CHAPTER XXXI.

THE RETURN HOME.

The "Wies" towered like an island from amid a grey sea of clouds. All

the mountains of Trauchgau and Pfront, Allgau and Tyrol, which surround

it like distant shores and cliffs, had vanished in the mist. The

windows in the comfortable tavern were lighted and a fire was blazing

on the hearth. One little lamp after another shone from the quiet

farm-houses.

The lonely church now lay silent! Silent, too, was the Wiesherrle in

his glass shrine, while the wayfarer pressed steadily down through the

mist toward home and the cross! Freyer moved on more and more swiftly

across the hill-sides and through the woods till he reached the path

leading down the mountain to the "Halb-Ammer," which flowed at its

base. Gradually he emerged from the strata of mist, and now a faint ray

of moonlight fell upon his path.

Hour after hour he pursued his way. One after another the lights in the

houses were extinguished. The world sank into slumber, and the villages

were wrapped in silence.

In the churches only the ever-burning lamps still blazed, and he made

them his resting-places.

The clock in the church steeple of Altenau struck twelve as he passed

through. A belated tippler approached him with the reeling step of a

drunkard, but started back when he saw his face, staring after him with

dull bewildered eyes as if he beheld some spectre of the night.

"An image of horror I glide through the land!" Freyer murmured softly.

To-night he did not sing his song. This evening his pain was soothed,

his soul was preparing for another paean--on the cross!

Now the little church of Kappel appeared before him on its green hill,

like a pious sign-post pointing the way to Ammergau. But patches of

snow still lingered amid the pale green of the Spring foliage, for it

is late ere the Winter is conquered by the milder season and the keen

wind swept down the broad highway, making the wayfarer's teeth chatter

with cold. He felt that his vital warmth was nearly exhausted, he had

walked two days with no hot food. For the soup at the parsonage that

day was merely lukewarm--he stood still a moment, surely he had dreamed

that! He could not have begged for bread? Yes, it was even so. A tremor

shook his limbs: Have you fallen so low? He tried to button his thin

coat--his fingers were stiff with cold. Ten years ago when he left

Ammergau, it was midsummer--now winter still reigned on the heights.

"Only let me not perish on the highway," he prayed, "only let me reach

home."

It was now bright cold moonlight, all the outlines of the mountains

stood forth distinctly, the familiar contours of the Ammergau peaks

became more and more visible.

Now he stood on the Ammer bridge where what might be termed the suburb

of Ammergau, the hamlet of Lower Ammergau, begins. The moon-lit river

led the eye in a straight line to the centre of the Ammer valley--there

lay the sacred mountains of his home--the vast side scenes of the most

gigantic stage in the world, the Kofel with its cross, and the other

peaks. Opposite on the left the quiet chapel of St. Gregory amid

boundless meadows, beside the fall of the Leine, the Ammer's wilder

sister. There he had watched his horses when a boy, down near the

chapel where the blue gentians had garlanded his head when he flung

himself on the grass, intoxicated by his own exuberant youth and

abundance of life.

He extended his arms as if he would fain embrace the whole infinite

scene: "Home, home, your lost son is returning--receive him. Do not

fall, ye mountains, and bury the beloved valley ere I reach it!"

One last effort, one short hour's walk. Hold out, wearied one, this one

hour more!

The highway from Lower Ammergau stretched endlessly toward the goal. On

the right was the forest, on the left the fields where grew thousands

of meadow blossoms, the Eden of his childhood where a blue lake once

lured him, so blue that he imagined it was reflecting a patch of the

sky, but when he reached it, instead of water, he beheld a field of

forget-me-nots!

Oh, memories of childhood--reconciling angel of the tortured soul!

There stands the cross on the boundary with the thorny bush whence

Christ's crown was cut.

