CHAPTER VIII.

FREYER.

The Play was over. "Christ is risen!" He had burst the sepulchre and

hurled the guards in the dust by the sight of His radiant apparition.

He had appeared to the Penitent as a simple gardener "early in the

morning," as He had promised, and at last had been transfigured and had

risen above the world, bearing in His hand the standard of victory.

The flood of human beings poured out of the close theatre into the open

air. Not loudly and noisily, as they had come--no, reverently and

gravely, as a funeral train disperses after the obsequies of some noble

man; noiselessly as the ebbing tide recedes after flood raised by a

storm. These were the same people, yet they _returned_ in a far

different mood.

The same vehicles in which yesterday the travelers had arrived in so

noisy a fashion, now bore them away, but neither shouts nor cracking of

whips was heard--the drivers knew that they must behave as if their

carriages were filled with wounded men.

And this was true. There was scarcely one who did not suffer as if the

spear which had pierced the Saviour's heart had entered his own, who

did not feel the wounds of the Crucified One in his own hands and feet!

The grief which the people took with them was grand and godlike, and

they treasured it carefully, they did not desire to lose any portion of

it, for--we love the grief we feel for one beloved--and to-day they had

learned to love Christ.

So they went homeward.

The last carriages which drew up before the entrance were those of the

countess and her friends. The gentlemen of the diplomatic corps were

already standing below, waiting for Countess Wildenau to assign them

their seats in the two landaus. But the lady was still leaning against

the pillar which supported one end of the box. Pressing her

handkerchief to her eyes, she vainly strove to control her tears. Her

heart throbbed violently, her breath was short and quick--she could not

master her emotion.

The prince stood before her, pale and silent, his eyes, too, were

reddened by weeping.

"Try to calm yourself!" he said firmly. "The ladies are still in their

box, the duchess seems to expect you to go to her. A woman of the

world, like yourself, should not give way so."

"Give way, do you call it?" repeated Madeleine, who did not see that

Prince Emil, too, was moved. "We shall never understand each other."

At this moment the ladies left their box and crossed the intervening

space. They were the last persons in the theatre. The duchess, without

a word, threw her arms around Countess von Wildenau's neck. Her

ladies-in-waiting, too, approached with tearful eyes, and when the

duchess at last released her friend from her embrace, the baroness

whispered: "Forgive me, I have wronged you as well as many others--even

yesterday, forgive me." The same entreaty was expressed in Her

Excellency's glance and clasp of the hand as she said: "Whoever sees

this must repent every unloving word ever uttered; we will never forget

that we have witnessed it together."

"I thank you, but I should have borne you no ill will, even had I known

what you have now voluntarily confessed to me!" replied the countess,

kissing the ladies with dry, burning lips.

"Shall we go?" asked the duchess. "We shall be locked in."

"I will come directly--I beg you--will your Highness kindly go first? I

should like to rest a moment!" stammered the countess in great

confusion.

"You are terribly unstrung--that is natural--so are we all. I will wait

for you below and take you in my carriage, if you wish. We can weep our

fill together."

"Your Highness is--very kind," replied the countess, scarcely knowing

what she answered.

When the party had gone down stairs, she passionately seized Prince

Emil's arm: "For Heaven's sake, help me to escape going with them. I

will not, _cannot_ leave. I beseech you by all that is sacred, let me

stay here."

"So it is settled! The result is what I feared," said the prince with a

heavy sigh. "I can only beg you for your own sake to consider the

ladies. You have invited them to dine day after to-morrow--"

"I know it--apologize for me--say whatever you please--you will

know--you can manage it--if you have ever loved me--help me! Drive with

the ladies--entertain them, that they may not miss me!"

"And the magnificent ovation which the gentlemen have arranged at your

home?"

"What do I care for it?"

"A fairy temple awaits you at the Palace Wildenau, and you will stay

here? What a pity to lose the beautiful flowers, which must now wither

in vain."

"I cannot help it. For Heaven's sake, act quickly--some one is coming!"

She was trembling in every limb with fear--but it was no member of the

party sent to summon her. A short man with clear cut features stood

beside her, shrewd loyal eyes met her glance. "I saw that you were

still here, Countess, can I serve you in any way?"

