"There must be something here," cried Dorchen. "I am so alarmed!"

She sprang away from him to the middle of the room. Gabriel took a yard measure, and looked under the furniture.

"So you are there, are you?" he cried, angrily, poking with the yard measure under the sofa.

Spitehahn leaped forth with a bark on to the nearest chair, from the chair on to the console, on which the clock stood; he knocked down the clock, and dashed through the half-opened door.

It was the parlor clock and a wedding present. Mr. Hahn wound it up every evening before he went to bed; it had two alabaster pillars with gilded capitals; the rest was of American wood, and represented a triumphal arch. Now the treasure lay in ruins, the pillars shattered, the woad broken, and the dial split. In the opened works a single wheel whirled with fearful rapidity, all the rest was motionless. Dorchen stood dismayed before the fragments, and wrung her hands.

"The monster," groaned Gabriel, occupying himself in vain with the shattered work of art, and endeavoring with no better result to comfort the poor maiden, who trembled before the terrors of the ensuing hour.

"I had a foreboding," cried Mr. Hahn, on his return home, "that something would happen to-day. I forgot yesterday, for the first time, to wind up the clock. But now my patience is at an end; there will be war to the knife between him over the way and me." He approached the sobbing maid threateningly. "Bear witness to the truth," he cried out; "the court will demand your testimony. Do not seek safety in hypocrisy and lies. Was it the dog, or was it you?"

Dorchen dramatically related the whole transgression of Spitehahn; she poked under the sofa, as if she could draw the dog out bodily; she confessed, weepingly, to the open door, and explained Gabriel's presence as owing to an inquiry he had made of her.

"Unfortunate one," cried the master of the house, "I see your embarra.s.sment: it was yourself; your conscience p.r.i.c.ks you. How can you show that the dog was under the sofa? On your peril, I demand a tangible evidence."

"Here it is," cried Dorchen, still sobbing, and pointing in tragic att.i.tude with her hand to the ground.

There certainly was an indubitable proof under the sofa, although not strictly tangible. The dog had left behind him as sure a confirmation as if he had impressed his seal on the ground.

Now, Mrs. Hahn indignantly gave the orders which became a housewife under such circ.u.mstances.

"Do not attempt it," cried Mr. Hahn; "away with towels and cloths; this shall remain."

"But, Andreas," exclaimed his wife.

"This shall remain, I say; it must be acknowledged and certified to.

Bring Mr. Ruddy immediately, and his wife, and whatever witnesses you can find on the street."

The witnesses came, and, standing round, examined the place of the evil deed; but Mr. Hahn hastened to his writing-table, and wrote a strong letter to Mr. Hummel, in which he related the misdeed, and threateningly demanded compensation. This letter Mr. Ruddy carried off to Mr. Hummel, with a board on which were laid the ruins of the clock.

Hummel read the letter carefully, and threw it on the table.

"I congratulate your master upon his new undertaking for the summer,"

he said, coldly. "Carry the debris back again; I have no answer for such nonsense. Some people _will_ make fools of themselves."

The following day a judicial complaint again raised its Medusa's head between the two houses. This time even Mrs. Hahn was deeply incensed; and when she, shortly after, met Laura on the street, she turned her good-humored face to the other side, to avoid greeting the daughter of the enemy.

Laura received the Doctor's answer to her letter. In a pretty poem the happiness of the parental house was extolled, and he spoke of his great delight in his neighbor's charming daughter, whom the poet saw in the garden among her flowers, whenever he looked over the high hedge. He further added: "The advice which you express so sincerely in your lines has found an echo in me. I know what is lacking in my life. My learning makes it impossible for me to find recognition in wider circles, an honor, which the friends of a learned man desire for him more eagerly than he himself does; it also makes it difficult for me to adopt the academical course to which I have now a call in foreign parts. But the nature of my studies takes from me all hope that any outward results can ever overcome the hindrances which oppose themselves to the secret wishes of my soul."

"Poor Fritz!" said Laura; "and yet poorer me! Why must he give up all hope because he studies Sanscrit? It is not courage that is wanting to these learned men, as father says, but pa.s.sion. Like the old G.o.ds about whom you write, you have no human substance, and no blood in your veins. A few sparks are occasionally kindled up in your life and one hopes they may light up into a mighty flame; but immediately it is all smothered and extinguished by prudent consideration." She rose suddenly. "Ah! if one could but lay hold of Fritz by the hair and cast him into the wildest tumult, through which he would have to fight his way bloodily, defy my father, and hazard a great deal, in order to win what he in his gentle way says he desires for himself! Away with this quiet, learned atmosphere: it makes those who breathe it contemptible!

Their strongest excitement is a sorrowful shrug of the shoulders over other mortals or themselves."

Thus did the pa.s.sionate Laura chafe in her attic-room, and again was her paper moistened by bitter tears, as she sought consolation in heroic verses, and called upon the foreign G.o.ds of the Doctor to take the field against the pranks of Spitehahn.

Glorious Indra and all ye divinities shining; in heaven, That have so often conferred blessings on races of men, Haste in rescue to us, for great misfortune doth threaten.

Ominous shadows of night darken our peaceable home, Banish the child from the father; while flat on the door-step outsprawling, Growleth with vengeful intent fiercely th' insidious cur.