"How will you fare, will the community receive you, admit you to the

blissful union of home powers, if you sacrifice your heart's blood for

it?" Freyer asked himself, and it seemed as if some cloud, some dark

foreboding came between him and his home. "Well for him who no longer

expects his reward from this world. What are men? They are all

variable, variable and weak! Thou alone art the same. Thou who dost

create the miracle from our midst--and thou, sacred soil of our

ancestors, ye mountains from whose peaks blows the strengthening breath

which animates our sublime work--it is not _human beings_, but ye who

are home!"

Now the goal was gained--he was there! Before him in the moonlight lay

the Passion Theatre--the consecrated space where once for hours he was

permitted to feel himself a God.

The poor, cast off man, deceived in all things, flung himself down,

kissed the earth, and laid a handful of it on his head, as though it

were the hand of a mother--while from his soul gushed like a song sung

by his own weeping guardian angel,

"Thy soil I kiss, beloved home,

Which erst my fathers' feet have trod,

Where the good seed devoutly sown

Sprang forth at the command of God!

Thy lap fain would I rest upon,

Though faithlessly from thee I fled

Still thy chains draw thy wand'ring son

Oh! mother, back where'er his feet may tread.

And though no ray of light, no star,

Illumes the future--and its gloom,

Thou wilt not grudge, after life's war,

A clod of earth upon my tomb."

He rested his head thus a long time on the cold earth, but he no longer

felt it. It seemed as though the soul had consumed the last power of

the exhausted body--and bursting its fetters blazed forth like an

aureole. "Hosanna, hosanna!" rang through the air, and the earth

trembled under the tramp of thousands. On they came in a long

procession bearing palm-branches, the shades of the fathers--the old

actors in the Passion Play from its commencement, and all who had lived

and died for the cross since the time of Christ!

"Hosanna, hosanna to him who died on the cross. Many are called, but

few chosen. But you belong to us!" sang the chorus of martyrs till the

notes rang through earth and Heaven. "Hosanna, hosanna to him who

suffers and bleeds for the sins of the world."

Freyer raised his head. The moon had gone behind a cloud, and white

mists were gathering over the fields.

He rose, shivering with cold. His thin coat was damp with the night

frost which had melted on his uncovered breast, and his feet were sore,

for his shoes were worn out by the long walk.

He still fancied he could hear, far away in the infinite distance, the

chorus of the Hosanna to the Crucified! And raising his arms to heaven,

he cried: "Oh, my Redeemer and Master, so long as Thou dost need me to

show the world Thy face--let me live--then take pity on me and let me

die on the cross! Die for the sins of one, as Thou didst die for the

sins of the world." He opened the door leading to the stage. There in

the dim moonlight lay the old cross. Sobbing aloud, he embraced it,

pressing to his breast the hard wood which had supported him and now,

as of yore, was surrounded by the mysterious powers, which so strongly

attracted him.

"Oh, had I been but faithful to thee," he lamented, "all the blessings

of this world--even were it the greatest happiness, would not outweigh

thee. Now I am thine--praise thyself with me and bear me upward, high

above all earthly woe."

The clock in the church steeple struck three. He must still live and

suffer, for he knew that no one could play the Christus as he did,

because no one bore the Redeemer's image in his heart like him.

But--could he go farther? His strength had failed, he felt it with

burdened breast. He took up his hat and staff, and tottered out. Where

should he go? To Ludwig Gross, the only person to whom he was not

ashamed to show himself in his wretchedness.

Now for the first time he realized that he could scarcely move farther.

Yet it must be done, he could not lie there.

Step by step he dragged himself in his torn shoes along the rough

village street. When half way down he heard music and singing

alternating with cries and laughter, echoing from the tavern. It was a

wedding, and they were preparing to escort the bride and groom home--he

learned this from the talk of some of the lads who came out. Was he

really in Ammergau? His soul was yet thrilling with emotion at the

sight of the home for which he had so long yearned and now--this

contrast! Yet it was natural, they could not all devote themselves to

their task with the same fervor. Yet it doubly wounded the man who bore

in his heart such a solemn earnestness of conviction. He glided

noiselessly along in the shadow of the houses, that no one should see

him.

