touch his alms, she could have fairly shouted for joy amid all her
misery. The conviction that one man, who was the best and noblest of his
sex, might deem her a poor, unfortunate girl, but never a creature who
deserved contempt, was the beam to which she clung, when the surges of
her pitiable, wandering life threatened to close over her and stifle her.



ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Buy indugence for sins to be committed in the future
Mirrors were not allowed in the convent




IN THE BLUE PIKE

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.




CHAPTER VIII.

As Kuni's troubled soul had derived so much benefit from the short
pilgrimage to Altotting, she hoped to obtain far more from a visit to
Santiago di Compostella, famed throughout Christendom.

True, her old master, Loni, whom she had met at Regensburg, permitted her
to join his band, but when she perceived that he was far less prosperous
than before, and that she could not be useful to him in any way, she left
him at Cologne because a kindhearted captain offered to take her to
Vlissingen without pay. Thence she really did set out upon the pilgrimage
to Santiago di Compostella; but St. James, the patron saint of the
Spaniards, whose untiring mercy so many praised, did not prove specially
favourable to her. The voyage to Compostella, the principal place where
he was reverenced, which annually attracted thousands of pilgrims, cost
her her last penny, and the cold nights which she was obliged to spend on
deck increased her cough until it became almost unendurably violent.

In Santiago di Compostella both her means and her strength were
exhausted. After vainly expecting for a long time some token of the
saint's helpful kindness, only two courses were left: either she must
remain in Compostella and join the beggars in the crowded road to the
place of pilgrimage, or she must accept the proposal made by tongueless
Cyriax and go back with him to Germany. At first she had been afraid of
the brutal fellow, who feigned insanity and was led about by his wife
with a chain; but once, when red-haired Gitta was seized by the
Inquisition, and spent two days and two nights in jail, and Kuni nursed
her child in her place, she had found him more friendly. Besides, in
Compostella, the swearer had been in his most cheerful mood. Every day
had filled his purse, because there was no lack of people and he
understood how to extort money by the terror which horrible outbreaks of
his feigned malady inspired among the densely crowded pilgrims. His wife
possessed a remedy which would instantly calm his ravings, but it was
expensive, and she had not the money to buy it. Not only in Compostella,
but also on the long journey from Bavaria through the Swiss mountains,
France, Navarre, and the whole of northern Spain, there were always
kind-hearted or timid people from whom the money for the "dear
prescription" could be obtained.

A cart drawn by a donkey conveyed the child of this worthy couple. When
Kuni met her at Compostella she was a sickly little girl about two years
old, with an unnaturally large head and thin, withered legs, who seemed
to be mute because she used her mouth only to eat and to make a movement
of the lips which sounded like "Baba." This sound, Cyriax explained, was
a call that meant "papa." That was the name aristocratic children gave
their fathers, and it meant him alone, because the little girl resembled
him and loved him better than she did any one else. He really believed
this, and the stammering of the fragile child's livid lips won the rough
fellow's tender love.

The man who, when drunk, beat his wife till the blood came, and committed
plenty of cruel deeds, trembled, wept, and could even pray with fervent
piety, when--which often happened--the frail little creature, shaken by
convulsions, seemed at the point of death. He had undertaken the long
journey to the "world's end," not only because the pilgrimage to
Compostella promised large profits, but also to urge St. James to cure
his child. For his "sweet little Juli's" sake, and to obtain for her a
cheap nurse who would be entirely dependent upon him, he burdened himself
with the lame ropedancer. But he had no reason to repent this; Gitta had
enough to do to lead him by the chain and answer the questions of the
people, while Kuni nursed her charge with rare fidelity, mended the
clothing of the father, mother, and child, as well or as badly as she
could, and also helped Gitta with the cooking. The sickly, obstinate
little girl certainly did not deserve the name of a "sweet" child, yet
Kuni devoted herself to it with warm, almost passionate affection.