"Thank Heaven, it is Ludwig Gross!" cried the excited woman joyously,

taking his arm. "Can you get me to your father's house without being

seen?"

"Certainly, I can guide you across the stage, if you wish!"

"Quick, then! Farewell, Prince--be generous and forgive me!"

She vanished.

The prince was too thoroughly a man of the world to betray his feelings

even for an instant. The short distance down the staircase afforded him

ample time to decide upon his course. The misfortune had happened, and

could no longer be averted--but it concerned himself alone. Her name

and position must be guarded.

"Have you come without the countess?" called the duchess.

"I must apologize for her, Your Highness. The performance has so

completely unstrung her nerves that she is unable to travel to-day. I

have just placed her in her landlord's charge promising not only to

make her apologies to the ladies, but also endeavor to supply her

place."

"Oh, poor Countess Wildenau!" said the duchess, kindly. "Shall we not

go to her assistance?"

"Permit me to remind your Highness that we have not a moment to lose,

if we wish to catch the train!"

"Is it possible! Then we must hurry."

"Yes--and I think rest will be best for the countess at present,"

answered Prince Emil, helping the ladies into the carriage.

"Well, we shall see her at dinner on Tuesday? She will be able to

travel to-morrow?"

"Oh, I hope so."

"But, Prince Emil! What will become of our flowers?" asked the

gentlemen.

"Oh, they will keep until to-morrow!"

"I suppose she has no suspicion?"

"Of course not, and it is far better, for had she been aware of it, no

doubt she would have gone to-day, in spite of her illness, and made

herself worse."

The gentlemen assented. "Still it's a pity about the flowers. If they

will only keep fresh!"

"She will let many a blossom wither, which may well be mourned!"

thought the prince bitterly.

"Will you drive with us, Prince?" asked the duchess.

"If Your Highness will permit! Will you go to the Casino to-night, as

we agreed, gentlemen?" he called as he entered the vehicle.

"Not I," replied Prince Hohenheim. "I honestly confess that I am not in

the mood."

"Nor I," said St. Genois. "This has moved me to that--the finest circus

in the world might be here and I would not enter! The burgomaster of

Ammergau was right in permitting nothing of the kind."

"Yes, I will take back everything I said yesterday; I went to laugh and

wept," remarked Wengenrode.

"It has robbed me of all desire for amusement," Cossigny added. "I care

for nothing more to-day."

They bowed to the ladies and the prince, and silently entered their

carriages. Prince Emil ordered the countess' coachman to drive back

with the maid, who sat hidden in one corner, and joined the duchess and

her companions.

The equipages rolled away in different directions--one back to the

Gross house, the other to Munich, where the florists were toiling

busily to adorn the Wildenau Palace for the reception of its fortunate

owner, who was not coming.

Ludwig Gross led the countess across the now empty stage. It thrilled

her with a strange emotion to thread its floor, and in her reverent

awe, she scarcely ventured to glance around her at the vast, dusky

space. Suddenly she recoiled from an unexpected horror--the cross lay

before her. Her agitation did not escape the keen perception of Ludwig

Gross, and he doubtless understood it; such things are not new to the

people of Ammergau. "I will see whether the house of Pilate is still

open, perhaps you may like to step out on the balcony!" he said, and

moved away to leave her alone.

The countess understood the consideration displayed by the sympathizing

man. Kneeling in the dark wings, she threw herself face downward on the

cross, pressed her burning lips on the hard wood which had supported

the noble body, on the marks left here also by the nails which had

apparently pierced the hands of the crucified one, the red stains made

by his painted wounds. Aye, it had become true, the miracle had

happened. _The artificial blood also possessed redeeming power_.

Rarely did any pilgrim to the Holy Land ever press a more fervent kiss

upon the wood of the true cross, than was now bestowed on the false

one.

So, in the days of yore, Helen, the beautiful, haughty mother of the

Emperor Constantine, may have flung herself down, after her long sea

voyage, when she at last found the long sought cross to press it to her

bosom in the unutterable joy of realization.

Ludwig's steps approached, and the countess roused herself from her

rapture.

