There was not one of the Jews who had not a deep rent in his garment.

As this mode of grief is seldom observable except in the case of relations, the dead man seemed a connection of all. So, too, it was easy to read in the excited faces, and in the murmurs which now and then ran through the crowd, that their sorrow was strongly mingled with indignation.

Weeping and wailing came from the house of mourning. "It is his sister and her children from Tarnopol," whispered the crowd. "His son has not come yet."

Suddenly a weird sound arose, increased in volume, and ceased. It was the short prayer said by the burial guild before they enter the house to carry out the corpse.

"Make way!" resounded through the ranks, and the people pressed together to leave the middle of the street free. Some climbed on the count's carriage. The coachman made no objections. He sprang from his seat, and busied himself about the horses. Poor, rude serf as he was, he was no more in fault than the horses he drove, the same with which, four weeks before, he had driven his master and Judith to the retired lodge in the Carpathians; but he could not feel comfortable on his raised seat, for he now knew who was about to be borne to his last home.

But before this, another incident was to intensify the excitement. A piercing shriek was heard and a cry, "Raphael has come!"

When this news reached the house of mourning a prayer, just commenced, was suddenly stopped. The good order was for a time disturbed, and inquiries arose as to whether the report was true and where he was, to which no answer could at first be obtained. Finally some one told those in front, who pa.s.sed the tidings on, that Raphael, hearing he was too late, had swooned away, but that, recovering quickly, he had gone into the house by the rear door, that he might take leave of his father.

"Stand back!" came the order. "The procession will start directly." The crowd obeyed, but their grief and anger became more apparent. The wailing of the women increased, and they cursed Judith and the count with loud voice and clenched fists.

Fedko drew his cap farther over his face. "If they knew what has happened this morning!" he thought. Verily, he did not care to change places with his master.

A minute later the prayers recommenced. The gutturals of the Hebrew ritual, solemn and impressive, penetrated the murky atmosphere. The procession was in order. In front, led by their teachers, came the boys of the congregation, the smallest first, all clad in long black garments. They walked two by two in silence, until, at a given signal, they burst into a prayer. It was short--so short that it was as though the hundred clear, childish voices had given vent to one simultaneous cry of grief. To this versicle, entreating for the peaceful repose of the dead, the crowd responded, "Amen! Amen!"

The youths followed, and then the men, all in their best attire, the caftan of cloth or silk being torn open on the breast. Some prayed silently, but the greater proportion walked along with bowed heads and lowering faces.

Between times was heard the shrill cry, "Save the soul!" from the watchers of the dead, as they held the alms-bags to the spectators.

The burial guild came next, shrouded in white linen blouses, their heads covered with a white praying-cloth. On a bier, carried by six men, was the corpse, the feet foremost, wrapped in a white cloth, not in a coffin, so that the outlines of the form were distinctly visible.

The women sobbed aloud, the men beat their b.r.e.a.s.t.s, imploring, "Peace, peace!"

After the other part of the fraternity, that alone has the right to surround the dead, had pa.s.sed by, and the mourners became visible, a still stronger emotion stirred the mult.i.tude. Raphael, still in his mud-bespattered travelling-clothes, walked alone. He must have rent his garments so violently as to tear the flesh, for fresh blood-stains were on the edges. His face was gray as ashes, and his hair was doubly black by contrast; his features seemed petrified. He walked erect, his eyes fixed on the bier and his dead father's head. He declined the support of his uncle, who was near him, and only the deeply drawn corners of his mouth and the half-closed lips betrayed the agony he was enduring.

He was not so much a mourner as an avenger.

"Poor fellow!" a woman would sob occasionally, but the men watched him with bated breath, and when one shouted, "Avenge him! we will help you!" they all joined in as if waiting for the call. The town doctor and overseers, who walked behind Raphael, looked around frightened, for the Christian dignitaries followed them, the burgomaster at their head.

Herr von Baria.s.sy was there also, with his subordinates. The magistrate alone was missing.

The procession moved slowly into the sea of fog over the dripping heather to the "Good Place," as the Eastern Jew calls the graveyard.

All who could joined the procession. Fedko had a free road now, yet it seemed to him the right thing to drive to the back door, as if his errand were one which could not bear even this dismal daylight.

The staircase to the first floor was locked, and when he knocked one of the two Hussars who were walking, apparently idly, up and down, came and asked his business. After the soldier was satisfied, he knocked twice, and another Hussar opened the door, while a fourth stood at the head of the stairs. Finally the cook appeared. "Our master is ill; ill with terror," she whispered to Fedko. "He is so afraid of Jews! That is the reason these soldiers are here. But he will be certain to see you,"

and a few minutes after the coachman was requested to step in.

The magistrate sat in an arm-chair, looking very ill. His face grew paler and more agitated as he glanced over the letter. It contained but two lines: "As misfortune has occurred and I am helpless, come quickly, and bring the doctor with you."