The peace was disturbed not only for the neighbors of the Park street, but also for the young Prince, at whose fete the trouble had begun.

The Prince was detained some weeks from the city. After his return, he lived in the quiet retirement that the duties of mourning imposed upon him. Lectures in his room were again resumed, but his place at Ilse's tea-table remained empty.

On the day when the University prizes were distributed, the students made a great torchlight procession to their Rector's house. The flaming lights waved in the old streets; the fanfares resounded, in the midst of which the l.u.s.ty voices of the singing students might be heard; gables and balconies were lighted in colored splendor; the marshals swung their weapons gaily, and the torch-bearers scattered the sparks among the thronging crowds of spectators. The procession turned into the street towards the valley; it stopped before the house of Mr.

Hummel. Again there was music and singing; a deputation solemnly crossed the threshold. Hummel looked proudly on the long stream of red lights which flickered about and lighted up his house. The whole honor was intended for his house alone, though he could not prevent the glare and smoke from illuminating the enemies' roof, also.

Upstairs some of the rector's most intimate friends were a.s.sembled; he received the leaders of the students in his room, and there were speeches and replies. While those a.s.sembled were crowding nearer to listen to the speech-making, the door of Ilse's room gently opened, and the Prince entered. Ilse hastened to meet him, but he began, without greeting:

"I have come to-day to bid you farewell. What I foresaw has happened. I have received orders to return to my father. To-morrow I and my attendant will take formal leave of the Rector and yourself, but I wished first to see you for a moment; and, now that I stand before you, I cannot express the feelings that prompted me to come. I thank you for all your kindness. I beg of you not to forget me. It is you who have made the city so dear to me. It is you who make it hard for me to go away."

He spoke these words so softly that it seemed only as if a breath had pa.s.sed into Ilse's ear; and he did not await her answer, but left the room as quickly as he came into it.

Outside, in the open place by the common, the students threw their torches in a great heap; the red flame rose high in the air, and the gray smoke encircled the tops of the trees; it rolled over the houses and crept through the open windows, and stifled the breath. The flame became lower, and a thin smoke ascended from the dying embers. It had been a rapid, brilliant glow, a fleeting fire, now extinguished, and only smoke and ashes remained. But Ilse was still standing by her window, and looking sorrowfully out upon the empty place.

_CHAPTER XXVI_.

THE DRAMA.

"He was a tyrant," exclaimed Laura, "and she was right not to obey him."

"He did his duty harshly, and she also," replied Ilse.

"He was a cross-grained, narrow-minded fellow, who was at last humbled; but she was a n.o.ble heroine, who cast from her all that was most dear on earth in order to fulfill her highest obligations," said Laura.

"He acted under the impulse of his nature, as she did according to hers. Hers was the stronger character, and she went victoriously to death. The burden of his deed crushed him during life," rejoined Ilse.

The characters which the ladies were discussing were Antigone and Creon.

The Professor had one autumn evening laid the tragedies of Sophocles on his wife's table. "It is time that you should learn to appreciate the greatest poets of antiquity in their works." He read them aloud and explained them. The lofty forms of the Attic stage hovered in the peaceful atmosphere of the German home. Ilse heard around her curses and heart-breaking lamentations, she saw a dark fatality impending over men of the n.o.blest feeling and iron will; she felt the storm of pa.s.sion raging in powerful souls, and heard, amidst the cry of revenge and despair, the soft chords of soul-stirring pathos, sounding with irresistible magic.

The time had indeed come when Ilse could comprehend and enter into the feelings and fate of others than herself.

The bright rays of the midday sun do not always shine upon the paths of man. Not with the eye alone does he seek his way amid the shadows of night, but he hearkens, too, to the secret voices within his breast.

From the battle of clashing duties, from the irresistible impulse of pa.s.sion, it is not with most men a careful thought or a wise adage that saves or ruins; it is the quick resolve which breaks forth from within like an uncontrollable impulse of nature and which is yet produced by the compulsion of their whole past lives--by all that man knows and believes, by all that he has suffered and done. What forces us to the good or the bad in the sombre hours of trial, people call character, and the changing steps of the wayfarer through life as he seeks his way amid difficulty and danger, the spectator at the play calls dramatic movement.

He only who has wandered amid the flitting shadows of night, and has seriously listened to the secret admonitions of his inmost soul, can fully understand the spirit of others who, in a similar position, have sought to extricate themselves from an intricate labyrinth, and have found safety or met destruction.

Ilse, too, had experienced hours of fleeting terrors; she also had trembled as to whether she had pursued the right path.

The seventh tragedy of the Greek poet had been read; the boldest representation of bitter pa.s.sion and b.l.o.o.d.y revenge. Ilse sat mute and horrified at the outbreak of fearful hatred from the heart of Electra.

Then her husband, in order to recall her to less anxious thoughts, began: "Now you have heard all that remains to us of the art and power of a wonderful poetical mind, and you must tell me which of his characters has most attracted you."

"If you mean that in which the power of his poetry has most impressed me, it is always the newest form which has appeared to me the greatest, and today it is the monstrous conception of Electra. But if you ask which has pleased me most--"

"The gentle Ismene?" interrupted the Professor, laughing.