"Give me your arm," said Judith, and they went to the servants' hall.

The door of the large, low room stood wide open. Jan was by the table, opposite him the stranger, whose knavish face, with his short cropped hair, peered curiously out of the monk's hood. The false beard was on the floor by the side of a broken bottle. The poor faithful servant had just emptied his money-bag on the table, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. "Here are all my savings," he sobbed. "Two hundred and four gulden. They will take you home, and the count will give you what you want. But go, for G.o.d's sake, go! The poor thing must not find it out."

Judith entered. "Thank you, Jan. But I wish to speak with the man in private."

The poor fellow staggered backward. "My most gracious countess," he moaned, "he lies! he lies!"

"Go," she repeated, "or I shall not be able to stand it."

Weeping bitterly, he crept out of doors, and motioned Hamia away, who was plaguing him with questions.

"We must watch her day and night, for the lake is close at hand."

The conversation lasted but a few minutes. Then Tondka came slinking out with the beard in his hand. "Really, Herr Jan, I am downright sorry for her. But I am to send you in. She has something for you to do."

Jan entered the room. Judith was sitting on a bench by the table. "Take this," she said, giving him a key. "Open the safe in my room, and give the man the three hundred francs I have promised him. Then send Hamia here."

The girl, who arrived a minute after, found her mistress senseless on the floor.

It was a deep swoon. The doctor, who was called by Jan, remained until late in the night, seemingly very anxious. "Brain fever is threatening," he said, when leaving. "I am afraid the case will be a serious one."

He was mistaken, for when he came the following day he found his patient out of bed. She had aged suddenly, and looked like a shadow, and it shocked him greatly to see silver threads among her auburn tresses.

"My dear madam, I do not know what has happened, but I hope you will remember you are a mother."

"I a.s.sure you I will not forget it," and she thanked him for his sympathy. He left her with a quiet mind.

Hamia was relieved, too, when she heard her mistress talking as sensibly and reasonably as ever. Only Jan was suspicious. He feared it would not end well, and prayed all day long that G.o.d would preserve the balance of her mind. His anxiety was still greater when she sent for him in the evening, and said: "You were about to sacrifice your savings for me. Since you love me that much, will you lend them to me if I ask you?"

"With the greatest pleasure; but there is still a good sum in the safe."

"Still, I ask them from you. I will certainly repay you."

He took the money to her, but said sorrowfully to Hamia: "Now I am sure she is not right in her mind."

He was to discover the next morning that she was perfectly sane.

CHAPTER X.

It was the first day of spring, according to the calendar, but the moors of Podolia were as melancholy and dreary as if sunshine and blue skies were thousands of miles away.

Count Baranowski shivered as he drove along the half-frozen roads, through wind and rain, from Borky to the county town, to keep an appointment with his lawyer. But it was not altogether the fault of the weather, for after nearly an hour spent in the well-warmed room of his legal adviser, he was forced to pace up and down and rub his hands, to dispel the chill and heaviness that seemed to paralyze his limbs.

"Almost three months," he groaned, "and what has been accomplished?"

"If that is intended as a reproach to me," said the lawyer, "I decline to accept it. What I could do, that I have done. I have straightened out your finances, and as economically as possible. Herr Stiegle is reengaged, and I cannot aid you in shaking off Wroblewski. Generosity is of no avail there. If you offered him twenty thousand gulden this year as hush-money, he would take it thankfully, and next year would demand twenty thousand more. If you refused to give them, things would drop back into their old conditions. You can never intimidate the man.

His letters show his rascality. But your letters prove you have committed sacrilege, and that you have tried to induce him to bribe the judges. Dare you defy him? I advised you to do so once, but, since I know the man, I withdraw that advice. He is a thorough type of an easy-going scoundrel, extortioner, and spendthrift. All he receives from you is owing to the usurers. Your fear of him is his only resource. If that source of income is shut up, he will be worse off than a beggar, and his words, 'Then I will look to the jail to support me, where I will amuse myself with my fellow-convict, Baranowski,' are pretty true. Ought you to fear his confession? Yes. The deception practised on the girl would not count, but the breaking of the law, especially the act of sacrilege, would lead to the most serious results. I sum them up as they actually stand; morally, perhaps, they should be reversed."

"I think so, indeed," said the count, gloomily. "When I think of the poor creature, it pains me to the heart."

"Then, possibly, you have thought of what I was about to advise?"

