Debit and Credit Part 79

"Such nights as these make strong friendships," cried the smith, in great delight, as he shook Anton's hand, which was little less black than his own.

Meanwhile the axes of the besiegers were hacking away at several windows of the lower story, the loosened boards creaked, and Fink's voice was heard saying, "Knock them down with the b.u.t.t-ends!"

Anton and the forester now betook themselves upon the window through which the besiegers sought to enter. But the worst was over there too.

Fink came to meet them, the b.l.o.o.d.y axe of an insurgent in his hand, and, flinging it away, he cried to Anton and his party, "Put new boards into the windows. I hope the butchery is at an end."

A few more salvos from without, and single shots from within, and all was still in the castle and in the field. The walls still glowed a while in the firelight, but it faded and faded away. The wind rose and drove away the smoke curling round the windows from the burning fragments before the door. The pure night air filled the corridors and the halls once more, and the starlight shone quietly on the sunken eyes and pale faces of the garrison. On both sides the energies of the combatants were exhausted.

"What hour of the night is it?" asked Fink, going up to Anton, who was watching the movements of the enemy through the loop-holes of the wall.

"Past midnight," replied Anton.

They went up to the tower and looked about them. The fields around the castle were empty.

"They have laid themselves down to sleep," said Fink. "Even the fires below are out, and but few isolated voices sound from the village. Those shadows all round the house alone tell us that we are besieged. We have some hours of peace before us; and as we shall hardly get sleeping-time to-morrow, our people must avail themselves of the present. Leave only the necessary sentinels, and let the posts be relieved in two hours. If you have no objection, I shall go to bed too. Let me be called as soon as any thing is stirring outside. You will take very good care of the night-posts, that I know." So saying, Fink turned away and went to his room, where he threw himself on his bed, and in a few moments was fast asleep.

Anton hurried to the guard-room, arranged the posts with the forester, and fixed the order in which they were to be relieved.

"I shall not be sleepy," said the old man; "firstly, because of my age; next, from my habits as a huntsman. I will, if you allow, arrange the posts, and look after things in general."

Once more Anton went round the court and the stables. Here, too, quiet was restored: only the horses restlessly stamped their hoofs on the hard ground. Anton gently opened the door of the women's rooms, in the second of which the wounded had been laid. As he entered, he saw Lenore on a stool near the straw beds, two of the stranger women at her feet. He bent down over the couch of the wounded: the colorless face and disordered hair of the unfortunate men looked ghastly on the white pillows which Lenore had s.n.a.t.c.hed from her own bed.

"How fares it with you?" whispered Anton.

"We have tried to bind up the wounds," replied Lenore. "The forester says that there is hope of both."

"Then," continued Anton, "leave them in charge of the women, and avail yourself of these hours of rest."

"Do not speak to me of rest," said Lenore, rising. "We are in the chamber of death." She took him by the hand, and led him to the opposite corner, drew aside a dark cloak, and pointed to a human form beneath it.

"He is dead!" said she, with a hollow voice. "As I raised him with these hands, he died. His blood is on my clothes; and it is not the only blood that has been spilled to-day. It was I," she wildly cried, convulsively pressing Anton's hand, "it was I who began this blood-shedding. How I am to bear this curse, I know not; how I am to live on after this day, I know not. If I have henceforth a place in this world, it is in this room. Leave me here, Wohlfart, and think no more about me."

She turned away and resumed her seat on the stool by the side of the straw bed. Anton drew the cloak over the dead, and silently left the room. He went next to the guard-room and took up his gun. "I am going to the tower, forester," said he.

"Each has his own way," muttered the old man. "The other is wiser--he sleeps. But it will be cold up there; this one shall not be without a wrap." He sent a man up with a villager's cloak, and ordered him to remain with the gentleman.

Anton told the man to lie down and sleep, and wrapped himself up in the warm covering. Then he sat in silence, resting his head against the wall over which Lenore had leaned as she fired, and his thoughts flew over the plain--from the gloomy present to the uncertain future. He looked beyond the circle of the enemy's sentinels, and over the darker boundary of the fir woods, which kept him prisoner here, and bound him to circ.u.mstances which appeared to him strange and improbable, as though he read them in a book. His wearied mind contemplated his own fate as though it were that of a stranger, and he could now calmly look down into the depths of his own spirit, which the stormy alternations of the day had hitherto hid from him. He saw his former life pa.s.s in review before him: the figure of the n.o.ble lady on the balcony of her castle; the beautiful girl in her skiff, surrounded by her swans; the waxlights in the dancing-saloon; the mournful hour when the baroness had placed her jewels in his hands--each of those moments when Lenore's eyes had lovingly met his own. All those seasons now returned to his mind, and he plainly discerned the glamour that she had cast around him. All that had chained his fancy, warped his judgment, and flattered his self-love, now appeared to him an illusion.

It had been an error of his childish spirit which vanity had fostered.

Alas! the brilliant mirage had long been dissipated in which the life of the aristocratic family seemed great, n.o.ble, enviable to the poor accountant's son. Another feeling had replaced it, and a purer--a tender friendship for the only one in that circle who had retained her strength when the others sank. Now, she too parted from him. He felt this was, and must be so more and more. He felt this now without pain, as natural, as inevitable. And further, he felt that he was thus free from the ties that detained him here. He raised his head, and looked over the woods into the distance. He blamed himself, first, that this loss did not grieve him more, and, next, that he was conscious of a loss. Had there, then, been a silent hope at the bottom of his heart? Had he thought to win the beauteous girl to share his future life? had he dreamed of becoming a member of the family by whom he was employed? If he had occasionally been weak enough to do this, he now condemned himself.

