Ludwig gazed fixedly out of the window. The countess had gently drawn the wounded hand nearer and nearer; suddenly forgetting everything in an unutterable feeling, she stooped and ere Freyer could prevent it pressed a kiss upon the b.l.o.o.d.y stigma.

Joseph Freyer shrank as though struck by a thunderbolt, drawing back his hand and closing it as if against some costly gift which he dared not accept. A deep flush crimsoned his brow, his broad chest heaved pa.s.sionately and he was obliged to cling to a chair, to save himself from falling. Yet unconsciously his eyes flashed with a fire at once consuming and life-bestowing--a Prometheus spark!

"You are weary, pardon me for not having asked you to sit down long ago!" said the countess, making an effort to calm herself, and motioning to Ludwig Gross, in order not to leave him standing alone.

"Only a moment"--whispered Freyer, also struggling to maintain his composure, as he sank into a chair. Madeleine von Wildenau turned away, to give him time to regain his self-command. She saw his intense emotion, and might perhaps have been ashamed of her hasty act had she not known its meaning--for her feeling at that moment was too sacred for him to have misunderstood it. Nor had he failed to comprehend, but it had overpowered him.

Ludwig, who dearly perceived the situation, interposed with his usual tact to relieve their embarra.s.sment: "Freyer is particularly exhausted to-day; he told me, on our way here, that he had again been taken from the cross senseless."

"Good Heavens, does that happen often?" asked the countess.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Ludwig in a troubled tone.

"It is terrible--your father told me that the long suspension on the cross was dangerous. Can nothing be done to relieve it?"

"Something might be accomplished," replied Ludwig, "by subst.i.tuting a flat cross for the rounded one. Formerly, when we had a smooth, angular one, it did not tax his strength so much! But some authority in archaeology told us that the crosses of those days were made of semi-circular logs, and this curve, over which the back is now strained, stretches the limbs too much."

"I should think so!" cried the countess in horror. "Why do you use such an instrument of torture?"

"He himself insists upon it, for the sake of historical accuracy."

"But suppose you should not recover, from one of these fainting fits?"

asked the lady, reproachfully.

Then Freyer, conquering his agitation, raised his head. "What more beautiful fate could be mine, Countess, than to die on the cross, like my redeemer? It is all that I desire."

"All?" she repeated, and a keen emotion of jealousy a.s.sailed her, jealousy of the cross, to which he would fain devote his life! She met his dark eyes with a look, a sweet, yearning--fatal look--a poisoned arrow whose effect she well knew. She grudged him to the cross, the dead, wooden instrument of martyrdom, which did not feel, did not love, did not long for him as she did! And the true Christ? Ah, He was too n.o.ble to demand such a sacrifice--besides. He would receive too souls for one, for surely, in His image, she loved _Him_. He had sent her the hand marked with blood stains to show her the path to Him--He could not desire to withdraw it, ere the road was traversed.

"You are a martyr in the true sense of the word," she said. Her eyes seemed to ask whether the shaft had struck. But Freyer had lowered his lids and sat gazing at the floor.

"Oh, Countess," he said evasively, "to have one's limbs wrenched for half an hour does not make a martyr. That suffering brings honor and the consciousness of serving others. Many, like my friend Ludwig, and other natives of Ammergau, offer to our cause secret sacrifices of happiness which no audience beholds and applauds, and which win no renown save in their own eyes and G.o.d's. _They_ are martyrs, Countess!--I am merely a vain, spoiled, sinful man, who has enough to do to keep himself from being dazzled by the applause of the world and to become worthy of his task."

"To _become_!" the countess repeated. "I think whoever speaks in that way, _is_ worthy already."

Freyer raised his eyes with a look which seemed to Madeleine von Wildenau to lift her into a higher realm. "Who would venture to say that he was worthy of _this_ task? It requires a saint. All I can hope for is that G.o.d will use the imperfect tool to work His miracles, and that He will accept my _will_ for the deed,--otherwise I should be forced to give up the part _this very day_."

The countess was deeply moved.

"Oh, Freyer, wonderful, divinely gifted nature! To us you are the Redeemer, and yet you are so severe to yourself."

