'Old friends, old logs, old spirits,' observed Wastei. 'We have known each other a long time, Frau Berbel, in good and bad days, summer and winter, and you have always been the same to me.'

'Small credit for that!' exclaimed Berbel. 'You have done me many a good turn in twenty years, and my ladies too, and you have never got much by it, that I can see--more praise to you!'

'Nonsense!' e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Wastei, who was visibly affected by the speech.

'G.o.d greet you, Frau Berbel!' he added, turning away abruptly and leaving her standing alone in the court.

Berbel looked after him for a few seconds, and there was an unusually tender expression in her sharp eyes, as she watched his retreating figure. He had been a wild fellow in his day, a daring poacher, an intrepid drinker of fiery cherry spirits, always the first in a fight and the last out of it, the terror of the head forester and his men, the object of old Greifenstein's inveterate hatred, the admiration of the village maidens for twenty miles around, the central figure in a hundred adventures and hairbreadth escapes of all kinds, and yet, as though he were miraculously preserved from harm, he had always managed to keep out of trouble, and though many a time suspected of making free with the game, yet never convicted, nor even brought to a trial. It had been impossible to catch him and impossible to prove anything against him. At last the head forester, who had a secret reverence for his extraordinary powers of endurance and unrivalled skill in woodcraft, had made terms with him and employed him as a sort of supernumerary upon the government establishment. From that day, Wastei, who would have waged war to the death with all regular foresters, had surrendered at discretion to the kindness shown him, and had given up poaching for ever. Berbel could not help liking him, and being grateful to him for many a good turn he had done the poor ladies at Sigmundskron. She had often distrusted him at first, but after twenty years' acquaintance and friendship she owned, as she watched him stride away, that he had a heart of gold, as he had said of her but a few moments earlier.

It seemed as though circ.u.mstances pointed clearly to the course she had intended to pursue, for since Wastei had brought her the coat it was no longer possible to put off the execution of her purpose. She determined to obtain an interview with Hilda as soon as possible and to place both the garment and the letter in her hands. The reasoning she followed in selecting Hilda for her confidence has been sufficiently explained already. The intimacy existing between the two made such a plan seem most natural to her, Hilda's strong and sensible nature made it safe, the difficulty of the mission, so far as Greif was concerned, made it appear wisest to leave the matter to his wife's wisdom and tact. Berbel went upstairs with her bundle under her arm.

Though Hilda had not risen quite so early as her old servant, she was by this time dressed and ready for the morning walk Greif liked so much in the summer time. Berbel met them both in one of the pa.s.sages, walking quickly, arm in arm, talking and laughing happily as they went. Berbel would have let them pa.s.s, seeing that Hilda was not alone, had not the latter stopped and asked a question.

'What have you got there, Berbel?' she inquired, looking at the bundle.

'It is a very important matter,' answered Berbel. 'And if you could spare me a few minutes--'

'Is it really important?' asked Hilda, leaning on her husband's arm.

'Very. And if you could spare the time--' Berbel looked at Greif.

'Very well,' said the latter. 'I have plenty to do, dear. Finish your business with Berbel and meet me on the tower--there is a man waiting for me, I believe.'

Thereupon Greif went on his way down the broad corridor, leaving Hilda and Berbel to their own devices.

'What is it?' asked Hilda, who wanted to lose no time in rejoining her husband.

'It is a very serious affair, and concerns the baron,' answered Berbel.

'Perhaps it would be better if you would come to my room.'

Hilda followed her, wondering what could have happened, and not without some presentiment of evil. When they had reached their destination Berbel carefully bolted the door and turned to her mistress. It was a small bright room, vaulted and whitewashed, simply but comfortably furnished. Hilda sat down and looked up at Berbel's face, somewhat anxiously.

'It is nothing bad,' said Berbel. 'But it will give pain to the baron, and so I consulted you. I have found a letter written to him by Herr von Greifenstein on the night he died. No one but you can give it to him.'

Hilda started slightly. Anything which recalled the fearful tragedy was necessarily painful and disturbing to the peace of her unclouded happiness.

'A letter?' she repeated in a low voice. 'Where did you find it? They searched everywhere for months. Are you quite sure?'

'They might have searched for ever, but for the merest accident,'

answered Berbel, beginning to undo her bundle. 'This,' she added, unfolding the velvet garment--'this is the coat Herr von Greifenstein wore when he shot himself.'