"Unfortunately the house is closed," said Ludwig, who had probably been

perfectly aware of it. They went on to the dressing-rooms. "I'll see if

Freyer is still here!" and the drawing-master knocked at the first

door. The countess was so much startled that she was forced to lean

against the wall to save herself from falling. Was it to come now--the

fateful moment! Her knees threatened to give way, her heart throbbed

almost to bursting--but there was no answer to the knock, thrice

repeated. He was no longer there. Ludwig Gross opened the door, the

room was empty. "Will you come in?" he asked. "Would it interest you to

see the dressing-room?"

She entered. There hang his garments, still damp with perspiration from

the severe toil.

Madeleine von Wildenau stooped with clasped hands in the bare little

chamber. Something white and glimmering rustled and floated beside

her--it was the transfiguration robe. She touched it lightly with her

hand in passing, and a thrill of bliss ran through every nerve.

Ah, and there was the crown of thorns.

She took it in her hand and tears streamed down upon it, as though it

were some sacred relic. Again the dream-like vision stood before her as

she had seen it for the first time on the mountain top with the thorny

branches swaying around the brow like an omen. "No, my hands shall

defend thee that no thorn shall henceforth tear thee, beloved brow!"

she thought, while a strange smile irradiated her face. Then looking

up, she met the eyes of Ludwig, fixed upon her with deep emotion as she

gazed down at the crown of thorns.

She replaced it and followed him to the door of the next room.

Caiaphas! An almost childlike dread and timidity assailed her--the sort

of feeling she had had when a young girl at the time of her first

presentation at court--she was well-nigh glad that he was no longer

there and she had time to calm herself ere she confronted the mighty

priest.

"It is too late, they have all gone!" said Ludwig, offering his

companion his arm to lead her down the staircase.

Numerous groups of people were standing in front of the theatre and in

the street leading to the village.

"What are they doing here?" asked the lady.

"Oh, they are waiting for Freyer! It is always so. He has slipped

around again by a side path to avoid seeing anyone, and the poor people

must stand and wait in vain. I have often told him that he ought not to

be so austere! It would please them so much if he would but give them

one friendly word--but he cannot conquer this shyness. He cannot suffer

himself to be revered as the Christ, after the Play is over. He ought

not to permit the feeling which the people have for the Christ to be

transferred to his person--that is his view of the matter."

"It is a lofty and noble thought, but hard for us poor mortals, who so

eagerly cling to what is visible. It is impossible not to transfer the

impression produced by the character to its representative, especially

with a personality like Freyer's!"

Ludwig Gross nodded assent. "Yes, we have had this experience of old.

Faith needs an earthly pledge, says our great poet, and Freyer's

personation is such a pledge, a guarantee of whose blessed power

everyone feels sure."

The countess eagerly pressed Ludwig's hands.

"I have seen people," Ludwig added, "who were happy, if they were only

permitted to touch Freyer's garment, as though it could bring them

healing like the actual robe of Christ! Would not Christ, also, if He

beheld this pious delusion, exclaim: 'Woman, thy faith hath saved

thee!'"

A deep flush crimsoned the countess' face, and the tears which she had

so long struggled to repress flowed in streams. She leaned heavily on

Ludwig's arm, and he felt the violent throbbing of her heart. It

touched him and awakened his compassion. He perceived that hers, too,

was a suffering soul seeking salvation here, and if she did not find

it, would perish. "It shall be yours, poor woman; for rich as you may

be, you are still poor--and we will give you what we can!" he thought.

The two companions pursued their way, without exchanging another word.

The countess now greeted the old house like a lost home which she had

once more regained.

Andreas Gross met her at the door, took off her shawl, and carried it

into the room for her.

Josepha had already returned and said that the countess was ill.

"I hope it is nothing serious?" he asked anxiously.

"No, Herr Gross, I am well--but I cannot go; I must make the

acquaintance of these people--I cannot tear myself away from this

impression!"

She sank into a chair, laid her head on the table and sobbed like a

child. "Forgive me, Herr Gross, I cannot help it!" she said with

difficulty, amid her tears.

