"To cast out this child in the night and storm when she had come to ask for the last consolation for a dying woman! Woe to Correntian! That is not the spirit that ought to inspire us," and he held the child clasped to him as a father might. "Poor, forsaken orphan! here, here you have a home, I will make up for what the hard man did to you; I will repay to you, her nursling, all that my faithful nurse did for me, all she suffered for me! Yea! I will, as true as the spirit of Love lives in me which Correntian so outraged."

"Oh, my dear, dear master," said the child, her voice husky with blissful joy.

But Porphyrius shook his head. "What are you doing, Donatus? I am only a humble lay-brother, but it seems to me that it can be no duty of yours to pick up girls by the wayside, and offer them a home in your affections."

"The brethren picked me up by the wayside, and shall I not pity the forsaken? Rather is it well for me that I may at last know the joys of compa.s.sion."

"But you lack moderation in it, as in everything," warned Porphyrius.

"Moderation! Who shall set the limits to loving kindness? This is the first creature to whom I have ever been able to do any good; do you know what that is?"

"A vagabond girl who herself confesses that she has been driven out wherever she went; is she worthy of your kindness?" grumbled the more deliberate monk. "Child," he shouted at her, "confess, why have you not earned your bread honestly by the labour of your hands, why were you hunted from place to place, if no evil report attached to you?"

The girl turned pale and trembled, "I--I cannot tell you."

"What, you hesitate!" cried Porphyrius. "Why do you tremble so if your conscience is clear?"

"Oh, my lord, you will abominate me and drive me away from you."

"Is it so? G.o.d preserve us! we have indeed been deceived in you,"

roared Porphyrius. "Confess at once, confess, are you a witch or a sorceress?"

"Indeed, my lord, I do not know. Folks say so because my brows grow together and I have little feet. I have never done a harm wittingly to any one, really and truly never, and yet the boys run after me wherever I go and scold at me because they say I oppress them in their sleep and am a witch; and the women throw the three white gifts after me, and the children throw stones, and laugh at me and hang wisps of straw about me. And so I fly from place to place, but it pursues me everywhere, and nowhere can I find peace, and the child burst into heartrending sobs.

"Now we have it!" cried Porphyrius clasping his hands in horror. But the child in her anguish clung to Donatus.

"Oh! my lord! Oh master! do not cast me out, have pity upon me. I will confess everything. Yes, indeed, it is true I have many signs about me that I myself am almost obliged to believe in. I have always been glad to creep into a hollow tree and sit and dream that I really was a night-bird and shunned the light, for by day they were always tormenting and hunting me--so how should I love the daylight? And often, often I have felt as if I must squeeze my mother to death for love; and when I have had some pet animal, a lamb or a little dog, I have hugged it till its breath was almost spent, but I never did squeeze one to death, and I was always sorry when I had hurt it at all.

And often when I had no living thing I have run into the wood and bent down the little young trees till they split, and then I felt better again. Nay, my lord, I will confess to you, that even with you, who are to me so high and sacred, I have felt tempted. When I held your hand, and led you along, a feeling came over me as if I must press your hand, till I almost dropped down dead. Tell me, is that sorcery? But you know even witches can be made good, and if I am one, help me that I may fight with my nature--I am to be saved, do not let me fall away, my lord!"

Donatus felt her sink at his feet--felt her whole frame trembling with deadly anguish, and he raised her with his strong arm. "Be you what and who you may," he said, "I believe in you."

Then he suddenly felt that the slight form was flung violently to the ground, and he heard a low cry from the girl; then a strong arm gripped his and tried to force him from the spot.

"What is that?" he cried.

"Away with you!" whispered Porphyrius. "Do you think I will let you league yourself with such a being? Get thee gone, accursed witch!" and again Donatus heard a blow fall as it were on some soft body. Something was all at once roused in him, as if only in this moment he had suddenly grown to manhood. With one hand he pulled up the ill-used child from where she was lying at his feet, the other he raised against the monk.

"If you touch her again it is at the peril of your life."

"Donatus," screamed the horrified monk, "are things gone so far with you?"