The vagabond couple did not fail to notice this, and, on the whole, it
pleased them. If Cyriax was vexed when little Juli began to show plainly
enough that she preferred her nurse even to him, he submitted because the
lame girl watched the child through severe attacks of convulsions and
fever as if it were her own, and willingly sacrificed her night's rest
for its sake. True, he often talked loudly enough in Kuni's presence of
the witch potion which the lame girl mixed in the porridge of his child,
who loved him better than anything in the world, to estrange it from him
and win it to herself.

Kuni paid little heed to these offensive words; she knew that she had
gained the child's love by very different means from the "black art."
With far more reason, she dimly felt, the sick child might have been
reproached for exerting a secret spell upon her. Her name, "Julie," which
she owed to her patron saint, Kuni supposed was the same as "Juliane."
Besides, the daughter of the vagabond with the mutilated tongue was born
a few days after the death of little Fraulein Peutinger, and this
circumstance, when Kuni knew it, seemed significant. Soon after meeting
the vagrant pair she had listened to a conversation between two
travelling scholars, and learned some strange things. One believed that
the old sages were right when they taught that the soul of a dead person
continued its existence in other living creatures; for instance, the
great Pythagoras had known positively, and proved that his own had dwelt,
in former ages, in the breast of the hero Palamedes.

The ropedancer remembered this statement, questioned other Bacchantes
about these things, and heard the doctrine of the transmigration of the
soul confirmed. Hence, during many a solitary ride, while the cart rolled
slowly along, she pondered over the thought that Juliane's soul had lived
again in foolish Julie. How? Why? She did not rack her brains on those
points. What had been a fancy, slowly became a fixed belief in the mind
thus constantly dwelling upon one idea. At last she imagined that
whatever she did for Cyriax's child benefited the soul of the little
Augsburg girl, whose life had been shortened by her wicked prayer on the
rope.

Yet she had not bought the indulgence in vain. But for that, she believed
that Juliane's soul would still be burning in the flames of purgatory.
The indulgence of the "Inquisitor" Tetzel had proved its power, and
rescued her from the fire. To demonstrate this fact she devised many a
proof. For instance, one day the idea entered her mind that foolish
Juli's brain was so weak because Juliane, during her brief existence, had
used more of hers than was fair.

At first this had been a mere fancy; but, true to her nature, she
reverted to it again and again, while in the cart which she alone shared
with the child, until it had matured to an immovable conviction. During
her changeful, wandering life, she had had no fixed religious principles.
But, since the notion had entered her mind that Lienhard would reward her
for her love by giving her a share, even though a very small one, of his
heart, she had clung tenaciously to it, in spite of all rebuffs and the
offensive indifference with which he had treated her. On her sick bed and
during her convalescence, she had dwelt upon the fear that her sinful
prayer had killed the little wearer of the laurel wreath, until she could
say to herself that events had proved it. With the same firmness she now
held to the belief that she had found the right idea concerning little
Juli's soul.

With the passionate desire to atone to the patrician's daughter for the
wrong which she had inflicted upon her, she clasped the vagabond's child
to her heart with the love of the most faithful mother, and her
affectionate care seemed to benefit herself as well as the ailing little
one. Juli was as devoted to her Kuni as a faithful dog. The kindness
which the lame ropedancer showed to the fragile child was lavishly
returned to her by a thousand proofs of the warmest attachment.

So Kuni had found one heart which kept its whole treasure of love for her
alone, one creature who could not do without her, one fragile human plant
to which she could be useful and helpful day and night.

Under the care of a faithful nurse little Juli gradually grew stronger,
both physically and mentally. The little girl's wan cheeks began to be
rosy, the convulsions and fever attacked her less frequently. Besides the
faint "Baba," she learned to babble "Duni," (instead of Kuni) and
afterward "Mother," and many other words. At last she talked nearly as
well as other children of her age. All this afforded the lame girl a
wealth of sweet joys wholly new to her, which afforded her heart such
warmth and solace that, in spite of the cough which tormented her during
many an hour of the day and night, she felt happier during her homeward
journey with the fierce blasphemer Cyriax, from whom she expected the
worst things, than in the brilliant days of her fame as an artist.
Doubtless, as they approached Germany, she often wondered what Lienhard
would think of her, if he should meet her amid such surroundings, as the
companion of so worthless a couple; but the terror that overpowered her
was transformed into pleasant satisfaction at the thought that he would
approve, nay, praise her conduct, when she could show him the child, and
tell him what she had done for it.

