"Twelve kreuzer," he murmured, as she asked her indebtedness. He took the coppers, however, with unwillingness.

"Consider it," pleaded Miriam, as they walked towards the cart. "If you wish to look Raphael up, do it to-morrow, after you have rested.

"It must be to-day," Judith answered. "My fever is growing worse and worse. The physician in Tl.u.s.te said I would be seriously ill. To-morrow I may be unconscious, and may die. Drive to the large house opposite the monastery," she said to the man, who stood sulkily beside his horses.

"I know," said the man, in a surly voice. "Since I have been paid, I must do it. But if I had known in Tarnopol who you were--"

He did not finish the sentence, but lashed the horses till they galloped into the road. Once more in the mud, they fell into a walk.

Judith sat still, pressing her baby close to her bosom, her teeth chattering with the chill. Miriam again entreated her to wait till tomorrow. "You are already half dead."

"It must be. But my thoughts are growing confused, and I must tell it to one soul at least, while I am able to speak. The guilty must not escape punishment. Listen, Miriam, to the manner in which the count treated me."

She told her story in short, confused sentences. Miriam could not quite understand it, only this was clear, that the poor creature had been frightfully cheated. "Poor child," she sobbed, putting her arms around the trembling girl. When the cart halted before the house she begged to be allowed to prepare Raphael for the meeting.

But Judith would not hear of it. As she alighted, and stood once more before the house where she had pa.s.sed the happy, sunny, well-guarded days of her life, the house she had longed for since she had been abroad, her strength nearly failed her. She tottered, and would have fallen in spite of Miriam's a.s.sistance had not a stronger arm come to her relief. It was the coachman of another carriage which was standing before the door. "Are you made of stone?" he shouted, angrily, after Judith's driver, who never left his seat, but drove away without caring for the two women.

The Jew turned. "You can earn G.o.d's thanks with her," he cried, sneeringly. "I don't grudge it to you," and then was swallowed up in the fog.

Judith pulled her strength together, and, with her child on her arm, followed by Miriam, she went into the pa.s.sage, and, without knocking, entered her father's study. The room was dimly lighted, and Raphael sat, writing a letter. When he heard the door opening, he looked around. A half-suppressed cry escaped his lips as he stared, with horror and disgust, at the unfortunate girl, who stood like a ghost before him.

"Away! away!" he shouted, pointing to the door with shaking hand.

"Raphael!" she sobbed, falling on her knees. Miriam stepped forward, and, taking hold of him by his _talar_, cried, despairingly, "Have mercy! She has come home to die."

He freed himself, and drew back towards the door into the adjacent room. It was hideous to behold him as he stood there, his pale lips half open, his waxy face distorted, his right hand seeking the door-handle and his left buried in his tangled black hair, a picture of such insane fury and horror that the old woman shuddered. Some seconds pa.s.sed; neither he nor Judith moved. It was only when the child in her arms began to cry that his consciousness seemed to return.

"Take her away!" he cried to Miriam. The voice was hoa.r.s.e, the words almost indistinguishable. "The burgomaster has her share of the inheritance. There is nothing for her here."

"Have pity!" pleaded Miriam. "You were carried at the same bosom.

Remember her grave has been prepared for her between that of your father and of your mother."

"Yes, more's the pity!" he shouted, madly. "A parricide does not deserve it."

Judith groaned and fell prostrate. The child slipped from her arm and screamed. Miriam seized the baby and held it up. "Raphael," she cried, "have mercy upon the innocent child!" But he did not even hear her. He had left the room, and Miriam was alone with the unconscious girl.

"Help!" cried the poor old woman. "Father in heaven, have mercy!"

Her cry was answered. The door opened, and an old gentleman, with a rugged bronze face and white hair and moustache, entered.

It was Dr. Reiser. "Be quiet!" he ordered, for Miriam, at sight of him, had begun to cry much louder with joy than she had just done with despair. He looked at Judith, and turned away deeply moved. He had no need to ask who she was or what had happened. He rushed to the door, called to his coachman, who was waiting (for the doctor had been making a call on the magistrate on the floor above), for his case of medicines. He then bent his energies to bringing his patient out of her swoon. His only a.s.sistants were Miriam and the coachman; for old Sarah, who once looked through the open door, ran away timidly when Miriam called her.

At last Judith opened her eyes, but the doctor saw immediately that her mind was wandering. "My grave!" she shouted wildly, trying to free herself from the hands of her custodians. "I want my grave!"

Not until this paroxysm was over could the doctor carry her to his carriage. "Take her to me," begged Miriam. "I have a good bed and a warm room."

Dr. Reiser knew of no other refuge, for she would have been refused admittance both in Christian and Jewish hospitals; the nearness of Miriam's home to his own was an advantage. So he ordered the coachman to drive to Roskowska by the most direct route, which was past the castle.

"Curse him!" cried the old woman, as they pa.s.sed the brilliantly lighted windows of the castle. "There he is, rioting with his friends.

What does he care for his victim and her child?"

