Danira Part 9

"No, I had no occasion, and I think the lieutenant will do it himself."

"I ought to," said the young Tyrolese, with a very downcast air. "The Baroness charged me to protect Herr Gerald's life--but I can't bear to cause her the sorrow."

"Sorrow? Because her son has so greatly distinguished himself?'

"No, not that, it's a very different matter, your reverence." George clasped his hands devoutly. "You have often reproved me for committing so many follies, and it's all true. But they do no harm, and they are far from being so bad as the one folly Herr Gerald has committed in his whole life. I can't look on any longer, I must tell you."

He uttered so heart-rending a sigh that the priest gazed at him with a startled, anxious glance.

"What do you mean? What is the matter with the lieutenant?"

"He's bewitched!" George despairingly exclaimed. "Completely bewitched!"

"George--are you in your senses?"

"I am, but unluckily he isn't. The poor young lady in Cattaro! So pretty, so bright, and merry that it cheers one's heart just to look at her, and now this Danira----"

"The commandant's adopted daughter, who ran away at night? What of her?"

"She's the witch who has done my lieutenant this mischief!" George cried indignantly. "She has brewed some witches' potion, these savages know how, and now the misfortune has come--he is in love with her."

Father Leonhard rose in utter consternation.

"Impossible? Gerald von Steinach, that quiet, thoughtful man, with his rigid sense of duty, possessed by such an infatuation--it can't be!

What put the idea into your head?"

The young soldier advanced a step nearer and lowered his voice, though they were entirely alone.

"I knew it in Cattaro, but I did not want to believe it. The evening before our departure the lieutenant went once more to the commandant's and I was permitted to go with him to bid the young lady good-bye. But we did not see her at all, not even Herr Gerald; instead of that his future father-in-law and he were alone together in a room for an hour.

I was standing in the dark ante-chamber when they at last came out; the colonel didn't see me, and I heard his farewell words:

"'I will not wrong you, Gerald; I myself believe that the whole affair is merely a foolish fancy on the part of Edith, but what you say does not soothe me, for it shows that you are not perfectly clear in your own mind. We part now, and you are going to encounter serious things; you will have ample time to test yourself. You have given me your word of honor that you will not write to your promised wife until you can say to her with entire sincerity: I did not love Danira, my heart belongs solely to you. If you can do that your bride will not be lost, for I rely implicitly upon your honor, and so will Edith. Now, farewell, I hope you will write soon!'"

Father Leonhard had listened in extreme suspense to this literal repet.i.tion of the conversation, now he asked hastily:

"Well, and--?"

"Well, your reverence, Herr Gerald has not written."

"Really? Are you sure?"

"Absolutely certain. I have to take all the letters to the messenger; there was not one to the young lady among them."

"That is certainly a bad sign," said the priest in a low tone, "very bad."

"It's witchcraft, abominable witchcraft!" George wrathfully exclaimed.

"The blow will kill his mother when she discovers it. Castle Steinach will be completely upset, and Moosbach Farm too, and the whole Tyrol to boot--a reverend ecclesiastic must interfere, nothing else will do, only priests can oppose witchcraft."

Father Leonhard did not heed the last words, the news evidently affected him most painfully, and it was after a long pause that he said:

"Have you ever given the Lieutenant a hint that you knew the affair?"

"I tried it once," said George, mournfully. "But I got no further than the name Danira. Then he started up and looked at me with a pair of eyes--I didn't suppose Herr Gerald could glare so--I didn't attempt it a second time."

"Then I'll try whether he will talk with me. Meantime, keep silence about it in future to every one."

Here the conversation was interrupted; they heard outside words of command and the regular tramp of soldiers marching.

"There they are!" cried George, starting up. "Excuse me, your reverence, I must see whether they have brought Jovica; the Lieutenant took charge of her when I was obliged to leave."

"Who is Jovica?" asked the priest, but he received no answer, the young soldier had already darted out of the door, and Father Leonhard went to the window.

