"Mother, I want to go to the city."

"You, too, will leave me?"

Thoma explained that she would soon return. She only wished to telegraph to Peter, to report to her the verdict as soon as it should be rendered, and she would leave word at the telegraph office for the messenger, the "Galloping Cooper's" brother, to wait all night for the message.

Her mother took up her prayer-book, and said: "Well, you may go; but don't hurry too much."

"Come along," Thoma called to the dog, and, with him, hastened out of doors.

CHAPTER XXV.

At the edge of the forest stands a pine tree, with its top bent down.

Some say that it was struck by lightning; others say a raven has lighted there so often that his weight and the clutching of his claws have broken it. But the strong-rooted pine grows on.

Is Landolin's house such a tree; struck by lightning, and bowed down by dark sorrow? And will it flourish again?

Thoma stood in the road, and looked around, as though for the first time she saw that the heavens were blue, and the trees and fields were green. She had to exert herself to remember for what and where she was going.

"Oh, yes," sighed she, and started away.

A narrow foot-path led over the hill, down into the valley, to the city. To be sure she must pa.s.s Cushion-Kate's house; but why shouldn't she? Nevertheless, Thoma, who before had been so strong and brave, could not overcome a certain terror; as though, like the children in the fairy-tale, she must pa.s.s a frightful dragon, lying in wait for her at the mouth of his rocky cave.

To be sure Thoma is much stronger than the poor old woman, but, for all that, it is hard enough to be obliged to conquer the crouching foe.

"Or, may it not be possible to help the poor woman, who must suffer even more than we do? In the midst of her bitter trouble, may we not save her the necessity of working for her daily bread?"

Just as I thought! There is Cushion-Kate sitting at the stone door-sill; both hands pressed to her temples, and her head bent down, so that the red kerchief almost touches her knee.

Did the poor creature know that this was the day of the trial? She seemed to be asleep, and Thoma, holding her breath, walked noiselessly along. But when she had come nearly opposite to her, the old woman suddenly raised her head. Her eyes glittered, and she called out:

"You! you! To-day is the day of payment."

"May I not say a kind word to you?"

"Kind? To me? You? Go away or----"

She pulled out a pocket-knife, opened it, and cried: "I too, can murder! You are his child; and he was mine. Go!"

As Thoma turned tremblingly away, the open knife, which the old woman had thrown at her, fell at her side. She hurried down the hill; and, until she reached the forest, she could hear loud moans and screams behind her.

Cushion-Kate had been in the beginning a gay-hearted little woman enough. A patch-work tailor's daughter, a patch-work tailor's wife, one could almost say that her life was a patch-work of little gay-colored sc.r.a.ps like her cushions. She was one of those placid, grateful people who are thankful for the smallest gift of Providence, and who never wonder why they too cannot live in abundance, like the rich farmers.

After she had drunk her chicory coffee, she went about her work, singing like a thrush. And who knows but she put the same ease with which she carried the burden of life into her cushions; for it was acknowledged that they were the softest in all the country side. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her sad birth. Now, a heavy affliction had come upon her. Her last and only treasure was taken away; and suddenly fear, bitterness and hate, and all the spirits of evil took possession of her. Suddenly, as though she had awakened from a sleep in a paradise of innocence, she perceived how miserable her life was; and she hated every one who lived in prosperity, and had children to rejoice in. Above all others, she hated the murderer of her child, and his family. Her only thought and wish were that he and they should suffer and be brought to ruin.

The poor old woman carried a heavy burden of sorrow and hate. Her life had been darkened, and she only wished to stay until she had avenged herself on Landolin. This was why she had been so sullen and morose since her son's death.

Hate, anger and misery grew within her, and transformed her happy, kind heart into a sad and wicked one.

CHAPTER XXVI.

In the summer garden of the Sword Inn, the linden trees were in full bloom. The bees came, sipped, and flew away without asking for the reckoning. But to make up for this, the finches sang without pay; and the swallows circled round, as though dancing a figure in the air, and sometimes shot after a honey-laden bee.

Everything rejoiced in its own way. It was a morning so full of freshness, so full of enjoyment and exuberant life, one could hardly believe that misery still existed in the world.

A horseman trotted up to the garden fence, stopped, dismounted, and gave his horse to the servant, telling him to take it home and say to his wife that if any one asked for him she might send him here; that he would, however, soon be at home.

"Good morning, doctor," called the hostess, from the veranda. "You have come just at the right time. We have this moment tapped a keg of beer."

The physician had already heard that refreshing, enticing sound, that deep thud when the spigot is driven into the keg, and that clear sound when the bung is drawn.

The hostess brought him the first gla.s.s. He held it up to let the sun shine through the clear amber liquid, and then drank it with evident enjoyment.

"I had to go out before day this morning, all the way to Hochenbraud,"

said the doctor, as he drained the gla.s.s; then said, "Give me another, for my twins." As he drank the second gla.s.s, he told the hostess that he had that morning a.s.sisted at the advent of a pair of twins into the world; two fine, healthy boys.

"It is curious that something very extraordinary is always happening to Walderjorgli. His first great grandchildren are twins. It is a blessing that this strong, upright race should go on growing. They are honest-hearted men of the old primitive German type."

"They are shrewd, too," interposed the hostess. The physician went on to say that the primitive Germans must have been crafty rascals, for savages are always cunning.

"But where is our host?"

"Of course he has gone to the trial. There is an actual pilgrimage to-day. As early as half-past three this morning we had sold a whole keg of beer. The witnesses went on the express-train. There were men and women from Berstingen, from Bieringen, from Zusmarsleiten, from everywhere, who had nothing to do with the trial, but went from curiosity. They wanted to see Landolin brought before the court. The station-master says that when a man is on trial for his life the people throng to see his distress. He thinks that people will spare neither pains nor money to gratify their desire to see the misfortunes of others. But the district-forester says that the people go more because they long for something new to break in upon the monotony of every-day life."

The cautious hostess gave this as a report, and not as an opinion of her own.

As soon as the physician said: "Both are true," she cried:

"I am glad to hear you say so. It is pleasant when one gives medicine to have the doctor come and say: 'that was right. I should have prescribed that myself.' But I should like to ask you----"

"What is it?"

"Do you think it possible for Landolin to be acquitted?"

"With G.o.d and a jury all things are possible."

"Yes; but then, who killed Vetturi? For he is dead!"

"That question is not on the list."

The hostess went on to tell how Landolin's head-servant, Tobias, had been talking that morning with every one, and cunningly instructing them what to say. How he had said, with a laugh, that the life of such a person as Vetturi was not of enough value to have a man like the ex-bailiff imprisoned an hour for it. Tobias wanted to pay for what they all drank; but--and as she told the story, the hostess' face became a flaming red--she had declared that each person must order her to take pay from Tobias for him; then it would be known what was to be thought of him and what might follow later. Some of them seemed to be frightened at this hint.

The doctor laughed and replied that the rich farmer thought money would do everything; and his son Peter, instigated by his father of course, had offered to sell him their fine horse at a third of its value. They wanted him to testify that Vetturi, who had suffered from severe illness ever since his childhood, was weak and easily injured; so that a fall on level ground might have killed him.