The mob were dumfounded. The fight ceased, and all became suddenly still.

"What do you wish?" and her clear voice was like a silver trumpet. "Do you want to kill me? Here I am. No one shall protect me! No blood shall flow on my account. I have already enough on my soul. Come! I am ready."

No one moved; no sound was heard until a voice said: "She has to fulfil the work of the Lord; and the count is doing his share. Do not interfere with the will of G.o.d."

There was a murmur and a push, and the crowd gave way. The count sprang into the carriage, and Fedko drove towards the Trachtenberg house. In profound silence the count and Judith entered its door; and when they reappeared, a few minutes after, accompanied by Raphael, no voice was heard. The count shook his hand, and Judith embraced her brother.

"To-day, at four, in the 'Good Place,'" she whispered.

They re-entered the carriage, and again something unexpected transpired. Raphael seized her hand, and, with streaming eyes, covered it with kisses. The next instant some one shouted: "She has suffered much; let her be happy now."

"Hurrah!" vociferated the crowd, with hundred-fold repet.i.tion. "Hurrah!

Peace and joy go with her!"

So they drove to the castle, but Judith no longer sat upright. Nearly fainting, she lay back, the tears streaming down her cheeks.

The tenantry had a.s.sembled at the castle, and Dr. Reiser was there also. Judith inquired for old Miriam: "I will go to her as soon as I can leave the table."

"Do so," said the doctor, "for she will not be visible to-morrow. She died two hours ago. Her servant came for me just as I was coming here, and I went to her for a moment. I never saw so happy a face."

Dinner was served in the traditional wedding-dinner style of the Baranowskis, and on the same antique plate. But the feeling was not the same, and the guests left early.

Judith drove with the doctor to the little house in Roskowska to take a last look at her old friend. They had not yet placed her in the coffin.

She sat, in her Sabbath clothes, in her arm-chair. Speechlessly Judith gazed on the face, which wore an expression of pure, unalloyed happiness.

"Do you know why Miriam smiled as she died?" asked Dr. Reiser. "She heard the guns which announced your approach;" and then he told Judith of their last conversation. "She died as a conqueror. She took it as an omen that her child had been forgiven, and that she would meet her soon in Paradise."

Judith knelt and kissed the dead hand. "You are right," she said. "She was happy, dying as a victor."

"And you are happy in living as a victor," he added.

"Do not speak so," she protested. "Only the innocent have a right to live after such a fight. The guilty do not survive their victories. But excuse me, I must go; my brother will be waiting."

"What an enigma she is!" thought the doctor, as he watched her drive away. After that he gave no more thought to her.

Raphael was at the grave punctually; and here, at the most sacred spot on earth for them, the long-estranged brother and sister sank into each other's arms in a close embrace.

"This is my place, is it not?" said Judith, pointing to the vacancy between her parents' graves. "No one can deprive me of this--because I am the wife of a Christian, and the pious might say-- But you will not allow them--will you, Raphael?"

"If I survive you, you shall be buried there. But we can speak of this in thirty years from now."

"But swear it--by the memory of our father. You know how excited I am to-day."

"If it will soothe you, I swear it."

"And you will put up the epitaph I leave behind?"

"If I survive you, yes."

They talked a little of his plans for the future, they embraced again and again, and she drove back to the castle.

The count was in his study with Stiegle and some of his tenants. She went to her boudoir, where she wrote two short notes--one to Agenor, another to Raphael. By this time it was twilight, but she had her boy brought to her, although he was already in his cot for the night, and she kept him with her for about an hour. When at last the servant came without being called, it was quite dark. She could not see the face of her mistress, for it was bent over the child. But she could tell by her voice she was weeping, as she said, "It is better for you too--for you too!"

She handed the baby to the nurse, with the remark that the evening was so mild she would take a turn in the garden.

She did so, walking past the spot where Agenor had first kissed her, towards the lake. On her way she met Fedko, the coachman, who said, "Good-evening," receiving from her a pleasant reply. He watched her as she went towards the pond, upon which the moon was shedding its silver light. "When I think," said the good fellow, "of that morning in Borky when I saw her rushing to the pond! How different her feelings must be to-day!"

He was mistaken.

When nine o'clock came, and Judith was still out, the count went to look for her. Unsuccessful in his search, he was about to send the servants, when Hamia brought him the letter she had found on Judith's table. The letter was short, but loving. She commended the boy to his care, and begged he should not torture himself with the thought that he had caused her death. She died that she might not make him miserable or herself more so. She died because, after all she had undergone, she had neither strength nor courage to live. It was no one's fault, certainly not his.

Her face was in no wise disfigured when they lifted her from the water.

It was solemn and inflexible, as had been its expression for a long time before.

Two days after, she was buried by her co-religionists in the spot belonging to her in the "Good Place." As they dug the grave, they found the remains of a large bush. Only a few knew that it was once a rose-bush, which had been used in a very solemn ceremony connected with the deceased.