This state of affairs had continued until two months before. Then, at
Schaffhausen, her darling had suddenly been attacked with violent
convulsions, and the feeble intellect, which her love had so toilsomely
and faithfully waked from its slumber, only too soon attained eternal
peace. In all Kuni's sorrowful life she had scarcely experienced any
grief so bitter. When she closed the little eyes which had gazed into her
pale face so often and so tenderly, it seemed as if the sun, moon, and
stars had lost their light, and henceforth she was condemned to live in
dreary gloom.

What terrible days had followed the child's death! Cyriax raved as if he
had really been seized with the lunacy whose pretence helped him to beg
his bread. Besides, he gave himself up to unbridled indulgence in brandy,
and, when drunk, he was capable of the most brutal acts. The dead Juli's
mother, who, spite of an evil youth and a lenient conscience, was by no
means one of the worst of women, had to endure the harshest treatment
from her profligate companion.

The blow which had fallen upon him filled him with savage rage, and he
longed to inflict some pain upon all who came in his way that they, too,
might feel what it was to suffer.

The death of his "sweet little Juli" appeared to have hardened the last
tender spot in his brutal soul.

Kuni was the only person toward whom at first he imposed some restraint
upon himself. True, without any consideration for the girl's presence, he
sometimes asked Gitta why they still burdened themselves with the useless
hobbler and did not sell the cart and the donkey. But though there was no
lack of good offers for the excellent Spanish beast of burden, he allowed
matters to remain as before. If the rage seething in his heart led him,
in his drunken frenzy, to make Kuni feel its effects, too, the pleading
glance of the blue eyes, still large and expressive, with which she had
so often hushed the wailing child, sufficed to soothe him.

Yesterday, for the first time, he had seriously threatened to drive the
ropedancer away, and she knew that Cyriax was capable of anything. True,
his wife was attached to Kuni, but she had little influence over her
vicious husband. So the sick cripple might only too easily find herself
left on the highway.

Still, she had given Cyriax cause for the threat. All day and during the
night she had been busy with the unfortunate mother and her twins, and
therefore had frequently neglected to fill his brandy bottle. But this
could not be helped, and she was not accustomed to think of the future.
Whatever her heart urged she did, no matter what might happen. If Cyriax
left her in the lurch, she must beg or starve unless chance, which so
often mingled in her existence, willed otherwise.

With the child's life the modest happiness which Kuni had enjoyed during
the last few months had vanished, not only because the tongueless
blasphemer had become a different person, and she sorely missed the
delicate little creature who had filled and cheered her heart, but she
had also lost the peace of mind which she enjoyed during the existence of
her charge.

The young Augsburg maiden, whom she thought she had bought out of the
flames of purgatory, did not appear to her again, but the vagrant's child
came all the more frequently, and whenever she showed herself she wailed
and wept bitterly. Sweet little Juli's soul must now--whether it had been
Juliane's or not--endure the tortures of purgatory, and this pierced
Kuni's heart the more deeply the more affectionately she remembered the
sickly-child.

Ever since she had used a black plaster, given to her at Singen by a
quack, the stump of her foot had become sore again, and sharp pain
tortured her so cruelly that, especially when the cough racked her
emaciated body and she was jolted to and fro in the springless cart over
stony roads, she was afraid that she should lose her reason.

At Pforzheim a barber had examined the wound and, shaking his head,
pronounced the black plaster a malignant blood poisoner, and when she
refused to have the leg amputated, applied a yellow one, which proved no
better. When Cyriax counted up his receipts in the evening, called to
red-haired Gitta his favourite maxim, "Fools never die," and handed to
her--Kuni--the larger brandy bottle to fill, she had often summoned up
her courage and begged him to buy an indulgence for his sweet little
Juli. The result was certain--she knew it from her own experience.