Did not the carousers notice that their Christ was passing in beggar's

garb? Did they not feel the gaze bent on them from the shadow through

the lighted window, silently asking: "Are these the descendants of

those ancestors whose glorified spirits had just greeted the returning

son of Ammergau?"

The unhappy wanderer's step passed by unheard, and now Freyer turned

into the side street, where his friend's house stood--the luckless

house where his doom began.

It was not quite half-past three. The confused noise did not reach the

quiet street. The house, shaded by its broad, projecting roof, lay as

if wrapped in slumber. Except during the passion Ludwig always slept in

the room on the ground floor, formerly occupied by the countess. Freyer

tapped lightly on the shutter, but his heart was beating so violently

that he could scarcely hear whether any one was moving within.

If his friend should not be there, had gone away on a journey, or

moved--what should he do then? He had had no communication with him,

and only heard once through Josepha that old Andreas Gross was dead. He

knocked again. Ludwig was the only person whom he could trust--if he

had lost him, all would be over.

But no--there was a movement within--the well-known voice asked

sleepily: "Who is there?"

"Ludwig, open the window--it is I--Freyer!" he called under his breath.

The shutters were flung back. "Freyer--is it possible? Wait, Joseph,

wait, I'll admit you." He heard his friend hurriedly dressing--two

minutes after the door opened. Not a word was exchanged between the

two men. Ludwig grasped Freyer's hand and drew him into the house.

"Freyer--you--am I dreaming? You here--what brings you? I'll have a

light directly." His hand trembled with excitement as he lighted a

candle. Freyer stood timidly at the door. The room grew bright, the

rays streamed full on Freyer. Ludwig started back in horror. "Merciful

Heaven, how you look!"

The friends long stood face to face, unable to utter a word, Freyer

still holding his hat in his hand. Ludwig's keen eye glided over the

emaciated form, the shabby coat, the torn shoes. "Freyer, Freyer, what

has befallen you? My poor friend, do you return to me _thus_?" With

unutterable grief he clasped the unfortunate man in his arms.

Freyer could scarcely speak, his tongue refused to obey his will. "If I

could rest a little while," he faltered.

"Yes, come, come and lie down on my bed--I have slept as much as I

wish. I shall not lie down again," replied Ludwig, trembling with

mingled pity and alarm, as he drew off his friend's miserable rags as

quickly as possible. Then leading him to his own bed, he gently pressed

him down upon it. He would not weary the exhausted man with questions,

he saw that Freyer was no longer master of himself. His condition told

his friend enough.

"You--are--kind!" stammered Freyer. "Oh, I have learned something in

the outside world."

"What--what have you learned?" asked Ludwig.

A strange smile flitted over Freyer's face: "_To beg._"

His friend shuddered. "Don't talk any more now--you need rest!" he said

in a low, soothing tone, wrapping the chilled body in warm coverlets.

But a flash of noble indignation sparkled in his eyes, and his pale

lips could not restrain the words: "I will ask no questions--but

whoever sent you home to us must answer for it to God."

The other did not hear, or if he did his thoughts were too confused to

understand.

"Freyer! Only tell me what I can do to strengthen you. I'll make a

fire, and give you anything to eat that you would like."

"Whatever--you--have!" Freyer gasped with much difficulty.

"May God help us--he is starving." Ludwig could scarcely control his

tears. "Keep quiet--I'll come presently and bring you something!" he

said, hurrying out to get all the modest larder contained. He would not

wake his sisters--this was no theme for feminine gossip. He soon

prepared with his own hands a simple bread porridge into which he broke

a couple of eggs, he had nothing else--but at least it was warm food.

When he took it to his friend Freyer had grown so weak that he could

scarcely hold the spoon, but the nourishment evidently did him good.

"Now sleep!" said Ludwig. "Day is dawning. I'll go down to the village

and see if I can get you some boots and another coat."

A mute look of gratitude from Freyer rewarded the faithful care, then

his eyes closed, and his friend gazed at him with deep melancholy.