"Good--you shall soon be there. Ah! do not be sad; it is so delightful now I have you all to myself." And she pressed the hand by which she led him so tightly in the extremity of her joy that he started involuntarily; but she released it as if in alarm. "No, no, I will not squeeze you--no, I will not indeed!" she said, controlling herself.
"Poor child, I know just how you feel--there was a time when I too used to clasp the wooden cross to my breast, and kiss the cold earth in my impetuous and unspeakable longing; when I could have exhaled my very soul in one single embrace, in my thirst for love."
"Yes, yes--that is it," whispered the child, quivering with excitement.
"But I have found what will quench that thirst and that longing; the water of which Jesus spoke: "Whosoever shall drink the water that I give him shall never thirst." I will teach you to draw that water and peace will be with you."
The girl walked by his side in silence, her eyes fixed on the ground so that no stone might hurt the blind man"s foot, for the road was rough and ill-constructed. So they went on together without speaking.
"Your hand is as hot as fire," said the girl at last, "and it throbs and beats as if there were a little hammer inside; and your step is uncertain. Do your wet clothes hinder you, or are you ill?"
"Oh! child--ask me no questions."
"But you frighten me. Trust me and let me know about your troubles."
The blind man stood still for a moment and pressed his hand over his eyes.
"They burn and ache like live coals! My G.o.d, my G.o.d! grant that I may not be discouraged."
The little girl was overcome with grief at seeing him stand thus wringing his hands in a convulsion of pain, as he pressed them to the aching sockets.
"Oh! poor, poor man--and I cannot help you. If I could cure you by tearing out my heart, oh! how gladly would I do it."
"Your words are balm, they have a wondrous healing power. Come, now I can go on again."
"Wait a little while--I will fetch some water and bind you up afresh,"
said the child, and she would have gone to the river, but he held her firmly.
"No--not an instant more. Let us hasten onwards--every moment is of importance. Think of my poor brethren."
"I can think of nothing but you and your suffering!" cried the child--but she had to obey and to lead the blind monk forward. He pulled her on without farther delay.
They were now pa.s.sing by the foot of the fortress of Reichenburg, and the little girl looked anxiously up at the blank and towering walls.
"G.o.d be thanked!" she sighed, when they were past, "Reichenburg is behind us! now we have nothing more to fear."
"How long will it be before we reach Saint Gertrude"s?" asked Donatus.
"Before sun-down we shall be there. What shall we do then?"
"There I shall beseech the d.u.c.h.ess to grant me an escort and an efficient force to protect my brethren at Marienberg, and I shall hasten back with them. I shall give you into the n.o.ble Lady"s charge that she may obtain your reception among the brides-of-heaven who dwell in the cloister of Saint Gertrude, for that is the path-way of the blessed in which I promised to lead you, and there flows the well of living water of which you must drink."
"Jesu Maria!" shrieked the child. "You will shut me up in a cloister!"
"What else could I do with you that would be pleasing to the Lord?"
"Oh!--no, never, never!--" the child groaned under her breath.
"Beata--is this your obedience?"
"I will follow you, as faithful as a dog, for that is my destiny--but free--of my own free will. I will not be imprisoned, I will not be shut up, if you mean to rob me of my freedom, I will fly from you--and no one will ever be able to find me again."
"Woe to you, Beata! will you spurn the salvation that I offer you?
Unhappy child. To-morrow I must go home to my convent and then you will see me no more. What then will be your lot? You will wander about homeless as before, and hunger and freeze, while there you would find food and nurture for soul and body."
"Do you think I am afraid of hunger and cold? I--the homeless, the vagabond? Offer a wild dove the handsomest cage under a roof, the Host for food and holy water to drink--it will sooner creep into a hollow tree in the hardest winter, and starve rather than be captive. And the Lord will have pity on the wild bird and will forgive it, for it is He himself that has made it so that it cannot live except in freedom."
Donatus stood still in astonishment and drew his hand out of hers.
"Child! what spirit is this that speaks in you? What power possesses you? You fear not that which man fears--that which tempts others does not tempt you; nothing earthly has any influence over you and you are sacred in your innocence. The beasts of the forest spare you, and sin cannot touch you. Yes, your simplicity has vanquished me, and I bow before your childish wisdom. I will lead you on, wild dove, according to your destiny. Perhaps, indeed, G.o.d has called you to bear the olive leaf to some lonely and erring soul that it may be reconciled to humanity." He took her hand again and walked on. "Now lead the blind traveller to his goal and then spread your wings and fly away--my soul will know where to find you, flee where you will. And when storms rave round our towers and a feeble wing beats against my window, when the snow covers the land and the starving birds crave their crumbs of us--then I will think of my wild dove out in the wood--G.o.d preserve her!"
He was suddenly silent; a strange and unfamiliar pain overcame him, and the words died on his lips. The child looked up at the stars with moistened eyes and an expression of immutable faith on her innocent brow. Those stars above could never purpose that they should part--it could not be--nay, it would never happen.
They neither of them spoke again till the towers of Saint Gertrude"s were visible through the darkness. The little girl"s heart beat faster for all her confidence, and she involuntarily slackened her pace as they neared the spot. But at last they had reached it, they stood at the gate--the moment of parting was come.
CHAPTER IV.
"The d.u.c.h.ess is gone," was the terrible news which the porter announced to Donatus. "There is no one here now of all the court but Count Reichenberg, whom the d.u.c.h.ess came here to seek. Will you speak with him?"
"G.o.d have mercy! Let me go--quickly--away at once!" cried Donatus, "he must not see me, not for worlds. Tell me which way the d.u.c.h.ess went, and can I overtake her?"
"She set out for Saint Mary"s; if you do not linger you might yet meet with her. But will you not first take a morsel to eat? The convent lets no one pa.s.s the threshold without some hospitable entertainment, and least of all a holy brother."
"No--no--nothing; if the Count of Reichenberg sees me it will be the ruin of my cloister. Let me go without any delay, and do not betray me if you have any reverence for the sacred will of the Abbot of Marienberg. Farewell, and the Lord protect your holy house."
"And good luck to you on your way," the gatekeeper called after him.
The door closed, and the two wanderers again stood alone on the road.
"Beata," said Donatus gravely, "it is G.o.d"s will; he has delivered me into your hand as helpless as a child; will you guide me farther still?"
"G.o.d be thanked, G.o.d be thanked!" cried the girl with a fluttering heart, and her cheeks crimson with delight. "You will stay with me and I with you, for ever--for ever."
"Child, your thoughts are as busy and erratic as wild bees. The most impossible things seem sure to you, and what we count by hours to you seems eternal. You are but a child, but the Lord has said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven."
And so I think that your simplicity must be pleasing in his sight. But let us walk faster. I tremble at the thought of Reichenberg."
"I am walking as fast as I can, but if I go too fast you will fall, and then we shall be lost indeed."
"I shall not fall while you guide me. Oh! make haste, you know not what the stake is."
"But here there is no need, it is woody here, and my mother taught me how to hide from the sight of men. And I learned it so well that she often said, it was as if I had the art of making myself invisible, I could creep away so quickly, and keep so very still."
"Why was your mother always afraid of losing you?"
"Because they had taken you away from her, and she was in terror lest they should take me too. She often said how foolish she had been not to fly away with you into the woods, as she did with me. It would have been a very different thing no doubt, for they would have hunted for you, but no one ever wanted me.