The old man laid his hand upon her shoulder with a gesture of paternal

kindness. "Weep your fill, we are accustomed to it, do not heed us!" He

drew her gently into the sitting-room.

Ludwig had vanished.

Josepha entered to ask whether she should unpack the luggage which was

up in her room.

"Yes," replied the countess, "and let the carriages return to Munich,

until I need them again."

"His Highness the Prince has left his valet here for your service,"

Josepha reported.

"What can he do? Let him go home, too! Let them all go--I want no one

except you!" said the countess sternly, hiding her face again in her

handkerchief. Josepha went out to give the order. Where could Ludwig

Gross be?--He had become a necessity to her now, thus left alone with

her overflowing heart! He had been right in everything.--He had told

her that she would learn to weep here, he had first made her understand

the spirit of Ammergau. Honor and gratitude were his due, he had

promised nothing that had not been fulfilled. He was thoroughly genuine

and reliable! But where had he gone, did not this man, usually so

sympathetic, know that just now he might be of great help to her? Or

did he look deeper _still_, and know that he was but a substitute

for another, for whom her whole soul yearned? It was so lonely. A

death-like stillness reigned in the house and in the street. All were

resting after the heavy toil of the day.

Something outside darkened the window. Ludwig Gross was passing on his

way toward the door, bringing with him a tan, dark figure, towering far

above the low window, a figure that moved shyly, swiftly along,

followed by a throng of people, at a respectful distance. The countess

felt paralyzed. Was _he_ coming? Was he coming in.

She could not rise and look--she sat with clasped hands, trembling in

humble expectation, as Danae waited the moment when the shower of gold

should fall. Then--steps echoed in the workshop--the footsteps of

two--! They were an eternity in passing down its length--but they were

really approaching her room--they came nearer--some one knocked!

She scarcely had breath to call "come in." She would not believe

it--from the fear of disappointment. She still sat motionless at the

table--Ludwig Gross opened the door to allow the other to precede

him--and _Freyer_ entered. He stooped slightly, that he might not

strike his head, but that was needless, for--what miracle was this? The

door expanded before the countess' eyes, the ceiling rose higher and

higher above him. A wide lofty space filled with dazzling light

surrounded him. Colors glittered before her vision, figures floated to

and fro; were they shadows or angels? She knew not, a mist veiled her

eyes--for a moment she ceased to think. Then she felt as if she had

awaked from a deep slumber, during which she had been walking in her

sleep--for she suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer, he was

holding her hands in his, while his eyes rested on hers--in speechless

silence.

[Illustration: _She suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer_. Page 102.]

Then she regained her self-control and the first words she uttered were

addressed to Ludwig: "You have brought _him_--!" she said, releasing

Freyer's hands to thank the man who had so wonderfully guessed her

yearning.

Gift and gratitude were equal--and here both were measureless! She

scarcely knew at this moment which she valued more, the man who brought

this donation or the gift itself. But from this hour Ludwig Gross was

her benefactor.

"You have brought _him_"--she repeated, for she knew not what more to

say--that one word contained _all_! Had she possessed the eloquence of

the universe, it would not have been so much to Ludwig as that _one_

word and the look which accompanied it. Then, like a child at

Christmas, which, after having expressed its thanks, goes back happily

to its presents, she turned again to Freyer.

Yet, as the child stands timidly before the abundance of its gifts,

and, in the first moments of surprise, does not venture to touch them,

she now stood, shy and silent before him, her only language her eyes

and the tears which streamed down her cheeks.

Freyer saw her deep emotion and, bending kindly toward her, again took

her hands in his. Every nerve was still quivering--she could feel

it--from the terrible exertion he had undergone--and as the moisture

drips from the trees after the rain, his eyes still swam in tears, and

his face was damp with perspiration.

"How shall I thank you for coming to me after this day of toil?" she

began in a low tone.

[Illustration: _She suddenly found herself face to face with Freyer_.]

"Oh, Countess," he answered with untroubled truthfulness, "I did it for

the sake of my friend Ludwig--he insisted upon it."

"So it was only on his friend's account," thought the countess,

standing with bowed head before him.

He was now the king--and she, the queen of her brilliant sphere, was

nothing save a poor, hoping, fearing woman!

