Landolin sees gathering about him his lawyer, his son, Tobias, and several jurymen and old friends. He sits on the bench, nods silently, and tears that he cannot keep back roll down his cheek.

"Father, don't weep; rejoice!" cried Peter. But in a moment a different cry is heard. The spectators had crowded noisily out of the building, and announced the verdict to the many people waiting in the corridor, on the stairs, and in front of the court-house. And now one could hear loud cries of "the murderer's released!" then yells, whistles, and threatening exclamations from the keepers and guards.

"Wait until the mob has scattered," said the host of the Ritter, who was one of the jury, "you will put up with me. I have ordered a good meal to be prepared for you and your guests."

Landolin had regained his self-command, and answered in a clear voice: "Yes; serve as good a meal as you can, and invite all the jurymen. The other six are not my enemies. I--I will never have another enemy in the world."

"Father, I would like to give t.i.tus a special invitation."

"Do so. Didn't I say that for the few years I have yet to live, I will be n.o.body's enemy?"

"And I will send a telegram to mother."

"Do so, and say that I am all right."

The electric spark flashes over the wire, knocks at the station of the little town where the stationmaster is still awake, and soon the brother of the "Galloping Cooper" ascends the hill.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

On this still summer night a current of fresh air streams through the valley and over the hilltops. The ripe blades of wheat sway to and fro as they draw their last breaths. All nature is silent, save the river which rushes through the valley. The men are all resting from the hard work of the harvest, to begin again with renewed strength at the first glimmer of the morning sunshine.

Up the white mountain road moves a man who often presses his hand to his breast pocket, as if to convince himself that he had not lost the dispatch.

In Landolin's house a light is still burning. Thoma sits at the table, and stares at the candle. Her features are changed by bitterness and pain, and the lips that once so sweetly smiled, so warmly kissed, are tightly compressed. Will those lips ever smile again; ever kiss again?

Her mother reclines at the open window, and looks out into the night.

"Mother," said Thoma, "you must go to sleep. It is past midnight; and the doctor thought that the trial would scarcely be finished in one day."

The mother barely turned her head, and then looked out again. Is Cushion-Kate awake, too, thought she.

Yes, she was awake, but she could not afford a light. Perhaps, at the same moment, she was thinking of Landolin's wife. "She has not deserved such misery; but neither have I; and I have no one else; nothing but this gnawing sorrow."

Suddenly Cushion-Kate straightened herself. She heard footsteps.

"Have you brought anything for me?" she asked the frightened messenger.

"No! nothing for you."

"For whom then?"

"For Landolin's Thoma," he answered, pulling out the blue envelope.

"Do you know what is in it?" asked Cushion-Kate.

"I'm not supposed to know."

"But you do know. Say, is Landolin sentenced to death?"

"I'll lose my place if you tell anybody."

"I swear to you by all the stars I'll tell no one. I have no one to tell. I beg of you, have pity!"

"Landolin is acquitted."

"Acquitted? And my son is dead! Ye stars above, fall down and crush the world. But no: you are fooling me. Don't do that!"

"You have sworn that you would not tell," said the messenger, and hastened away. But Cushion-Kate threw herself on the ground, and wept and sobbed.

In the meantime the messenger had reached Landolin's house.

"Do you bring good news?" his wife called from the window.

"I think so."

Thoma hastened down the stairs with the light, and returned quickly with the open dispatch in her hand, and cried out:

"Father is acquitted. Not guilty by the court."

The mother sank on her knees. It was long before she could speak a word. At length she said, half smiling, half weeping:

"He will sit there at the table, there on the bench, once more! He will eat and drink there again! Wait, Cooper! I'll bring you something. You must be tired."

Thoma drew her mother into a chair, and then brought food and drink.

"Yes; eat and drink," said the mother. "Why are you so silent, Thoma?

Why are you not happy? Eat your fill, Cooper, and take the rest with you. Oh, if I could only give food and drink to the whole world! Oh, if I could only awaken the dead, I would eat only half enough all the rest of my life! He should have the best of everything. Praise and thanks be to G.o.d! my husband is free; it is so good of him to send word that he is well. Yes, no one understands his good heart as well as----Cooper, go to Cushion-Kate, and tell her that I will come to see her to-morrow morning. As long as I live I will divide with her as though she were my sister. Tell her to be calm, and thank G.o.d with me. It would not have done her any good if the verdict had been different. Go, Cooper; go now."

The Cooper went to Cushion-Kate's. The house was open, but she was not to be found.

In Landolin's house his wife said, "Now we will go to sleep. Thank G.o.d that your father can sleep again in peace. You'll see he will bring Anton home with him to-morrow, and everything will be all right again. Dear Anton certainly helped your father a great deal with his testimony. He is so kind and good. G.o.d be praised and thanked, everything will be all right again."

"Everything all right again?" said Thoma; but her mother did not catch the questioning tone in which she spoke.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

Cushion-Kate had hurried through the village to the pastor's house near the church. She rang the bell violently. The pastor looked out, and asked, "Who is ringing? Have you come for me to take the sacrament to a dying person?"

"Pastor," shrieked Cushion-Kate, "tell me, is there a G.o.d in heaven? Is there justice?"