The doctor made no answer, but probably thought much the same. But they were mistaken. If any punishment could have been great enough to atone for his sin, surely he was suffering it now. He paced his study, tortured by all the furies of fear and remorse, and read a letter which had just arrived from Riva.

Hamia told of the occurrences of the past few days, and the disappearance of her mistress. How they had engaged neighbors to search the lake, when a driver from Mori brought them her farewell greetings, and the a.s.surance to Jan that his loan should be repaid. "It is not for this, but because we are so anxious about our gracious mistress and the dear little boy, that we beg Monsieur le Comte to give us permission to go home."

Too late! the avalanche was already descending. Nothing could now be made good--nothing hid. She was coming home as his mortal enemy, to deliver him up to disgrace. Unable to control his emotions, he paced the room till his feet failed him, while his pale lips murmured ceaselessly, now aloud, now under his breath--"Too late! too late!"

CHAPTER XI.

That same evening Raphael's neighbors heard the news. The following morning it pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth, exciting universal horror and surprise. G.o.d had avenged the sin against his holy name, and hurled the sinner in the dust.

Judith Trachtenberg had come home a beggar, and sick unto death; and if she died, as those who had seen her thought she must, the account would be squared. There was no further occasion for pity or persecution. And because G.o.d himself had judged her, they praised Raphael for not having stayed his avenging arm, and blamed Miriam for showing compa.s.sion. "She will spoil her chance of future salvation." The milder ones said: "Besides the responsibility she has in regard to her own child, she is now a.s.suming this." But the rougher Jews who, impelled by curiosity, had surrounded the little house in Roskowska since early morning, in the chance of catching a glimpse of the victim of G.o.d's wrath, judged differently. And when the old woman came out and entreated them either to go away or to make less noise, only a few complied with the modest request, the majority crying, "Shame upon you, to bring disgrace on the congregation!"

But the little old woman, who crept about generally under the overwhelming consciousness of her misfortune and bowed in humility before the humblest, gave way now not one step. She stood there, drawn up to her full height, with that sort of glorified expression on her withered face as had been there the previous evening when it dawned upon her that G.o.d had thus shown her a way of atonement. "Shame upon you!" she cried. "What do you know of G.o.d, and of what is disgrace in his sight? Go back, I say!" and there was something in her face and voice which awed them into obedience.

But only for a second. Then some one cried, "Have you found a Christian to marry you?" and these insulting words loosed the ban. However, help came to Miriam. One of the elders of the congregation, old Simeon Tragmann, came up, and, standing in front of the woman, said to the crowd, authoritatively, "Go! When G.o.d speaks, let man keep silence. Go!

I command it in the name of your dead benefactor. If it was his wish that the sinner should be buried at his side, it was also his wish that she should be allowed to die in peace."

Sullenly they left the house, but they gathered together in knots in the street, clenching their fists and speaking with bated breath.

Curiosity chained them to the spot, though they could not have said for what they were waiting. It was only the feeling that such an unheard-of circ.u.mstance must have some result.

For a time they waited in vain. Only the doctor, who had already been there at break of day, entered again. But while he was paying his second visit a carriage drove up in which the burgomaster was seated.

When he saw the gathering of people, he felt greatly tempted to make a speech; but he remembered in time that he had come to see his ward, and so pa.s.sed into the sick-room.

There he gave Miriam a large sum of money for Judith's use, inquiring of Dr. Reiser as to her condition. The doctor had no definite answer to give; he could only say she was suffering from a severe attack of nervous fever, and he did not know how it might end.

The burgomaster felt moved to give expression to his sympathy in some eloquent words, and, having once heard his own mellifluous tones, he pa.s.sed into an oration in praise of Miriam and her generosity. But the old woman interrupted him curtly with a request that he should not excite the invalid, which request the doctor emphasized still more energetically by taking the Demosthenes by the arm and leading him to the door.

Then there was a sight which rewarded the on-lookers for their waiting.

An equipage came in full speed from the castle, and stopped in front of the house. Count Agenor alighted, and, hastening to the two men, seized the doctor's hand, asking, "How is she?"

Dr. Reiser gave a cautious answer, nor was his manner the most affable in the world.

"I must see her. She must be brought to the castle at once, both she and my boy. I cannot leave her here."

The doctor cleared his throat dubiously: "We must first consider that.

The sight of you would affect her seriously."

Just then Miriam rushed into the pa.s.sage, placing herself in front of the count. "Go away!" she screamed. "Go away!" she repeated, with determination. "Judith and her child shall remain here."

"My good woman," said the count, soothingly, "I am very grateful to you for your kindness, but she will have better air and better attention at the castle."

"I do not require your thanks," returned Miriam, almost in a whisper, and evidently controlling herself with great difficulty. "It is not every one who can be so merciful to Judith as you have been. But Judith shall stay here with me, and so shall her baby. No one can care for her better than I; and as for the air--there is no good air in your castle, Monsieur le Comte; it kills--"

"I demand my rights!" replied Agenor. "I want my family."