Shortly after the child's death he had thrust his hand into his purse
more than once at such an appeal and given money for a few candles, but
it had not been possible to persuade him to purchase the paper.

This refusal was by no means due to mere parsimony. Kuni knew what
induced him to maintain his resistance so obstinately, for in her
presence he had told pock-marked Ratz that he would not take the
indulgence gratis. Wherever he might be, his family ought to go, and he
did not wish to be anywhere that he would not find Juli.

He did not doubt the continued life of the soul after death, but
precisely because he was sure that the gates of paradise would remain
closed to him throughout eternity he would not help to open them for the
dead child. When his imagination tortured him with fancies that mice and
beetles were leaping and running out of his pockets and the breast of his
doublet, he thought that his end was drawing near. If the devil then had
power over his soul, his imps might drag him wherever they pleased, if
only he might see little Juli there and hear her call "Baba" and
"Father." It would lessen the tortures of hell, however severe they might
be. Was it possible for him to conceive of any greater folly than to rob
himself of this consolation by transporting the child, through the
indulgence, to the kingdom of heaven, where he could never see her again.
He had accumulated a goodly sum by begging, it is true, but, strangely
enough, he did not think of purchasing salvation for himself in order to
meet his child again in heaven, instead of amid the flames of purgatory.
Though he had become as rich as the Fuggers, paradise, he knew, would
still be closed to him. He was not fit for it.

He hated everybody who was rich and respectable. He would rather be with
his child in the mire of hell than to go with her to a magnificent garden
of paradise where swearing was forbidden, where there was no brandy and
no highroad, and which offered only pleasures which were none to him.

So Kuni was forced to see the child remain in the fires of purgatory,
which hurt her little less than her aching limb.

At her entrance into The Blue Pike pain and mental suffering had driven
her to the verge of despair. But the day which began so sorrowfully was
followed by an evening of delight--she owed to it her new meeting with
Lienhard.

From childhood she had been homeless, and every quarter of the globe to
which a highroad led was her native land. Yet in Spain and during the
journey back she had felt a gnawing longing for Germany, nay, nothing had
troubled her more than the thought of dying and being buried outside of
its frontier. Her mother, a native of the Rhine country, had given her
birth during the fair at Cologne on the Spree; but, whenever homesickness
assailed her, it was always the steeples of St. Sebald and St. Ulrich
which beckoned to her, and she had longed for the Frank country, the
Main, or the richly wooded banks of the Pegnitz. Was this because, in
Nuremberg, for the only time in her life, she had been a member of a
decorous household, or had the love which, wherever Cyriax's cart and
donkey carried her, always drew her heart back to the same ancient city,
made it so dear to her?

Probably the latter, for yesterday she had yearned ardently to reach
Nuremberg; but since she had seen Lienhard again, she rejoiced that she
was in Miltenberg and at The Blue Pike.

Never had he seemed to her so handsome, so manly. Besides, he had spoken
to her, listened to her reply, and even given her money with lavish
generosity. It was like him! No one else would have been capable of it.

She could live a long time on his three gold florins, if Cyriax abandoned
her; yet the unexpected wealth burned in her hand and perplexed her. Did
Lienhard no longer know that she would not accept money from him? Had she
robbed herself of the certainty that beautified existence; had she failed
to show him her superiority to other vagrant girls? Yet no! What he gave
her was more, far more, than even a prince bestowed upon an ordinary
mendicant. He must measure her by a special standard. If he had only
given her the gold with a kind word, not flung it silently into her lap.
This half destroyed her pleasure in the present, and the ample supply of
money clouded her already disturbed peace of mind still more. Had it been
possible, she would have returned the gift as she did the alms at
Augsburg. But how was this to be accomplished in the over-crowded inn?

Yet, if she kept the florins, the sacrifice at the convent would lose a
large portion of its value, and the good opinion which her act at
Augsburg must have inspired might be shadowed.

