"What can we do?" said Donatus.

"All around is bare--but there is a shepherd"s cart and close by it the man himself minding his flock. I will ask him to hide you in it till night-fall--we cannot go on by daylight. I will mind his sheep for him till evening, in return."

"Great G.o.d! must another day be wasted without our being any nearer to the goal?" said Donatus.

"There is no other way. If Count Reichenberg finds us you will never reach it at all, for he is of a bad sort and is plotting evil against you."

"What, do you know him?"

"Of course I do, he was with my mother just lately and they talked of all sorts of things that I did not understand; they stormed and threatened at the convent up there, and I could plainly see it was no good that they were promising."

"And your mother was in league with him? Oh Berntrudis!"

"She was furious with the fathers of Marienberg on your account."

"Oh! woe is me that I must say it--we deserve it, for they made her a bad return for all her love and fidelity. But I bring misfortune and fatality on all that come near me."

"Not on me--you have not brought them on me," said the child, and Donatus felt as if he could see the smile of rapture with which she spoke the words.

They had reached the shepherd"s hut, Beata stood still in front of it.

"Now hide yourself in here while I speak to the shepherd."

"Beata--devise some plan for G.o.d"s sake--I dare not wait till evening, for if we miss the d.u.c.h.ess all hope is lost."

"I know of no plan--unless you will change dresses with the shepherd.

He must give you his smock and you must give him your clothes instead."

"What! lay aside the dress of my order?" cried Donatus horrified. "I can never do that--the rules forbid it."

"Then you must stop here till night-fall--one or the other is the only possible course."

Donatus wrung his hands, "What can I do? disobedience and infraction of the rule are my fate wherever I turn. And yet if I must infringe one law it had better be the lesser. More depends on my saving the brethren than on the outward observance. Call the man here for G.o.d"s sake; I will change clothes with him that I may go on unrecognised."

"But--one thing more," said Beata reflecting. "If afterwards the Count were to see the man in your monk"s cowl--that might betray you. I would rather burn it and give the shepherd something more valuable for his smock frock."

"Have you any valuables then?" asked Donatus in surprise.

"Yes--here, feel; I have a ring that Count Reichenberg gave me. At first I flung it away, but my mother put it on me again, and said, "who knows of what use it may be yet!""

"The Count gave you a ring?"

"Aye--and a gold piece. That I have kept--we can buy bread with that when we have none left. He gave them both to me that night. The ring I was to show to the warder of the castle that he might admit me. He wanted to adopt me as his child."

"And you did not go?"