"So far?" cried Donatus. "Do you dare, you miserable man, to doubt me, me the votary of death? Is the impenetrable darkness that shrouds me not too sacred for your suspicions to spot it? This child is my child; I have put myself in her father's place, and I will protect her with my heart's blood."

The poor little head had sunk wearily on his breast like a scared bird, he felt her painful breathing, and rage and grief gave him a giant's strength; still the imprudent monk ventured once more to try to part them, but the fist of his aggravated companion, though blindly aimed, hit his temple so that he fell tottering on to a stone and lay there unconscious.

"Woe is me!" cried Donatus who heard the heavy fall. "Is he dead?"

The child knelt down by the fallen foe and rubbed his brow and temples.

"No, he is alive, but he has. .h.i.t himself against a stone and is bleeding."

"Great G.o.d, what have I done? Raised my hand against a brother; what evil spirit possesses me? G.o.d have mercy upon me!"

The girl meanwhile had sprinkled water on the unconscious man and he opened his eyes; Donatus stood by wringing his hands and helpless. The monk pointed up in the direction of Reichenberg. "Look there!" he exclaimed.

The little girl looked up--lights were glancing in the castle, and just above a low copse they could see the heads of men on horseback who were riding quickly down the road.

"Those are the Count's men--we are lost!" groaned the wounded monk, "If you are not wholly a child of h.e.l.l, save him, in G.o.d's name."

"And you? can you not come with us?" she asked.

"No, my strength fails me, I cannot stand; leave me, it matters little; but everything depends on him, save him and G.o.d will show you mercy for his sake."

The riders were already turning the corner of the copse. "Away, away!"

The child seized the blind man with supernatural strength and dragged him, half springing half tumbling, down the bank into the thick willow-scrub that at this spot bordered the deeply excavated bed of the river. "Lie still and do not stir," she commanded him in a whisper, and she hid him as much as possible among the bushes; she herself crouched down beside him, and the tepid waves washed round the couple, softly and soothingly, like the downy cushions of a cool, freshly made couch.

"Here lies a priest!" cried one of the hors.e.m.e.n, pulling up his horse.

"That is a good find, for the Count has promised us a gold piece for every monk of Marienberg that we take him."

And they dismounted to examine the wounded monk.

"You have had a blow. Who has been beforehand with us?" asked one with a laugh.

"No one," said Porphyrius. "I fell over a stone."

"Were there not a couple more with you? I thought I saw something of the kind as we came round the corner."

"Yes, yes, it was like a shadow that slipped down into the water,"

cried another.

"You saw rightly," said Porphyrius quietly. "It was my cloak; I lost it when I fell down." The hors.e.m.e.n leaned over the edge of the road-way, but could perceive nothing. "It is washed down the stream long ago.

Wait a bit, friend monk, we will take you to a place where you will be hot enough even without your cloak! Your time is come, you fat monks; in seven days we are to have a jolly butchery up at Marienberg. Now you may ride with us to bid the guests to the feast." And they lifted him on to one of their horses and rode off with shouting and laughter.

Their hoofs sounded for a long time in the distance; at last they died away and deep silence reigned on the lonely road. Donatus and his companion still listened for some time in their hiding-place; at last the lights were extinguished in the castle and they were safe once more.

The girl helped the blind man up the steep bank with much difficulty--again and again he slipped back on the sandy declivity in his wet robe. But she was as clever and resolute as she was slight and supple, and she succeeded in getting him to the top. There they stood, the two of them alone, a blind man and a defenceless child; but they feared nothing, they had each other and they asked for nothing more.

"Child, what am I to call you? My soul would fain utter your name to the Lord in praise and thanksgiving. My heart is full of you, let it know your name that it may overflow in praise of you."

"My name is Beata."

"Beata! you have saved me--G.o.d is with you. Now lead me on that I may rescue my brethren. We must not lose an instant, for the danger is pressing."

"Come my lord--my Angel! Here below I will lead you, you shall lead me above! But in order to guide you I must know where you are going? I should never have dared to ask while that stern brother was by, but now you must tell me everything, for now you have no one else to take care of you."

"I am sent to St. Gertrude's, the convent of nuns, with a message to the d.u.c.h.ess; lead me thither by the nearest way."