For some time before leaving the room in the tavern she had turned the
coins restlessly over and over under her kerchief, and meanwhile, as if
in a dream, made but evasive answers to the questions and demands of
Cyriax and Gitta.

Then she glided nearer to the gentlemen at the table, intending to return
Lienhard's gift; but the landlord of The Pike followed her suspiciously,
and drove her back to her companions.

Thence she had been called to the sick woman and went out of doors. She
found the mother of the twins in the meadow by the Main and eagerly
devoted herself to them.

The widow's burning head and gasping breath were no favourable symptoms.
She herself felt that her end was approaching. Her tongue was parched.
The water in the jug was warm and flat, yet she longed for a cool drink.
During the day Kuni had noticed a well in the kitchen garden, and, in
spite of her aching foot, hastened to it at once to draw the cool water.
While doing so, the red and white pinks which she had noticed at noon
again caught her eye in the starlight night. The sick woman could enjoy
their fragrance now, and to-morrow, feast her eyes upon their bright
colours.

From childhood she had always been fond of flowers. Stealing was
prohibited by her father as wicked and dangerous, and she had never
transgressed his commands. When she picked up the costly rosary in
Nuremberg, she had intended to return it to the owner. But to pluck the
flowers and fruit which the Lord caused to grow and ripen for every one
was a different thing, and had never troubled her conscience. So she
carelessly gathered a few pinks. Three should go to the sick woman, but
Lienhard Groland would have the largest and finest. She would try to slip
the flowers into his hand, with the money, as a token of her gratitude.
But even while saying to herself that these blossoms should be her last
greeting to him, she felt the red spots burning more hotly on her cheeks.
Ah, if only he would accept the pinks! Then the most cruel things might
happen, she could bear them.

While kneeling before the bed, the waiter, Dietel, noticed her. As she
saw him also, she hurried back to the suffering mother as fast as her
lame limb would carry her, and raised the jug of fresh water to her
parched lips.

This had been a delicious refreshment to the sick woman, and when Kuni
saw how much comfort her little service afforded the invalid, her heart
grew lighter. Had it been possible she, who was of no importance to any
one, would willingly have lain down on the heap of straw in the place of
the mother upon whom two young lives depended.

How delightful it was to bring aid! And she possessed the means of being
helpful.

So, with sparkling eyes, she pressed the three gold coins into the
sufferer's burning hand, and told her that the village authorities would
rear the twins for such a sum. Then the parched lips of the fevered woman
lauded the merciful kindness bestowed by the lame ropedancer--who at that
moment seemed to her as powerful as a queen--so warmly and tenderly that
Kuni felt the blood again mount into her cheeks--this time with shame at
the praise which she deserved so little, yet which rendered her so happy.
Finally, the sufferer expressed a desire for a priest, that she might not
pass from earth without a sacrament. Her sins oppressed her sorely. She,
and she alone, was to blame for Nickel's being hanged. Never in all her
life had she been a glutton; but before the birth of the twins the devil
had tormented her with a strange longing for roast fowl, which she had
been unable to repress and keep to herself. Solely for her gratification,
Nickel stole the goose and the hens. In spite of many a bad business in
which his reckless nature had involved him, he was a good fellow, with a
loving heart.

For her sake he would have tried to steal the ring from the executioner's
finger. Now he had gone into the other world unshriven, with the rope
about his neck, for though the benefit of the sacrament was usually
granted even to the worst criminals, the peasants strung Nickel up to the
nearest tree as soon as they caught him, without heeding his entreaties.
This made death even harder for her than the thought of the poor little
creatures yonder in the bundle of rags. Kuni's charity had provided for
the orphans, but her Nickel would find no mercy from the heavenly Judge
throughout eternity.

She had sobbed aloud as she spoke, and then writhed in such violent
convulsions that Kuni with difficulty prevented her from throwing herself
out of the hot straw in the cart upon the damp meadow.

When she grew somewhat calmer, she repeated Nickel's name again and again
till it was heartrending to hear her.




CHAPTER IX.

