"Let go!" cried Peter. "Let go! or I'll drive over you."

"Hold still!" said Landolin. "Kate! I mean well by you."

"But I don't mean well by you. They didn't cut off your head. They didn't hang you. You shall hang yourself. There is your forest, with thousands and thousands of trees. They all wait for you to hang yourself on them."

"Oh, Kate! come here to me," besought his wife. But Kate continued to pour terrible execrations.

"Give her a cut with the whip," cried Landolin; "give it to me; I'll strike her."

"No, father, I'll fix it," said Peter; and springing down quickly, he pushed Kate to one side; then, mounting again, he drove rapidly up the hill.

Landolin's wife looked back, and drawing a long breath, said: "Thank G.o.d! she has sat down on those stones. Some one has come up the hill, and is speaking to her."

CHAPTER XL.

When they reached home, Peter cracked his whip loudly, and drove through the open gate to the house. A strange servant brought a chair; Peter helped his mother out, then turned to a.s.sist his father, who said:

"Never mind! I'm still able----"

He stood again on his own ground. No sound of welcome was heard, save the barking of the chained dog.

The bright moon lit up the square yard, which was neatly paved, and entirely changed in appearance.

"Who made these changes?" asked Landolin.

"Thoma had them made," replied her mother.

Landolin understood it. She desired for her own sake, and perhaps for his, that the place where the murder was committed should be no longer recognizable.

"Again I say, G.o.d keep you, and I bid you most heartily welcome," said his wife, in a tone full of emotion. "May the years that are still granted to you pa.s.s in peace!"

"There, there, that will do," responded Landolin. He went to the dog and unfastened his chain. The dog leaped up against his old master, and ran round and round about him, wild with joy.

"That's a good dog," said Landolin. "Be quiet. You know me, don't you?

They said my hands were covered with blood; but you don't smell anything wrong, do you? The only faithful thing in the world is a dog."

The tears on his wife's cheeks glittered in the moonlight, and he said, turning toward her,

"Go in first!"

"No, you go first, you are the master. It was just such a night as this when we came home for the first time after our marriage; then you went first into the house. It seems like a wedding again."

She held out her hand for him. He gave it to her, and hand in hand they went up the steps. As he entered the room, she sprinkled him with holy water from the basin that stood at the door.

There was no one in the room but an old servant.

"Where is Thoma?" asked Landolin.

"She is in her bedroom."

"Tell her to come here; that I have got home."

"I called to her through the closed door, but she did not answer."

Landolin seated himself in the great arm-chair, and his wife gave thanks to G.o.d that her husband sat there once more. She had often doubted that he ever would again. Landolin looked at her, and it seemed to him that she reeled to and fro, and that the room and furniture were all in motion. He straightened himself with an effort, went out on the porch, and knocked at Thoma's door. Nothing moved.

"Thoma, I am here, your father."

The door was unbolted and Thoma stood before him. In a constrained voice she said: "Welcome, father!"

"Have you nothing more to say to me?"

"You never liked people to talk much."

Landolin took his daughter's hand, which she had not offered him.

"My child, do you no longer love me?"

"I should never ask a child such a question."

"My child, I am a poor man; as poor as a beggar. Do you understand me?"

Thoma shook her head, and her father continued:

"I have sinned against you all, especially against you; but now I beg you to forgive me. Don't let me perish." His heart beat so fast that he could not speak another word. As Thoma still remained silent, he turned quickly away, and went with tottering steps to the living-room. He listened to hear if Thoma would not follow him; but he heard nothing.

He looked at the table in the living-room, and asked:

"Is that a new table?"

"No, but Thoma had it planed because the holes were there."

Landolin remembered having stuck the fork in the table.

Steps were now heard. It was not Thoma, but the pastor, who came. His words were kind and comforting, but Landolin stared at him blankly.

True, he saw him, but he heard him not; his thoughts were with his daughter, who was so terribly changed. It was not until the pastor mentioned Cushion-Kate, and said that she had grown wild and uncontrollable, and talked most blasphemously, that Landolin paid any attention to what he said. And when the pastor added that it seemed as if Cushion-Kate had gone crazy, he cried:

"There are insane asylums for such people. She should be put into one.

The town can pay for it."

"That's not so easily done; the district physician will have to order it."

Thoma had unexpectedly appeared, and brought in the supper, which she had had prepared. The pastor started to leave, but upon Thoma's and her mother's entreaties he remained. They needed a man of peace to bring quiet and concord. The meal-time pa.s.sed cheerfully, and Landolin ate ravenously. During a pause, he asked: "Herr Pastor, is neither the young bailiff nor any of the councilmen at home? It would be no more than proper for them to call. They must have known that I was coming."

The pastor seemed to find no answer, and Landolin's wife spared him embarra.s.sment by reminding her husband that he had said that he would no longer concern himself about other people.