Hilda gazed silently at the thing during several seconds, and shuddered at the thoughts it recalled, though she was by no means persuaded that Berbel was not mistaken.

'How do you know it is?' she asked at last.

'It was stolen on that night by one of those city servants who were always at Greifenstein. Your mother did not notice it. The man took it to a Jew, who kept it a year and then hung it up for sale. A few days ago Wastei bought it to wear at the christening.' 'But how did he know?'

'He guessed it, and found these marks.'

Berbel showed the collar of the coat to Hilda, putting her finger on each spot in succession.

'It looks like rust,' said Hilda.

'It is the blood of Herr von Greifenstein,' answered Berbel solemnly.

'The ball went in just below the right ear, as I have heard your mother say more than once.'

'How horrible!' exclaimed Hilda, drawing back, though her eyes remained riveted on the rusty marks.

'It is not gay,' said Berbel grimly. 'Now look here. Do you see the pocket? Yes. Well, do you see that the lining is torn just above it?

Good. Herr von Greifenstein wrote his letter and slipped it into his pocket, because he was thinking of other things at that moment, and paid no attention to what he did, which was natural enough, poor gentleman.

But instead of putting it into the pocket, he happened to slip it through the slit, so that it fell down between the coat and the lining.

Do you see?'

'Yes--and then?'

'And then he pulled the trigger of his pistol and died. The letter was hidden in the coat, the coat was stolen, taken to the Jew's and sold to Wastei eighteen months later, with the letter still in it. And Wastei brought me the letter yesterday, and the coat to-day. That is the whole history.'

'Where is it--the letter?' asked Hilda in an anxious tone.

Berbel unlocked her little deal chest and withdrew the precious doc.u.ment, which she put into Hilda's hand. Hilda turned it over and over, and looked from it to the coat, and back again to the sealed envelope, reading the address again and again.

'It is a strange story,' she said at last. 'But I do not see that there can be any doubt. O Berbel, Berbel! What do you think there is written inside this little bit of paper?'

'A few words to say good-bye to his son, I suppose,' the woman answered.

'If it were only that--' Hilda did not finish the sentence, but her face grew slowly pale and she stared vacantly out of the window, while the hand that held the letter rested on her knee.

'I do not see that it can be anything else,' said Berbel quietly. 'It cannot be a will, for they found everything about the property. What could the poor gentleman say except "Good-bye," and "G.o.d bless you"? It seems very simple to me. Of course I knew that it would make the baron very sad to read it, and so I came to you, because I knew you could find just the right moment to give it to him, and just the right words to say, and it seemed wrong in me to keep it even a day. At first, I thought I ought to put it away and wait a year or two, until he had quite forgotten the first shock--but then--'

'Thank heaven you did not!' exclaimed Hilda.

'Well, I am glad I have pleased you,' observed Berbel in her sharp, good-natured way.

'Pleased? Oh, anything would have pleased me better than this thing! It is dreadful, after all this time has pa.s.sed--'

'But, after all,' suggested Berbel, 'it is only the affair of a day or two, and the baron will be very glad, afterwards, to feel that his father had not forgotten him.'

'You do not understand,' answered Hilda with increasing anxiety. 'We never knew why they killed themselves--it is an awful secret, and the explanation is in this letter.'

'You never knew!' cried Berbel in great astonishment. It had not entered her comprehension that the real facts could be unknown, though they had never been communicated to herself.

'No--neither I nor my husband, and I had hoped that as all has turned out happily we might never know. It would have been far better, far better!'

'Yes, far better,' echoed Berbel, whose simple calculations had been upset by the news, and who began to wish that the coat had fallen into other hands.

Hilda sat quite still, thinking what she should do. The situation was painful from its very simplicity, for it was a.s.suredly her duty to go to her husband and give him the letter, telling him the whole truth at once. He had a right to receive the message from his dead father without a moment's delay, and she knew it, though she hesitated at the thought of what might follow. Her beautiful young face was pale with anxiety, and her bright eyes were veiled by sad thoughts. Poor Berbel was terribly distressed at the result of her discovery and tried to imagine some means of improving the situation.

'If you would let me,' she said, at last, 'I would take the letter to the baron and explain--if it would hurt you--'

'You? I?' cried Hilda almost fiercely. 'It is of him I am thinking, and of what he will suffer. What does it matter for me? It is my duty, and I must do it--am I his wife only when the sun shines and we are happy? Ah, Berbel, you should know better than that!'