"Do you mean that I should confess all and have a real baptism and marriage? I have frequently thought of that, but I fear my repentance comes too late. Once, when she had doubts, I lied to her basely--it was the dirtiest trick of my life--and I am afraid that if she found this out she would die rather than live with me."

"Count on the love she bears her child. At any rate, you ought to try it. I am confident you will succeed. I give you this advice as a lawyer. Then you can leave Wroblewski to his fate, and turn him out of the home you like best, yet must avoid because of his presence in it.

Very likely he will bring a suit against you, but the judgment will be trifling, and you will no longer rank as a dishonored man. The bishop will not interfere, as you will have been the means of bringing a soul into the church, and your temporal judge, Herr Groze, Wroblewski's successor, is a man of the most delicate sense of justice. I am quite sure he would say, 'The count has sinned, but he has also suffered, and will now expiate his guilt.' However, I give this advice not only as lawyer, but also as friend. You are not happy now?"

"G.o.d knows I am not."

"No one could be with such a burden on his conscience. Free yourself from this burden. Regard for your position in society can no longer hinder you."

"No," said Agenor, bitterly. "Truly not. My position could not be worse. I am ostracized."

"You paint things too black. But bad stories are in circulation. I have many times been surprised that the story of a sham marriage, coming from the words of your valet in Florence, should have found so much credence. I suppose it is because, unhappily, the truth is, in this case, the most slanderous. If a worse construction could have been put upon it, the real truth would have remained unknown. Now every one has an opportunity to prove his orthodoxy by lifting his eyes in horror at the sacrilegious acts performed in the chapel at Borky, and his chivalry by d.a.m.ning your conduct towards the girl as unworthy a n.o.bleman. It has actually gone so far, they are pitying the Jewess. I should not have believed this if I had not heard it with my own ears.

This is known generally, but it is supposed to be a secret. Herr Groze must not hear of it, for that would be denunciation. How public opinion would go if you brought the Jewess here for a few months as your legitimate wife I am unable to guarantee; but it would be no worse for you, I think. The good and n.o.ble-minded, though in verity they are scarce, would think of you differently."

"You are right," said Agenor, as he arose. "And what is to be, shall be soon. I will drive to town today, arrange with Stiegle for my absence, and start for Riva to-morrow. Will you procure the necessary papers, and send them after me?"

"No commission could be more agreeable to me," rejoined the lawyer, shaking Agenor's hand cordially. "_Bon voyage_."

When the count drove back over the moor, the weather changed for the worse. Rain and snow fell together, freezing as soon as they touched the ground; and the coachman drove along the slippery road at snail's pace. But the count was no longer cold. His cheeks were ruddy and his eyes bright, and it had been long since he had felt so well. He had marked out a straight, narrow path in which to tread; but he felt it would make him at peace with himself, and perhaps eventually lead to happiness.

The rain fell heavier than ever, accompanied by a cutting north wind.

Twilight was approaching, and honest Fedko was obliged to stop occasionally to make sure he had found the right road. "The weather is not fit for a dog. My lord," he said, apologetically, "I know the moor and its tricks, but I never knew it to be so bad as this, except once, that day when--"

Suddenly he remembered that the allusion to the day when the Jewess threw herself into the water might not be pleasing to his master. In his confusion, he lashed the horses so that they broke into a furious gallop. In the dimness, Fedko overlooked a small cart with a linen covering, which was creeping along ahead. He drove so close to it that the wheels became interlocked. He dismounted, cursing, to free the wheels; and the other coachman, evidently a Jew, cursed too. "You are driving as if you had the emperor," he cried.

"I have not the emperor," Fedko answered, with pride; "but his lordship, Count Baranowski, would like to get on a bit faster."

"I," said the Jew, "am only driving a poor sick Jewish woman and her child, but they are human."

"Well, well," said good-natured Fedko, gently, "this little delay will do them no hurt," and, lashing his fiery steeds, he soon lost sight of the other vehicle.

Fedko had reached the castle long before the cab came in sight of the lights of Roskowska. The Jew turned. "Woman," he called, "here we are in Roskowska. You can get milk for the child in the inn."

"Praise be to G.o.d!" answered a feeble voice. "Please stop. I am afraid the child has taken more cold, he is so restless."

"But you have put all your wraps on the little one, and are cold yourself. You are sinning against your own health. However, I should be a fool to quarrel with a mother."

A baby's voice sounded from the cart. "Only two minutes longer. Where shall I drive?"

There was no answer. "Woman, don't you hear? Where shall I stop?"

"In the street. I will get out in the street," answered a gentle, trembling voice.