As soon as the sufferer's condition would permit, Kuni left her, went to
the window of the taproom in The Blue Pike, and surveyed its inmates.

Most of them were already asleep on heaps of straw, which were raised at
the head by chairs turned upside down. The richer guests had gone to the
bedrooms, which, however, they were obliged to share with several others.
Some of the strollers were lying on the floor with their knapsacks under
their heads. A few of the musicians were still lingering over the wine
which the travelling merchants and artisans had ordered for them. Others
had gone with some of the vagrants into the little wood beyond the
meadow, where they danced, fiddled, and sang.

Their loud shouts were borne by the cool night breeze to the sufferer in
the cart. The gentlemen from Cologne, without troubling themselves about
the boisterous merriment of the burghers or the transformation of the
room into a sleeping apartment, were still sitting at the table talking
together eagerly.

The dealer in the indulgences, too, had not yet gone to rest. A tall,
broad-shouldered sergeant belonging to the escort had just purchased--for
the larger part of the zecchins won as his share of the booty in the
Italian war--the indulgence which he thought would secure him from the
tortures of the fire of purgatory. Before opening the door, he struck his
broad breast as though relieved of a heavy burden.

The ropedancer looked after him thoughtfully. The paper had now lightened
the sergeant's heart as it had formerly done her own. Would she not have
been wiser to give her money for the redemption of Nickel's lost soul
than for the orphans, whom the charity of the people would perhaps have
succoured without her? Probably, too, it would have afforded still
greater consolation to the poor dying woman, whom nothing troubled so
sorely as her guilt for the doom of her unfortunate husband.

Yet, even thus she had succeeded in making the dying mother's departure
easier, and what she had commenced she intended to complete at once.

With a tender smile that lent strange beauty to her pallid, grief-worn
face she continued her survey.

She had previously noticed an old priest, whose countenance bore the
impress of genuine kindness of heart. She soon found him again among the
travellers sleeping on the straw; but the old man's slumber was so sound
that she felt reluctant to wake him. Among the Dominicans from Cologne,
most of whom were also asleep, there were none she would have trusted,
nay, she even thought that one was the very person who, shortly before
her fall from the rope, had pursued her with persistent importunity. But
the Abbot of St. AEgidius in Nuremberg, who had dined with the
ambassadors from his native city, was also a man of benevolent, winning
expression. His cheeks were flushed, either by the heat or the wine which
he had drunk, but there was a look of attractive kindness upon his
well-formed features. When he went through the room a short time before,
Kuni had seen him pass his hand caressingly over the fair hair of the
pretty little son of a potter's wife from Reren on the Rhine, whose cart
was standing outside in the meadow by the Main. He was scarcely of the
same mind as the gentleman from Cologne, for he had just waved his plump
hand in protest.

Perhaps she might even do him a favour by summoning him. But dared she, a
poor vagabond, disturb so distinguished a gentleman at his wine?

Yet there was danger in delay. So she resolved to ask the assistance of
the landlady of The Pike, coughed with her handkerchief pressed over her
lips, in order not to disturb the sleepers, and turned to leave the room.

But Gitta had just been to see the sick mother, and told Cyriax that
Kuni, silly, softhearted thing, had wasted her gold coins on the dying
woman.

The blasphemer flew into a great rage, muttered a few words to
pock-marked Ratz, and then staggered toward their lame travelling
companion to bar her passage across the threshold, and ask, in angry,
guttural tones, how much of the Groland gold she had flung into the dying
woman's grave.

"Is it any business of yours?" was the reply, uttered with difficulty
amid her coughing.

"Mine, mine--is it any business of mine?" gasped the tongueless man. Then
he raised his heavy fist threateningly and stammered jeeringly: "Not--not
a red heller more nor less than my cart--in the name of all the
fiends--than my cart is of yours. Four heller pounds, Ratz, and the
donkey and cart are yours."

"Done!" cried the vagrant, who already had his money ready; but the
tongueless blasphemer chuckled with malicious pleasure:

"Now you have it, fool! Whoever doesn't share with me--you know
that--doesn't ride with me."

