"One more!" she entreated, putting her unhurt arm around his neck.

"Our Kathchen," said Herr Leonhardt, "is a good little girl. Do you know, Herr Professor, that the other day she was the only one in the whole school who would give Fraulein von Hartwich a kiss?"

At mention of that name a slight flush pa.s.sed over Johannes's face. He sat down upon the edge of the bed and looked tenderly at the child.

"Indeed! Did you do that, you angel?" he whispered, and again he kissed the lips, that seemed dearer to him after what the schoolmaster had told him. Profound silence reigned in the room. The parents looked on without a word. Herr Leonhardt alone saw Johannes's emotion. The little chest rose and fell more regularly. Johannes pillowed the head upon his warm, soft hand, and the child dropped asleep beneath the gentle gaze of her protector. He looked at the clock. The surgeon, whom the countess was to send, could not arrive for a long while yet.

Nevertheless, he determined to wait for him.

"Husband," whispered Frau Keller, "I have a strange thought. When the schoolmaster said just now that Kathi had kissed the Hartwich, I suddenly remembered how the child came home and told me all about it, and complained that the other children had jeered her, and told her that something would certainly happen to her,--that the Hartwich would bewitch her! 'Sh!--be still!--don't let the schoolmaster hear; he would be angry; but, for the life of me, I can't help thinking it very strange!"

The man looked thoughtfully at his wife, and scratched his head. After a little he whispered, "It is not worth while to say anything about it; but you are right,--it is very strange. Deuce take the Hartwich! What business had she to kiss our child? There's something wrong about her."

"Speak to the priest about it, and see what he thinks, but don't let the schoolmaster know that you do so. Go. Say you want some beer. The child is asleep now."

The man slipped out as softly as he could upon his hob-nailed shoes, to consult the priest upon so grave a matter.

CHAPTER IX.

VOX POPULI, VOX DEI.

When Keller, on his way to the priest, reached the village inn, he went in to refresh himself with a mug of beer, and found the priest whom he was seeking in the inn parlour, surrounded by a circle of auditors from the village and neighbouring farms. The Protestant pastor was also present, for the occurrence of the morning was a subject for universal discussion. The host was busy supplying the company with beer-mugs and bottles, secretly congratulating himself upon the accident that had brought him so much custom.

"Ah, here is the poor father! Well, what news? How is she now?" were the words that greeted Keller's entrance.

"Bad," he replied. "The child will be a cripple."

A murmur of compa.s.sion was heard.

Keller turned to the priest and asked to be permitted a word with him in private. His request was willingly granted.

"Your reverence," began the peasant, "Columbane thinks the Hartwich has been the cause of all this."

The priest clasped his hands. "What do I hear? Why does she think so?"

Keller told him what had happened.

The priest shook his head, and said in a loud voice to his Protestant brother, "Does it not seem, respected brother, as if we were forbidden by the visible finger of the Lord from holding any communication with this unholy woman, who has crept in among us like a poisonous serpent?"

He then repeated, so that all could hear, what Keller had just told him.

The Protestant divine, who was always in harmony with his colleague when there was a common enemy to do battle with, also considered the matter a very serious one. "It would of course be superst.i.tion to believe that the Hartwich had bewitched the child, but it stands written, 'Cursed are the unG.o.dly,' and the curse must cleave to all who come in contact with any such."

There was instantly a great commotion among the peasants drinking in the room.

"This much is certain," cried the pastor with great emphasis, "that every misfortune comes, directly or indirectly, from the Hartwich!"

"Yes, yes," resounded from all parts of the room. "Whom has she benefited in any way?"

"No one, no one!"

"Has she not tried to sow among you the seeds of her sinful doctrines?

has she not, like the serpent of Eden, hissed into the ear of the sufferers to whose bedside she was admitted dreadful doubts, instead of pouring into them the balm of divine consolation?"

"Yes, yes,--she always spoke disrespectfully of our pastors and their office."

The clerical gentlemen looked mournfully at each other.

"She has tried to stir up rebellion against the Church!" cried the priest. "She even turned me ignominiously from the doors when I went, in all the dignity of my office, to administer extreme unction to her servant Kunigunda, and she pretended in excuse that the maid was not going to die, and the ceremony would excite her and make her worse. She could not bear the sight of the Crucified beneath her roof. She is an outcast from G.o.d and His Church. Centuries ago, such as she were burnt alive; there was good reason for it. But we all suffer, and must continue to suffer, from their presence among us. The devil has put on the cloak of philanthropy, beneath which he hides all such sinners, so that we cannot touch them."

"She is a poisonous sore in our flesh," added the Protestant pastor, "and it stands written, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out;' but we dare not cut out this sore that offends us."

"Why not?--what is to hinder us?" shouted the excited peasants.

"Then you really believe that she has done this mischief to our poor child?" said Keller with horror.

"Well, if we cannot exactly believe that," replied the Protestant pastor, "we must confess that we see in the accident a sign from Providence that we should avoid her. This much is certain, that the stranger who drove over the child had been visiting the Hartwich, so that, if she had not dwelt among us, the accident would most a.s.suredly never have occurred, for that furious woman would never have come here."

"The Hartwich is to blame for it all!" growled the drunken throng.

"She is, in one way or another," continued the expositor of Christian love. "I repeat, with my respected brother, every misfortune among us is her work."

"Yes, every misfortune is the work of the Hartwich!" yelled the chorus.

"Gracious heavens! See! look there!" cried one, pointing to the windows.

All looked out.

"'Tis the Hartwich herself!"

"Does she dare to come down here?"

"She wants to see the misery she has caused!"

"Holy Mother!" cried Keller, "she is going to my house!" And he rushed out.

Like fermenting wine from a cask when the stopper is removed, the whole drunken throng rushed after him into the street.

Priest and pastor remained behind, looking at one another. "What shall we do?" asked one. "Ought we not to follow them, to prevent mischief?"

"Let the people rage, my worthy friend," replied the other. "It is not for us to interfere in such matters. She is not worthy of our protection, and the just indignation of the people will find vent in words, that will not harm her, but that it will be well for her to hear. _Vox populi, vox Dei!_"

"True, true," a.s.sented the other. "We should not interfere with the public sense of right in such a case. She would not listen to us. Let her hear the truth from the mouths of the peasants; perhaps it will have more effect upon her coming from them than from men of culture like ourselves!"

"Let us hope so," said the Catholic father devoutly, as he seated himself by his Protestant colleague at an empty table, and filled his gla.s.s from the bottle of old wine that the host placed before him.

"What is that?" asked Johannes softly, as a distant hum of approaching voices was heard. He sat with his hand still patiently supporting Kathchen's head, and would not draw it away, lest he should awaken the child.