At this moment all the vanity of her worldly splendor fell from

her--for the first time in her life she stood in the presence of a man

where _she_ was the supplicant, he the benefactor. What a feeling! At

once humiliating and blissful, confusing and enthralling! She had

recognized by that one sentence the real state of the case--what

to this man was the halo surrounding the Reichscountess von Wildenau

with her coronet and her millions? Joseph Freyer knew but one

aristocracy--that of the saints in whose sphere he was accustomed to

move--and if he left it for the sake of an earthly woman, he would

stoop to her, no matter how far, according to worldly ideals, she might

stand above him!

Yet poor and insignificant as she felt in his presence--while the

lustre of her coronet and the glitter of her gold paled and vanished in

the misty distance--_one_ thing remained on which she could rely, her

womanly charm, and this must wield its influence were she a queen or

the child of a wood-cutter! "Then, for the earthly crown you have torn

from my head, proud man, you shall give me your crown of thorns, and I

will _still_ be queen!" she thought, as the spirit of Mother Eve

stirred within her and an intoxicating breeze blew from the Garden of

Paradise. Not for the sake of a base emotion of vanity and

covetousness, nay, she wished to be loved, in order to _bless_. It is

the nature of a noble woman to seek to use her power not to receive,

but to give, to give without stint or measure. The brain thinks

quickly--but the heart is swifter still! Ere the mind has time to grasp

the thought, the heart has seized it. The countess had experienced all

this in the brief space during which Freyer's eyes rested on her.

Suddenly he lowered his lashes and said in a whisper: "I think we have

met before, countess."

"On my arrival Friday evening. You were standing on the top of the

mountain while I was driving at the foot. Was it not so?"

"Yes," he murmured almost inaudibly, and there was something like an

understanding, a sweet familiarity in the soft assent. She felt it, and

her hand clasped his more firmly with a gentle pressure.

He again raised his lashes, gazing at her with an earnest, questioning

glance, and it seemed as if she felt a pulse throbbing in the part of

the hand which bore the mark of the wound--the warning did not fail to

produce its effect.

"Christus, my Christus!" she whispered repentantly. It seemed as if she

had committed a sin in suffering an earthly wish to touch the envoy of

God. He was crucified, dead, and buried. He only walked on earth like a

spirit permitted to return from time to time and dwell for a brief

space among the living. Who could claim a spirit, clasp a shadow to the

heart? Grief oppressed her, melancholy, akin to the grief we feel when

we dream of the return of some beloved one who is dead, and throw

ourselves sobbing on his breast, while we are aware that it is only a

dream! But even if but a dream, should she not dream it with her whole

soul? If she knew that he was given to her only a few moments, should

she not crowd into them with all the sweeter, more sorrowful strength,

the love of a whole life?

After us the deluge, says love to the moment--and that which does not

say it is not love.

But in this _moment_, the countess felt, lay the germ of something

imperishable, and when it was past there would begin for her--not

annihilation, but _eternity_. To it she must answer for what she did

with the moment!

Ludwig Gross was standing by the window, he did not wish to listen what

was communicated by the mute language of those eyes. He had perceived,

with subtle instinct, the existence of some mysterious connection, in

which no third person had any part. They were alone--virtually alone,

yet neither spoke, only their tearful eyes expressed the suffering

which he endured and _she_ shared in beholding.

"Come, poor martyr!" cried her heart, and she released one of his hands

to clasp the other more closely with both her own. She noticed a slight

quiver. "Does your hand still ache--from the terrible nail which seemed

to be driven into your flesh?"

"Oh, no, that would cause no pain; the nail passes between the fingers

and the large head extends toward the center of the palm. But to-day,

by accident, Joseph of Arimathea in drawing out the nail took a piece

of the flesh with it, so that I clenched my teeth with the pain!" he

said, smiling, and showing her the wound. "Do you see? Now I am really

stigmatized!"

"Good Heavens, there is a large piece of the flesh torn out, and you

bore it without wincing?"

"Why, of course!" he said, simply.

Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn

the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in

an unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it

pressed a kiss upon the bloody stigma.

Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back

his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared

not accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved

passionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself

from falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once

consuming and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!