Then he staggered back to Gitta.

The girl watched him silently for a while. At last she passed her hand
quickly across her brow, as if to dispel some unpleasant thought, and
shook her burning head, half sadly, half disapprovingly.

She had done a good deed--and this, this--But she had not performed it
for the sake of reward, she had only desired to aid the sufferer.

Straightening herself proudly, she limped toward the kitchen.

Here, frequently interrupted by fits of coughing, she told the landlady
of The Pike in touching words that the sick mother, whom she had so
kindly strengthened with nice broth, desired the sacrament, as her life
would soon be over. The Lord Abbot of St. AEgidius in Nuremberg was still
sitting over his wine.

She went no further. The landlady, who, while Kuni was talking, had wiped
her pretty flushed face with her apron, pulled the rolled up white linen
sleeves farther down over her plump arms, and gazed with mingled surprise
and approval into the girl's emaciated face, interrupted her with the
promise to do what she could for the poor woman.

"If it were any one else," she continued, significantly, "I would not
venture to try it. But the Abbot of St. AEgidius, in his charity,
scarcely asks, when help is needed, whence did you come, who are you, or
what do you possess? I know him. Wait here a little while. If he
condescends to do it, you can take him to the poor creature at once."

While speaking she smoothed, with two swift motions of her hands, the
brown hair which had become a little disordered while bustling to and fro
to attend to the business, dipped her hands into the water pail, dried
them quickly on her apron, untied it, and tossed it to the maid. Then she
cleared her throat vigorously and left the kitchen.

In reply to the anxious question of her husband, whom she met on the
threshold of the room, as to what she was seeking there, she answered
firmly, "What is right and pious"; then modestly whispered her request to
the abbot.

Her wish was fulfilled without delay, nay, it might really have been
supposed that the interruption was very opportune to the distinguished
prelate; for, with the brief exclamation, "Imperative official duty!" he
rose from the table, and went first with the landlady to Kuni and
afterward with the latter to the cart beside the laden potter's wain,
whose white tilt gleamed in the darkness.

The landlady had undertaken to send to the sexton, whose house was near,
that he might immediately obtain everything the abbot needed for the
dying woman's viaticum.

Kuni told the sufferer what an exalted servant of the Church was ready to
receive her confession and give her the sacrament.

Then she whispered that she might mention Nickel's burdened soul to the
abbot. Whatever happened, she could now depart from earth in peace.

Reserving for herself half of the flowers she had gathered in the garden
she glided away, in order not to disturb the dying woman's confession.




CHAPTER X.

At the edge of the meadow Kuni paused to reflect. She would gladly have
flung herself down on the dewy grass to rest, stretched at full length on
the cool turf. She was worn out, and her foot ached and burned painfully
after her long walk in the warm August night; but something else exerted
a still stronger attraction over her poor longing heart; the desire to
see Lienhard again and give him the pinks as a token of gratitude for so
much kindness.

He was still sitting with the other gentlemen at the table in front of
the tavern. One of the torches threw its light full on his manly face.
Kuni knew that he could not see her in the darkness surrounding her
figure, yet it seemed as though she was meeting the gaze of his sparkling
dark eyes. Now he was speaking. How she longed to know what he said.
Summoning up her courage, she glided along in the shadow of the wall and
sat down behind the oleander bush on the sharp edge of the tub. No one
noticed her, but she was afraid that a fit of coughing might betray her
presence, so she pressed her apron firmly over her lips and sat straining
her ears to listen. In spite of the violent aching of her foot and the
loud rattling in her chest, she thought it a specially favourable
dispensation of Providence that she had found her way here just at this
moment; for Lienhard was still speaking. The others had asked him to tell
them connectedly how the beautiful Katharina Harsdtirffer had become his
wife, in spite of the opposition of her stern father and though the
Honourable Council had punished him for such insubordination with
imprisonment and exile.

