The old man's face worked, but he controlled himself. He did not accept the proffered hand, but his voice was quiet as he asked, "And what has the faithful friend to tell me?"

"_Mon Dieu!_ how you look at me! as if I were to blame. You do me injustice, 'pon my honor! Not one compromising word pa.s.sed between the young people in my house, and I was dumb with surprise when I heard of the affair."

"Indeed!" said the Jew, still coldly and deliberately. "But you surely do not expect me to believe this? Why this comedy? What is it you wish from me?"

"Pani Nathaniel, you hurt me! It was only our old friendship, 'pon my honor! Then, too, I am compromised, in a way. You may treat me as you like, but I will do my duty. As a man of honor and as your friend, I will go to-morrow, or to-day, if you wish, and will say to the count: 'You were introduced to this young girl in my house, and I have the right to remind you that you are about to commit an outrage against an honorable family. I beg of you to discontinue the attempt.' Yes, I will do it."

"Very well, do what you cannot avoid doing."

"But, are you not willing? It is the only way to influence the count.

And you could not find a better go-between."

"Certainly not more honest. But I require no go-between in this affair.

I have forbidden my daughter ever to speak, even one syllable, to the count, you, or your ladies. As she is a good child and a Jewess, brought up to obey her father, she will do as I say, though it may be hard for her."

Herr von Wroblewski smiled. "But is not that as the old proverb says, 'emptying out the spoons with the slops'? Perhaps the count will say, 'I am serious in this, and wish to marry the girl.' It is possible."

"That would not make the least difference. I should say 'no,' and Judith knows it. Not because I have any feeling against Christians, but because it would be certain misery for both." He arose.

"That is surely not your final word? You will not refuse the hand of an old friend?"

"Yes," said the Jew, abruptly. "I do not think the less of you for coming," he continued, in a tone of the utmost contempt, "for every one must act according to his principles. Your principles, both private and public, allow you to be convinced by both sides. You have been convinced by the count; now you wish to be by me also. But I decline."

Wroblewski changed color. His face was distorted by rage and hate. With difficulty he restrained himself. "But, Pani Nathaniel, some one must have libelled me to you. The burgomaster perhaps-- Oh! if you only knew how his wife-- It really grieves me to part with you in such a state of mind."

"Yet you will be obliged to do it," said Trachtenberg, quietly, pointing to the door, "otherwise I shall have to call my coachman."

When the magistrate was again in the dark pa.s.sage, he was forced to hold to the door-posts, he was so overcome with rage.

"You shall pay for that," he groaned, "yes, pay for it," and he reiterated it at least ten times. He then went into the street, where he walked up and down meditating. At last he had made up his mind.

"That would be the very best plan, but it must be carried out to-day."

He looked at the clock. "Nine; a very convenient hour!" and he then turned his steps in the direction of the castle.

Half an hour later he stood before the count. The young man had just arisen from dinner.

"You have come to ask about the letter?" he inquired. "It has been attended to."

"Of that I had no doubts. I have come to show my grat.i.tude in a practical way." He hastily told what had transpired, in the most glaring colors, of course. "It must have been a frightful scene. The girl swore she would not leave you, and her father that he regarded your proposal as an insult. So he has locked her in her room, and is going to drag her off to some Ghetto to-morrow early--who knows where.

The girl will be lost to you forever if you do not act with prompt.i.tude."

The count paced the floor in great excitement. "But what can I do?" he asked.

"It would be bad if you required me to tell you!"

"An abduction! But that would be an act of violence."

"Has it never happened before? At any rate, you need not bother yourself. There will be no obstacles. I know the girl's room."

"But if she refuses?"

"Has she refused to come to the park, and is it likely she will refuse to go with you, now her father has been foolish and fanatical enough to tell her he would not even agree to a marriage with you?"

"But she will demand an oath from me!"

"Well, then, swear. You know the proverb about lovers' oaths. As it is, you seem to have developed considerable skill in this critical situation. If you have gone so far without oaths, you can manage the rest."

