"Why are you astonished?" Nathaniel asked, smiling. "The sight to-day will be more wonderful than that of five days ago. It has many times happened that a new lord has entered the town, but never before that a Schlachzig has come to beg pardon of a Jewess. I would give a good deal if--"

He stopped, for when he saw her before him, so pale, serious, and melancholy, his heart seemed bursting with pity, and the gentle reproof died on his lips.

"My poor child!" he murmured.

Perhaps it was the black woollen dress, unrelieved, contrary to her usual custom, by flowers or ornaments of any kind, but she seemed quite a different creature. The gay, beautiful child had suddenly developed into a staid woman with sad, wise eyes. Her form seemed more slender, and her features sharper.

"Did you sleep last night?" he asked, stroking her pale cheek tenderly.

"Certainly," she replied, nervously. She glanced at the clock. It was still five minutes to eleven. "Wanda was here just now," she continued.

"Wiliszenski will give a recitation of his poems up-stairs to-morrow, and she invited me to attend, but I declined."

"You were wrong. Prudence alone should have advised you to act differently. Not as one who has committed an unpardonable sin; you cannot become a nun all at once. To please--"

"Father," she said, beseechingly. "If you only knew--"

"I do know. But you will please accept, Judith."

She was silent; it was a command, against which there was no appeal. A carriage stopped, and some "hurrahs" were heard outside. Judith's cheeks flushed purple.

"It is the count," said Nathaniel. He hastened to meet the young man, and bowed his gray head as if welcoming a prince.

"May G.o.d bless your entrance!" he said, pathetically, yet cordially.

"May he reward your generosity. I cannot express myself in words, but--"

"But, Herr Trachtenberg," Agenor said, remonstratingly. His glance rested on Judith, who stood near, pale and trembling.

"I hope you, are not ill?" he cried.

"No--"

"I was afraid--the result of that excitement."

She was embarra.s.sed, and he felt awkward, very much because this pale girl was such a contrast to the vision which had been present to his imagination.

Her father took her hand.

"Are you not going to thank our most gracious count?" he asked. "Please excuse the child," he added--"the recollection of this most painful episode. She can generally find an answer."

"Herr von Wolczinski has learned that. But thanks are unnecessary in this case. Any one would have acted as I did. It is a duty I must have fulfilled towards any lady."

Judith's face brightened. "Any lady?" she repeated, hastily.

"a.s.suredly." Then he comprehended her meaning. "I knew you were--"

"A Jewess--yes!" she broke in. "But would you have done as much for any Jewess? I mean, if I had been old and ugly--"

"Judith!" exclaimed Nathaniel. "What are you saying?" He seemed beside himself. The count, too, was taken aback. "What coa.r.s.e flirting!" he thought. But the painful quivering of her lips contradicted that.

Her father's e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n showed her how her question might be misinterpreted. She blushed painfully. "No, no!" she cried, her eyes filling with tears. "_Mon Dieu!_ I only mean--"

She could not finish. Herr von Wroblewski and the Rittmeister entered, followed closely by Herr Severin, his son, and cousin Jan.

The comedy was enacted as prescribed in the programme. Wladko stammered the words written for him by Herr von Wroblewski. The count gave his explanation. Jan expressed the opinion that Wladko had no longer an occasion for hurt feelings, and the gentlemen shook hands. It lasted but three minutes.

Judith stood motionless. "No wonder," said Herr Severin, as he left the room with his following to the Rittmeister. "She is quite stupefied with the honor." She pulled herself together when the count made preparations to leave.

"Most gracious count," she began, with shaking voice, clasping her hands involuntarily. "Do not think, when I began before--no, you would be doing me injustice. But--I do not know if you understand me--but that you, the princ.i.p.al gentleman here, whose society every one regards as an honor, should--" Her voice was stifled in tears.

He felt as if dreaming--seeing the poor, beautiful girl trembling before him, with upraised hands, and the emotions wakened in his heart made him understand this tangled stammering.

"It would console you," he asked, "if I should answer your former question quite candidly? You would then see that this prejudice is not shared--" He was silent--"by us all," he was about to add; but, as an honest man, he could not say it, for he had that prejudice.

"Yes, yes," she cried.

"Well, then, I would have done the same for anybody of your creed, as Herr von Wroblewski can bear witness. He asked me the same question the day before yesterday, and received the same answer."

The magistrate had been listening breathlessly. "It is so, 'pon my honor."

"Thanks! thanks!" Judith murmured, and before the count could hinder she had seized his hand and kissed it.

As Agenor was about to enter his carriage the next minute, the magistrate said, "Will you do me a great favor, my dear count?

Wiliszenski, the poet, whom perhaps you know by reputation, is to read us his latest verses quite _en famille_. As yet there are only five of us, for my wife always invites Judith, though the girl does not seem to care for the poet, preferring to spend the evening alone with the alb.u.ms, in the next room. May we hope to see you?"

He looked inquiringly into the count's face. The contemptuous glance which he encountered did not disturb him. In fact, he smiled.

The count dropped his eyes. There he stood, his hand on the carriage door, a picture of indecision.

"I regret," he said, finally, "I am engaged for tomorrow evening."

"What a pity!" exclaimed Wroblewski.

The carriage rolled away; he watched it smilingly, and the same smile was on his lips when he went to his wife, and said, "Six guests to-morrow evening."

CHAPTER III.

Thaddeus von Wiliszenski was, with some exceptions, a Polish Walter von der Vogelweide. He, too, gained less by his learning than by his genius; he, too, wandered from castle to castle, exhorting the n.o.bles to justice--rejoicing when he received a new coat or negotiated a loan, for I doubt if any one ever borrowed so much.

Like Walter, he was a political poet, though not a one-sided one, like the German singer. He read stirring war-songs against Austria to the n.o.bles, and then, by order of the magistracy, composed odes for the emperor's birthday. For the burghers he wrote lampoons against the n.o.bles; for the n.o.bles, skits against the _bourgeoisie_.

He, too, belonged to the later n.o.bility, for though a "von" was under his poems and a coat-of-arms on his writing-paper, it was difficult to trace his genealogy. Some, indeed, said he was the son of a shoemaker, and had failed in the gymnasium; others, that he had been a barber's apprentice.

It was equally difficult to ascertain his birthplace. Several provinces strove about declining the honor. He was in the habit of saying he was the son of that neighborhood in which he happened to be collecting subscriptions, just at the time, for his poems. If the book had ever appeared, a large edition would have been required, for one could scarcely count the numbers from whom he had collected its price of three gulden. But, like the Minnesanger, he contented himself with leaving it oral.

Uninvited, and suddenly as if dropped from the skies, he would appear at the farm-houses. Sometimes he was kicked out after three, sometimes after eight days' sojourn, for he never departed of his own volition.