He had already related this in detail when Kuni came to listen. Now,
pointing to Wilibald Pirckheimer, who sat opposite, he went on with his
story, describing how, thanks to the mediation of the latter and of the
great artist, Albrecht Durer, he had obtained an audience at Innsbruck
with the Emperor Maximilian, how the sovereign had interceded personally
in behalf of himself and his betrothal, and how, in consequence of this
royal intervention, he had attained the goal of his wishes.

"Our Honourables," he concluded, "now willingly permitted me to return
home, and Hans Harsdtirffer, Katharina's father-Heaven rest his
soul--relinquished his opposition to our marriage. Perhaps he would have
done so earlier, but for the keen antagonism which, owing to their
totally different natures, had arisen between the stern man and my
lighthearted father, and displayed itself in the Council as well as in
all the affairs of life. Not until his old opponent, to whom I owed my
existence, was on his death-bed, did Herr Hans clasp hands with him in
reconciliation, and consent to our betrothal."

"And I know," Wilibald Pirckheimer interrupted, that among the many
obstacles which his foes placed in his path, and which clouded his active
life, you two, and your loyal love, gave him more light and greater
consolation than anything else. I have often heard him gladly acknowledge
this, and as for you, friend Lienhard."

"I know," replied the young Honourable modestly, checking him, "that he
was right in deeming the immature youth, which I was at the time of my
first wooing, unworthy of his daughter."

"Though you had been the peer in strength and beauty of the valiant
Achilles, and in wisdom of the subtle Ulysses, son of Laertes, I would
not contradict you," interrupted Pirckheimer; "for, gentlemen, this
gallant husband's wife is a jewel of a peculiar kind. Nuremberg is proud
of calling Frau Katharina her daughter. Far as the German language is
spoken, her equal would be sought in vain."

"You are an enviable man," said little Dr. Eberbach, turning to Lienhard.
"But probably you will permit me one question. Even when a boy,--as we
heard, you loved the child Katharina. As a youth, you took this love
across the Alps to Padua and Bologna. But when, like the noble Virgil, I
perceive that 'Nowhere is there aught to trust-nowhere,'--[Virg. AEn. iv,
373.]--and find that the esteemed Catullus's words, 'No man passes
through life without error,'--[Catull. Dist. I, 5.]--are verified, I
would fain learn whether in Italy also you held fast, in small things as
well as great ones, to the--among us men--rare bird of the fidelity sworn
to the woman whom we love. I, who compared to you, am like a faun with
pointed ears beside the handsome Ares, nevertheless know by experience
how easily the glowing eyes of that country kindle conflagrations. Was
the armour of a former love really strong enough to guard your heart from
every flame, even before any vow bound you to the child whom you chose so
early for the companion of your life"?

"It was the same before the priest's consecration as afterward," replied
the young Councillor, gravely and firmly.

Then, changing his manner, he held out his brimming glass toward the
Thuringian and gaily continued:

"It ought not to seem so amazing to a man of your learning, my
incredulous Herr Doctor. Surely your far-famed Propertius says, 'Love is
benefited by many things, a faithful nature and resolute persistence.'
Believe me, doctor, even without the counsel of your experienced Roman, I
should have kept faith with the lovely child at home. From my boyhood,
Katharina was to me the woman, the one above all others, the worthy
Tryphon, my teacher of Greek in Bologna, would have said. My heart's
darling has always been my light, as Helios was that of the Greeks,
though there were the moon and so many planets and stars besides."

"And the vagrant we saw just now, on whom you bestowed a golden shower of
remembrance as Father Zeus endowed the fair Danae?" asked Doctor
Peutinger of Augsburg, shaking his finger mischievously at his young
friend. "We humanists follow the saying of Tibullus: 'Whoever confesses
let him be forgiven,' and know the world sufficiently to be aware that
within the walls of Ilium and without enormities are committed."
--[Horace, Epist. 1, 2, 16.]

"A true statement," replied Lienhard. "It probably applies to me as much
as to the young girl, but there was really nothing between us which bore
the most distant resemblance to a love intrigue. As a magistrate, I
acquitted her of a trivial misdemeanour which she committed while my
wedding procession was on its way to the altar. I did this because I was