It was really Lieutenant von Steinach, who had just arrived with his detachment, joyously welcomed by the garrison of the fort. The officers greeted each other, and the soldiers openly expressed their satisfaction in having reached the place where they expected rest and refreshment after the fatiguing march. There was a pleasant bustle going on when George suddenly appeared, hastily saluting his lieutenant, and then darted like a bird of prey into the midst of his comrades, where he seemed to be looking for something.

Father Leonhard now went down to welcome the young officer, whom he had not seen since his departure from Cattaro; for, owing to the peculiar method of warfare, the various detachments of the regiment were usually separated from each other. At the foot of the stairs Gerald came toward him, accompanied by the officer commanding the fort. The meeting was cordial, even affectionate, but necessarily brief. Gerald promised to seek the reverend gentleman as soon as possible, and then prepared to follow his comrade, but in the very act of departure he turned back and asked:

"Has George told you about his foundling?"

"What foundling? I don't know a word of the affair."

"George now has a new charge, which, to be sure is rather oddly suited to him. He has set up for an adopted father, and intends to bring his _protegee_ to you. You will hear the particulars from him. _Au revoir_, your reverence."

The gentlemen went on, and Father Leonhard shook his head with a puzzled look. He could not imagine his quarrelsome parishioner in the position intimated, but he was not to remain in doubt long, for just at that moment George entered the corridor with a young girl whom he led by the hand like a child.

"The saints preserve me!" cried the priest, who was not at all prepared for this spectacle. "What is this you are bringing me?"

"A savage!" replied the young soldier with great solemnity. "But you needn't be frightened, your reverence, she is perfectly tame."

Father Leonhard gazed in astonishment at the delicate little creature, who scarcely reached to her companion's shoulder. She was a very young girl, hardly beyond childhood, slender and shy as a chamois. The dark, southern face, with its childish features and dark eyes, had an expression of timid submission and gentleness, while clothing so scanty and miserable was only found among the poorest shepherd tribes of the country.

"This is Jovica!" replied George, in a tone which seemed to imply that those few words told the whole story; but this explanation did not satisfy the priest, who desired to know who Jovica was and where she came from, so George was obliged to condescend to a longer narrative.

"Two days ago we had to capture a few of the mud and stone huts people here call a village. There was sharp fighting over it, but we finally got possession and the inhabitants fled. There I found the poor thing, who had been left behind alone, hidden in a corner, half starved and almost frightened to death. She probably expected me to spear her on the spot, for she was trembling from head to foot, but I've brought her to a better opinion of the Tyrolese imperial cha.s.seurs, haven't I, Jovica?"

The young girl evidently did not understand one word of the whole speech; her large eyes rested timidly and anxiously on the priest, and she pressed closer, with unmistakable confidence, to her protector, who now continued:

"The lieutenant understands Slavonic, so we found out that she didn't belong to the village at all. She had come there with a party of fugitives from the frontier, and did not even know where her own home was. She made me comprehend: Father dead--mother dead--all dead! So there was nothing for me to do except fill the places of father and mother to her."

The words were uttered so sincerely and honestly that the priest could not repress a faint smile, but he said quietly:

"I think, George, it will be best for you to trust the child to me."

"Yes, Lieutenant von Steinach thinks so too, that's why I brought Jovica to you; but, your reverence, you'll have trouble with her, she is a terrible pagan. The very first day it came out that she was still in the midst of heathenism. She knows nothing about church nor crucifix, and calls G.o.d 'Allah.'"

"Then the girl probably belongs to one of the Mohammedan tribes that dwell on the frontier. If she is really an orphan and entirely deserted, we must, of course, take charge of her, the only question is what we are to do with her."

"First of all, baptize her," said George, in a paternal tone. "That can be done at once here in the fort, and I'll stand G.o.d-father."

"It cannot be arranged so unceremoniously. The girl must first be instructed in the precepts of Christianity, and we must know whether she will prove susceptible to them."