"You are weary, pardon me for not having asked you to sit down long

ago!" said the countess, making an effort to calm herself, and

motioning to Ludwig Gross, in order not to leave him standing alone.

"Only a moment"--whispered Freyer, also struggling to maintain his

composure, as he sank into a chair. Madeleine von Wildenau turned away,

to give him time to regain his self-command. She saw his intense

emotion, and might perhaps have been ashamed of her hasty act had she

not known its meaning--for her feeling at that moment was too sacred

for him to have misunderstood it. Nor had he failed to comprehend, but

it had overpowered him.

Ludwig, who dearly perceived the situation, interposed with his usual

tact to relieve their embarrassment: "Freyer is particularly exhausted

to-day; he told me, on our way here, that he had again been taken from

the cross senseless."

"Good Heavens, does that happen often?" asked the countess.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Ludwig in a troubled tone.

"It is terrible--your father told me that the long suspension on the

cross was dangerous. Can nothing be done to relieve it?"

"Something might be accomplished," replied Ludwig, "by substituting a

flat cross for the rounded one. Formerly, when we had a smooth, angular

one, it did not tax his strength so much! But some authority in

archaeology told us that the crosses of those days were made of

semi-circular logs, and this curve, over which the back is now

strained, stretches the limbs too much."

"I should think so!" cried the countess in horror. "Why do you use such

an instrument of torture?"

"He himself insists upon it, for the sake of historical accuracy."

"But suppose you should not recover, from one of these fainting fits?"

asked the lady, reproachfully.

Then Freyer, conquering his agitation, raised his head. "What more

beautiful fate could be mine, Countess, than to die on the cross, like

my redeemer? It is all that I desire."

"All?" she repeated, and a keen emotion of jealousy assailed her,

jealousy of the cross, to which he would fain devote his life! She met

his dark eyes with a look, a sweet, yearning--fatal look--a poisoned

arrow whose effect she well knew. She grudged him to the cross, the

dead, wooden instrument of martyrdom, which did not feel, did not love,

did not long for him as she did! And the true Christ? Ah, He was too

noble to demand such a sacrifice--besides. He would receive too souls

for one, for surely, in His image, she loved _Him_. He had sent her the

hand marked with blood stains to show her the path to Him--He could not

desire to withdraw it, ere the road was traversed.

"You are a martyr in the true sense of the word," she said. Her eyes

seemed to ask whether the shaft had struck. But Freyer had lowered his

lids and sat gazing at the floor.

"Oh, Countess," he said evasively, "to have one's limbs wrenched for

half an hour does not make a martyr. That suffering brings honor and

the consciousness of serving others. Many, like my friend Ludwig, and

other natives of Ammergau, offer to our cause secret sacrifices of

happiness which no audience beholds and applauds, and which win

no renown save in their own eyes and God's. _They_ are martyrs,

Countess!--I am merely a vain, spoiled, sinful man, who has enough to

do to keep himself from being dazzled by the applause of the world and

to become worthy of his task."

"To _become_!" the countess repeated. "I think whoever speaks in that

way, _is_ worthy already."

Freyer raised his eyes with a look which seemed to Madeleine von

Wildenau to lift her into a higher realm. "Who would venture to say

that he was worthy of _this_ task? It requires a saint. All I can hope

for is that God will use the imperfect tool to work His miracles, and

that He will accept my _will_ for the deed,--otherwise I should be

forced to give up the part _this very day_."

The countess was deeply moved.

"Oh, Freyer, wonderful, divinely gifted nature! To us you are the

Redeemer, and yet you are so severe to yourself."

"Do not talk so, Countess! I must not listen! I will not add to all my

sins that of robbing my Master, in His garb, of what belongs to _Him_

alone. You cannot suspect how it troubles me when people show me this

reverence; I always long to cry out, 'Do not confound me with Him--I am

nothing more than the wood--or the marble from which an image of the

Christ is carved, and withal _bad_ wood, marble which is not free from

stains.' And when they will not believe it, and continue to transfer to

me the love which they ought to have for Christ--I feel that I am

robbing my Master, and no one knows how I suffer." He started up. "That

is why I mingle so little with others--and if I ever break this rule I

repent it, for my peace of mind is destroyed."