"It is impossible; my conscience will not allow it." And yet, as he said this, he saw in his mind's eye a carriage stopping before a hunting-lodge belonging to him, five hours distant, and himself stepping out, with Judith in his arms.

"Your conscience," said the magistrate. "Well, of course you can best judge of that yourself. Only consider the matter. You have a few hours still. If you dare venture, let your carriage wait in the street behind the house, about one o'clock, a few hundred feet away from the court-yard gate. I shall be enjoying the fresh air at an open window at that time. If I see you below, I will open the gate to you at the stroke of the clock. Good-night, or _au revoir!_"

He started to go, but a motion of the count detained him. "Only one question. Trachtenberg told his daughter he would reject even a formal proposal from me--is that true?"

"Do I ever lie?" asked Herr von Wroblewski, angrily and yet smiling at the same time. "Do you think I am so stupid as to tell a lie which could be disproven by your asking his daughter one question? You do not know me yet, my dear count!"

"Does his fanaticism carry him so far?"

"You are surely not surprised at that. Those people barely consider us human beings, and if your conscience cannot accommodate itself-- But that is your own business."

He bowed and left.

CHAPTER VI.

Four weeks had pa.s.sed away. It was a dull, dirty November day. The gray snow-clouds were lowering, and now and then the lazy flakes fell, turning to water in the air and to mud on the ground. Between the slippery ploughed land and the low strata of clouds, the mists lay thick and motionless. The mild west wind that blew at times in the upper regions of the atmosphere did not reach them, and there they lay, as if wedged in, the gray ocean of vapor absorbing every tone and color. Even the sharpest eye could see but a few steps in advance.

The heath was quite deserted. A man who came from the west, driving towards the town in a light wagonette, met no one of whom he could ask the way. The wagonette was empty, and the fiery steeds, when he slackened the reins, galloped along at such a pace that the mud flew up in waves; yet the driver urged them along in the gray twilight.

It was now nearly midday, but no lighter than when he started in the early morning. "Drive on, Fedko; it is a case of life and death," the butler had said when he was told to go, and indeed he knew it himself.

So again he allowed the reins to slacken, when suddenly the carriage stood still. The horses reared, but in vain. The tough bog in which they had sunk to the knees held them fast. The man jumped out, but he, too, stuck fast; they must have driven on the ploughed land at the turn of the road.

There he stood helpless--what was he to do--where was he to turn?

"_Jesu, Marie!_" he cried, "perhaps in the meantime she will die!"

Suddenly he heard a distant sound. He listened. It was the bell from the tower of the Dominican convent chiming the hour of noon.

He seized the reins and lashed the horses; they plunged madly.

Following the sound, he succeeded in getting back to the road, where he could see through the mist the red cross at the entrance of the town.

Five minutes more and the magistrate would have the letter.

But it was destined to be much longer than that. He had only reached the first detached houses when he met a crowd of people. "Make way!" he shouted; but he was obliged to drive at walking pace, and when he came into the built-up street his horses were brought to an entire standstill. The thoroughfare was filled with a compact body of people.

It was as if the entire population were wedged together. Christians and Jews, men and women, now pushing forward, now backward, but without noise or tumult.

They whispered to one another, and when Tedko made an effort to push his way through they only said, under their breath, "Don't you see it's a funeral?" With this he had to be content; so he drove up close under the monastery wall. He did not ask who was dead--that was no concern of his. And perhaps it was well that he did not ask, and well that he did not wear the livery of his master, Count Agenor Baranowski.

They were the poorest of the people who waited to join the funeral procession--grooms, day laborers, and beggars, a rough lot, who generally eke out a cheerless existence, without any particular pleasure or pain, unless it be the care for their daily bread.

There must have been a close tie between them and the deceased, for if one of them raised his voice or pushed forward at all noisily he was instantly hushed into silence.