""Father forgive them, for they know not what they do!" These words of Christ, with which he prayed for his persecutors, were the last words I heard from the blessed being whose earthly remains we are now about to consign to the grave. My anger was inflamed by the atrocities which were daily committed in our city under the mantle of religion, and I prayed that the avenging fire of G.o.d"s wrath might descend and consume our tormentors. This deceased saint checked my imprecation by calling to my mind the divine prayer of our holy Savior, and with a chastened and humble spirit I repeated after her: "Father forgive them, for they know not what they do."
"And so must you henceforth pray, my hearers. Of the men who now by divine permission pursue and persecute us, by far the greater number are acting not from inveterate cruelty but under the influence of a mistaken sense of religious duty, and desire to lead us back to that path which they deem the only safe one; and this desire is not censurable.
"But that they seek, by means of persecution and torture, to compel us to receive what they hold to be the true faith,--that they would bind the immortal spirit with earthly chains, when the word of G.o.d cannot be bound or confined,--therein lies their error. It therefore becomes us as christians to forgive them; "they know not what they do."
"Even that terrible man whose barbarity has destroyed this blessed martyr to our faith, knew not, as we charitably hope, what he did,--and therefore will we not curse him, but pray to G.o.d that he will purify his heart and enlighten his mind.
"Therefore let us patiently suffer the afflictions which the Lord may yet send us for our good, without hatred towards the instruments he may employ for that purpose, and thus seek to become worthy of the glorious martyrs to the pure Christianity of the first ages, and of this our blessed friend. Should He require us also to lay down our lives for our faith, so will we without anger or opposition bow our necks to the death-dealing axe, and die with the departing exclamation of our Savior, "it is fulfilled!--Amen.""
He retired. The lid of the coffin was fastened down, and it was then lowered into the earth.
In accordance with a pious old custom, the husband and orphans each cast three handsful of earth into the grave, as a last farewell, and the bereaved man then retired, tearless as he had come, while the children found relief for their sorrow in audible weeping.
All the spectators now-pressed about the grave to pay the last honors to the dear departed, and from hundreds of hands fell the earth upon the coffin below. The young Franciscan also, by great exertion made a path for himself to the grave; having thrown in his handful of earth, he hastily caught hold of his companions, and exclaiming, "now forward, the moments are precious!" led them away.
"Why should the moments be so precious to this monk?" mused the observant Lichtensteiner; and then, after a moment"s reflection, he suddenly cried, "the captain may be able to explain it!"--and ran from the church-yard.
CHAPTER XVI.
In a low chamber in the little village of Friedland, eight days later, lay the aged Mrs. Rosen on the sick bed upon which the effects of her long confinement in the cellar, the extraordinary exertions consequent upon her sudden flight, and more than all, her sorrow for the loss of her beloved daughter, had thrown her. The owner of the house, a weaver"s widow, who had formerly been a servant to her, and who had been indebted to her liberality for her comfortable establishment, stood at the head of her bed with a phial and spoon in her hand, and with a countenance expressive of the tenderest sympathy. Before the bed sat Oswald and the weeping Faith.
"Compose yourself, my daughter," said the matron. "I shall surely recover from this illness. Alas, one may suffer much before the thread of life will break! I feel much better to-day than I did yesterday, and I hope not to be the cause of anxiety much longer."
"G.o.d grant it!" sobbed Faith, sinking upon her knees before the bed, and covering her dear mother"s hand with her kisses and tears.
At that moment Jonas, the widow"s son, entered the cottage with his hat and traveling staff, gave them a melancholy and silent greeting, and began to unpack his bundle.
"So soon returned from Schweidnitz?" asked Oswald. "What is the state of affairs there?"
"Still very bad, sir," answered Jonas. "The soldiers abuse and oppress the people in a manner that might soften a heart of stone; and you may consider it fortunate that you are here."
"Did you succeed in speaking to my brother-in-law, my good friend?"
anxiously asked Faith.
"I saw him last evening, and told and gave him all. He keeps about with difficulty, to save his household from entire ruin. He gave me this letter and this bag of gold for you, and sends kind greetings to you all."