He took his hat. His whole nature seemed changed--this was the chaste

severity with which he had driven the money changers from the temple,

and Madeleine turned pale--chilled to the inmost heart by his

inflexible bearing.

"Are you going?" she murmured in a trembling voice.

"It is time," he answered, gently, but with an unapproachable dignity

which made the words with which she would fain have entreated him to

stay longer, die upon her lips.

"Your Highness win leave to morrow?"

"The countess intends to remain some time," said Ludwig, pressing his

friend's arm lightly, as a warning not to wound her feeling.

"Ah," replied Freyer, thoughtfully, "then perhaps we shall meet again."

"I have not yet answered what you have said to-day; will you permit me

to do so to-morrow?" asked the countess, gently; an expression of quiet

suffering hovered around her lips.

"To-morrow I play the Christ again, Countess--but doubtless some

opportunity will be found within the next few days."

"As you please--farewell!"

Freyer bowed respectfully, but as distantly as if he did not think it

possible that the lady would offer him her hand. Ludwig, on the

contrary, as if to make amends for his friend's omission, frankly

extended his. She clasped it, saying in a low, hurried tone: "Stay!"

"I will merely go with Freyer to the door, and then return, if you will

allow me."

"Yes," she said, dismissing Freyer with a haughty wave of the hand.

Then, throwing herself into the chair by the table, she burst into

bitter weeping. She had always been surrounded by men who sued for her

favor as though it were a royal gift. And here--here she was disdained,

and by whom? A man of the people--a plebeian! No, a keen pang pierced

her heart as she tried to give him that name. If _he_ was a plebeian,

so, too, was Christ. Christ, too, sprang from the people--the ideal of

the human race was born in a _manger_! She could summon to confront Him

only _one_ kind of pride, that of the _woman_, not of the high-born

lady. Alas--she had not even _this_. How often she had flung her heart

away without love. For the mess of pottage of gratified vanity or an

interesting situation, as the prince had said yesterday, she had

bartered the birthright of the holiest feeling. Of what did she dare to

be proud? That, for the first time in her life, she really loved? Was

she to avenge herself by arrogance upon the man who had awakened this

divine emotion because he did not share it? No, that would be petty and

ungrateful. Yet what could she do? He was so far above her in his

unassuming simplicity, so utterly inviolable. She was captured by his

nobility, her weapons were powerless against him. As she gazed around

her for some support by which she might lift herself above him, every

prop of her former artificial life snapped in her grasp before the

grand, colossal verity of this apparition. She could do nothing save

love and suffer, and accept whatever fate he bestowed.

Some one knocked at the door; almost mechanically she gave the

permission to enter.

Ludwig Gross came in noiselessly and approached her. Without a word she

held out her hand, as a patient extends it to the physician. He stood

by her side and his eyes rested on the weeping woman with the sympathy

and understanding born of experience in suffering. But his presence was

infinitely soothing. This man would allow nothing to harm her! So far

as his power extended, she was safe.

She looked at him as if beseeching help--and he understood her.

"Freyer was unusually excited to-day," he said, "I do not know what was

passing in his mind. I never saw him in such a mood before! When we

entered the garden, he embraced me as if something extraordinary had

happened, and then rushed off as though the ground was burning under

his feet--of course in the direction opposite to his home, for the

whole street was full of people waiting to see him."

The countess held her breath to listen.

"Was he in this mood when you called for him?" she asked.

"No, he was as usual, calm and weary."

"What changed him so suddenly?"

"I believe, Countess, that you have made an impression upon him which

he desires to understand. You have thrown him out of the regular

routine, and he no longer comprehends his own feelings."

"But I--I said so little--I don't understand," cried the countess,

blushing.

"The important point does not always depend on what is said, but on

what is _not_ said, Countess. To deep souls what is unuttered is often

more significant than words."

Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes and silently clasped Ludwig's

hand.

"Do you think that he--" she did not finish the sentence, Ludwig spared

her.

"From my knowledge of Freyer--either he will _never_ return, or--he

will come _to-morrow_."