He had not always felt rightly; he had secretly cherished many a selfish thought when looking at Lenore. That had been wrong, and it served him right that he now stood alone among strangers, in relations that pained him because they were indefinite, and in a position from which his own resolve could not free him at present, could hardly free him for some time to come.

And yet he felt himself free. "I shall do my duty, and only think of her happiness," said he, aloud. But her happiness? He thought of Fink--thought of the character of his friend, which always impressed, but often angered him. Would he love her in return, and would he allow himself to be bound? "Poor Lenore!" he sighed.

In this way Anton stood till the bright aspect of the northern horizon pa.s.sed over to the east, and thence a pale gray spread over the sky, the chilly forerunner of the rising sun. Then Anton looked once more at the landscape round him. He could hardly count the enemy's sentinels, who surrounded the castle in pairs, and here and there a scythe shone in the brightening light. Bending down, he woke the man, who had gone to sleep on the flags stained by his comrade's blood; then he went to the guard-room, threw himself on the straw that the forester carefully shook down for him, and fell asleep just as the lark soared from the dewy ground, by its joyous call to summon forth the sun.

CHAPTER x.x.xVII.

After an hour the forester woke the sleeper. Anton started up and looked round, stupefied at the unfamiliar scene.

"It is almost a sin to disturb you," said the good old man; "all is quiet outside, only the enemy's cavalry have gone off to Rosmin."

"Gone off!" cried Anton; "then we are free."

"Except for the foot-folks," said the forester, "and they are still two to one of us. They hold us fast. And I have something else to say. There is no more water in the b.u.t.t. Our men have drunk half of it, the rest was thrown on the fire. For my part, I can do without it, but the castle is full of men, and they will hardly get through the day without a drink."

Anton sprang up. "This is a melancholy good-morning, my old friend."

"The well is broken," continued the old man; "but how if we were to send some of the women to the brook? The sentinels would not do much to the women; perhaps they would not prevent them from getting a few bucketfuls of water."

"A few buckets would not do much for us," replied Anton.

"They would raise the spirits," said the old man; "they would have to be shared. Were Rebecca here, she would get us the water. We must try what we can do with the others. Those confounded fellows are not bad to women, if they be but bold. If you approve, I will see what I can make of some of our girls."

The forester called down to the kitchen--"Suska!" The young Pole sprang up stairs.

"Listen to me, Suska," said the forester, anxiously; "when, the baron awakes, he will call for his hot water; all the water in the castle is done; we have beer and schnapps enough, indeed, but what Christian can wash his hands in beer? so take the buckets, and get us water. Run down to the brook; you will get on very well with your countrymen. Don't stay too long chattering, or we shall get a scolding. And, I say, just ask our neighbors why they stand there still with their lances; their hors.e.m.e.n have gone away; we have no objection to their moving off too."

The girl willingly caught up the buckets, the forester opening the yard door for her, and down she went to the water. Anton watched her in anxious suspense. She got to the brook without any hinderance, and without troubling herself about the sentinels, who were some twenty yards off, and who looked with much curiosity at her. At length one of the men with scythes went up to her. The girl put down her buckets, crossed her arms, and both began a peaceful conversation. Then the Pole took up the buckets, filled them with water, and gave them to the girl, who slowly returned to the castle, the forester opening the gate for her, and saying, in a caressing tone, "Bravo, Susan! what did the sentinel say to you?"

"Stupid things," replied she, blushing. "He told me that I must open the door for him and his comrades when they return to the castle."

"As if that were all?" said the forester, slyly. "So they mean to return to the castle?"

"To be sure they do," said the girl. "Their hors.e.m.e.n are gone to meet the soldiers from Rosmin. When they return, the man said they would all run together to the castle."

"We shall hardly admit them," replied the forester. "None shall enter the gate but your sweetheart yonder. You have, I suppose, promised him admittance, if he comes alone and late?"

"No!" answered Susan, indignantly; "but I dared not be uncivil."

"Perhaps we may try it once more," suggested the forester, glancing at Anton.

"I don't think it," replied the latter. "An officer is riding round the posts, and the poor fellow will get a rough return for his gallantry.

Come, and let us divide our little store. Half of this first bucket for the family--half for us men; let the other make a breakfast for the women and children."

Anton himself poured the water into the different vessels, and appointed the smith to guard it. While so doing, he said to the forester, "This is the hardest task that we have had as yet. I do not know how we are to hold out during the day."

"Many things may happen," replied the forester, consolingly.

A bright spring day now began; the sun rose cloudlessly behind the farm-yard, and soon warmed the mist that hung around the walls; the people sought out the sunny corner of the court; the men sat in little groups with their wives and children, and all seemed in good heart.

Anton went in and out among them. "We must have patience till noon--perhaps till the afternoon; then our troops will come."

"If those fellows yonder do no more than at present," replied the smith, "we may be easy enough. They stand there like so many wooden posts."

"They lost their courage yesterday," said another, contemptuously.