He sprang to his feet. "What has happened?" he asked, tremblingly.

"If it isn't in the letter, I--" Fedko began, hesitatingly.

"Speak out! I am to go to Borky, and take the doctor with me; so it surely cannot remain secret from me. The Jewess appears to be ill."

The coachman nodded, "Yes, very ill."

"Has she injured herself?"

The man was silent.

"Speak! how did this calamity take place? The doctor must take his necessary instruments."

"She fell into the lake."

"When?"

"This morning, early. The count was still asleep."

"Who saved her?"

"The butler and myself. It was a hard piece of work. She struggled so.

We only got her to land when she became unconscious."

The magistrate walked nervously up and down. "And this in addition!

Surely the scandal was great enough. But what am I to do? You can fetch the doctor yourself. But not the town doctor. He is a Jew himself. The only good thing in the affair is that they do not know where she is. I will give you a line to the regimental doctor in Roskowska."

He went to his desk, and began to write. After a few words he dropped his pen. "Fedko, it is a puzzle. The Jew died yesterday at noon, and this happened this morning. Who the devil told it to the girl so quickly?"

"Nonsense, sir!" answered the coachman. "No stranger has been in the castle. She has not heard it yet."

"But what other reason could she have, the silly fool? She is there enjoying a thousand pleasures with her lov--"

He paused in the middle of the word. This Ruthene boor was staring at him in such a curious way. "This is very bad," he thought, "and he may repeat it. It cannot be allowed. This scandal on top of the other, and I am undone. They must leave, both of them."

He got up from his desk. "I will drive with you." He went to the window, and peered into the street, which was quite deserted. "Where is the carriage--at the court-yard gate? Very good. Then we can reach Roskowska un.o.bserved. These stupid Jews threatened me last night."

He sent Fedko into the anteroom, and dressed rapidly. Lady Anna came in, and he told her the purport of his journey. The pair exchanged brief but hearty farewells. She summed up his activity in the affair in one word, while he thanked her with a delicate reference to the prior and the Rittmeister. He then went down-stairs, glancing timorously into the open door of the death-chamber as he pa.s.sed. The windows were shrouded, and the numerous pictures turned to the wall. A small oil-lamp, the "soul-lamp," was burning in one corner of the darkened room, while the boards creaked as if drawing a breath of relief, because freed from their ghastly burden.

The official shivered as he hastened through the court-yard and jumped into the carriage. One of the Hussars took his place by the side of the coachman, and away they drove through the deserted street and along the riverside to the suburb Roskowska, where were the Hussar barracks and the residence of the regimental physician.

He was at home, ready to start, and willingly promised silence. But when the magistrate told him who needed his services, and requested him to take the necessary remedies with him, the rough old gentleman was deeply moved.

"Trachtenberg's daughter!" he said; and his bristly white moustache quivered. "Yesterday I attended the death-bed of her father, to-day the daughter's; and two months since how happily and peaceably these people lived! Oh, my dear sir, a terrible crime has been committed!"

"A good deal could be said on that subject," equivocated Von Wroblewski, helping the doctor to pack what was required. He dismissed the Hussar, but ordered the coachman to drive around the town, so they would not meet the returning procession. He then gave his version of the story to the doctor. "You see," he concluded, "how the mob wrong me. Nor is the count as guilty as he seems. The fanaticism of the old man is really to blame. 'I would rather see my child a corpse than that she should become Countess Baranowski.' Those were his words, 'pon my honor. Otherwise Agenor would not have proceeded to violence."

"All the better," rejoined the doctor. "He can marry her now. The dead make no objections."

"Hm--" The magistrate cleared his throat, but he had no answer ready.

The idea kept running in his mind, "Anyhow, it would be an escape." He begrudged the Jews a triumph; but if Agenor did this, he would escape an unpleasant investigation. Yet it was not to be thought of. Though the young man might be as wax in other matters, in this he was iron.

His lineage, his purse, his blood, were ever in his mind. How did he once express himself? "Only if I had to choose between a Jewess and a jail would I stop to consider which would be the greatest insult to my ancestors." But if he did not wish to marry, and if this was the only way to keep Judith alive and quiet the scandal, what then?

The magistrate closed his eyes involuntarily. He was a hard, unscrupulous man, and his entire life had been one long lie, but even he shuddered at the thought that just now occurred to him. It would be too base, and dangerous besides. He offered the doctor a cigar, and began to talk about the bad weather; and, indeed, it was a rough journey over the miry road and through the gray, dripping solitude.

The conversation soon dropped. Too dangerous? The idea recurred again.

But it might not be. The interested parties would be silent, and, as it was, Judith and the count must leave the country. It would satisfy the girl. She would be provided for, and the supposit.i.tious scoundrel could probably be found, for, in spite of his a.s.sumed oaths, it was not likely that he had gone to Russia. If the count was willing, that would be the best way of escape.