"Do not talk so, Countess! I must not listen! I will not add to all my sins that of robbing my Master, in His garb, of what belongs to _Him_ alone. You cannot suspect how it troubles me when people show me this reverence; I always long to cry out, 'Do not confound me with Him--I am nothing more than the wood--or the marble from which an image of the Christ is carved, and withal _bad_ wood, marble which is not free from stains.' And when they will not believe it, and continue to transfer to me the love which they ought to have for Christ--I feel that I am robbing my Master, and no one knows how I suffer." He started up. "That is why I mingle so little with others--and if I ever break this rule I repent it, for my peace of mind is destroyed."

He took his hat. His whole nature seemed changed--this was the chaste severity with which he had driven the money changers from the temple, and Madeleine turned pale--chilled to the inmost heart by his inflexible bearing.

"Are you going?" she murmured in a trembling voice.

"It is time," he answered, gently, but with an unapproachable dignity which made the words with which she would fain have entreated him to stay longer, die upon her lips.

"Your Highness win leave to morrow?"

"The countess intends to remain some time," said Ludwig, pressing his friend's arm lightly, as a warning not to wound her feeling.

"Ah," replied Freyer, thoughtfully, "then perhaps we shall meet again."

"I have not yet answered what you have said to-day; will you permit me to do so to-morrow?" asked the countess, gently; an expression of quiet suffering hovered around her lips.

"To-morrow I play the Christ again, Countess--but doubtless some opportunity will be found within the next few days."

"As you please--farewell!"

Freyer bowed respectfully, but as distantly as if he did not think it possible that the lady would offer him her hand. Ludwig, on the contrary, as if to make amends for his friend's omission, frankly extended his. She clasped it, saying in a low, hurried tone: "Stay!"

"I will merely go with Freyer to the door, and then return, if you will allow me."

"Yes," she said, dismissing Freyer with a haughty wave of the hand.

Then, throwing herself into the chair by the table, she burst into bitter weeping. She had always been surrounded by men who sued for her favor as though it were a royal gift. And here--here she was disdained, and by whom? A man of the people--a plebeian! No, a keen pang pierced her heart as she tried to give him that name. If _he_ was a plebeian, so, too, was Christ. Christ, too, sprang from the people--the ideal of the human race was born in a _manger_! She could summon to confront Him only _one_ kind of pride, that of the _woman_, not of the high-born lady. Alas--she had not even _this_. How often she had flung her heart away without love. For the mess of pottage of gratified vanity or an interesting situation, as the prince had said yesterday, she had bartered the birthright of the holiest feeling. Of what did she dare to be proud? That, for the first time in her life, she really loved? Was she to avenge herself by arrogance upon the man who had awakened this divine emotion because he did not share it? No, that would be petty and ungrateful. Yet what could she do? He was so far above her in his una.s.suming simplicity, so utterly inviolable. She was captured by his n.o.bility, her weapons were powerless against him. As she gazed around her for some support by which she might lift herself above him, every prop of her former artificial life snapped in her grasp before the grand, colossal verity of this apparition. She could do nothing save love and suffer, and accept whatever fate he bestowed.

Some one knocked at the door; almost mechanically she gave the permission to enter.

Ludwig Gross came in noiselessly and approached her. Without a word she held out her hand, as a patient extends it to the physician. He stood by her side and his eyes rested on the weeping woman with the sympathy and understanding born of experience in suffering. But his presence was infinitely soothing. This man would allow nothing to harm her! So far as his power extended, she was safe.

She looked at him as if beseeching help--and he understood her.

"Freyer was unusually excited to-day," he said, "I do not know what was pa.s.sing in his mind. I never saw him in such a mood before! When we entered the garden, he embraced me as if something extraordinary had happened, and then rushed off as though the ground was burning under his feet--of course in the direction opposite to his home, for the whole street was full of people waiting to see him."

The countess held her breath to listen.

"Was he in this mood when you called for him?" she asked.

"No, he was as usual, calm and weary."

"What changed him so suddenly?"

"I believe, Countess, that you have made an impression upon him which he desires to understand. You have thrown him out of the regular routine, and he no longer comprehends his own feelings."

"But I--I said so little--I don't understand," cried the countess, blushing.

"The important point does not always depend on what is said, but on what is _not_ said, Countess. To deep souls what is unuttered is often more significant than words."

Madeleine von Wildenau lowered her eyes and silently clasped Ludwig's hand.

"Do you think that he--" she did not finish the sentence, Ludwig spared her.

"From my knowledge of Freyer--either he will _never_ return, or--he will come _to-morrow_."