Oswald took the letter, broke the seal and read:
"The persecution still rages, and I thank heaven that you are for the present in a place of safety. Immediately after the funeral of my dear Katharine, the clergymen were all compelled to leave the city. In the course of the night my house underwent a strict search, and even the vault in which you were so long concealed did not escape. The captain has already nearly recovered, and left his bed to-day for the first time, to wait upon the colonel. The latter, as I understand, gave him a very unpleasant reception. They afterwards conferred together for two hours, with closed doors. What was there agreed upon G.o.d only knows; but when the captain returned, I was standing in front of my shop, and he greeted me in a manner so terribly courteous that it made me shudder. I have just heard that a squadron of dragoons have orders to be ready for a movement to-morrow morning at day-break; but their destination is kept secret. G.o.d be merciful to the poor people upon whom they may fall. I send you what I can spare, and beg that you will not again write or send any message to me until I make known to you that you can do so with safety. My guests keep a sharp watch upon me, and I am very anxious about your last letter, which I mislaid in consequence of one of the soldiers having interrupted me while reading it. I yet hope to find it again. G.o.d preserve you and me!"
A death-like stillness prevailed in the room at the conclusion of the reading, and no one ventured to express the renewed apprehensions which the letter had inspired.
"This is a discouraging letter," at length observed Oswald, interrupting the general silence; "and I begin to fear we are not entirely safe even here. Would that we had fled to Breslau, as I advised! The capital of the province, which is at the same time the seat of government of the princ.i.p.ality, will surely be spared the longest."
He was interrupted by a disturbance out of doors very unusual for that quiet and retired village. People were running to and fro and calling to each other in the Streets, and Oswald, alarmed, sprang for his sword which lay in the recess of the window.
"Go out and see what is the cause of this disturbance," said he to Jonas, and bring us word as soon as possible."
Jonas obeyed, and his mother observed, "something very dreadful must have happened; for the people are running and screaming, as if a fire had broken out or an enemy were at the gates."
"Protect us, Oswald," begged Faith, leaning tremblingly upon the youth.
"While I live!" answered he, grasping his sword.
"Save yourselves--the converters are coming!" cried Jonas, rushing into the room.
"It must be a false alarm," cried Oswald. "You must be mistaken."
"I was told so by a farmer who has just returned from Waldenburg. He was about to leave that city, when a squadron of the Lichtenstein dragoons entered it. They dismounted for breakfast, and he had it from the mouth of one of the soldiers that this village was their place of destination. Whereupon he immediately left the city and drove home as fast as possible to give the alarm."
"Then we must have at least an hour"s start of them," said Oswald; and turning to madam Rosen, "if you feel able to travel, I will immediately provide a conveyance to Bohemia."
"No, my son," said the matron, with a melancholy smile. "For this time I must remain here and await the providence of G.o.d. I should only hinder you in your flight, and you would at last have only a corpse to convey across the border."
"I stir not from your side!" sobbed the tender Faith, clasping her mother with anxious affection.
"That would be folly, my child," said the mother, earnestly, "and a very childish demonstration of your love. You and your betrothed are the objects of the search of our persecutors. They would have little desire to enc.u.mber themselves with me. I have wandered here as a peasant woman, and our hostess can give them to understand, that I am a yarn gatherer suddenly taken ill at her house. Your charms, and Oswald"s stately figure render it impossible for you to be concealed in the same way, and therefore you must instantly forth."
"Never!" cried Faith, wringing her hands.
"It is my will," said the mother, with decision. "Will you, my daughter, increase the sorrows of your sick mother by disobedience, and betray by your presence what otherwise may remain undiscovered? Would you see your lover fall before your eyes, unable to defend you against superior force?"
"I obey," sighed Faith; and she hastened to pack a small bundle and put on her cloak.
"By the holy faith which we profess in common," said the hostess, "you leave your mother in good hands."
"I am sure of that, and consequently depart with confidence," said Oswald, leading the inconsolable maiden to her mother"s bed-side.
With bright eyes the mother placed her daughter"s hand in that of Oswald. "Be ye one, here and hereafter!" cried she. "That is my blessing upon your espousals; and now let me beg of you to go directly, without any leave-taking, for which I have not strength, and which will rob you of time, every moment of which is invaluable."
Faith attempted to speak again, but her mother pointed towards the door, and Oswald led her forth.
CHAPTER XVII.
Daylight had long since disappeared when Oswald and Faith alighted from their wagon at a solitary inn beyond the Bohemian boundary. "Here you are for the present in safety," said the conductor who had brought them from Friedland, knocking at the door. "The people of the house are honest, and of our faith at heart. The vicinity is full of secret Hussites."
"Who comes so late?" asked a little, dark-complexioned old woman, opening the door with her hand held before a flickering torch.