The child smiled.
"Why, how should I? I went with you."
"But by-and-bye--consider--the ring will be the key to a new life of pleasure and splendour."
"And even if it were the key to the cavern of the blessed--what do I want with it--I have you."
Donatus stood overpowered by this simple fidelity; at this moment the shepherd came forward, curious to see the strangers.
"Blessed be the name of the Lord!" he exclaimed in astonishment. "How comes a cloister-brother here?"
"Here, you man," said Beata quickly, "have you another smock frock?"
"Aye--my Sunday clothes and my cape; what does the girl want with them?"
"Give them here, coat, cape, and hat, this blind Brother has enemies--they are plotting against his life and that of his brethren--and if he cannot disguise himself in your clothes danger threatens him."
The man shook his head. "I want my clothes myself," he said, "particularly the cape and hat; I cannot do without them."
"Consider--you have a house to shelter you from wind and weather, and he has nothing if you refuse to give him the cape and hat. Look here, I will give you this ring for them, it is of pure gold--you may believe me, only don"t consider any longer. I will mind your sheep--help him to put them on, and then we will burn the monk"s dress."
"The girl is no fool!" said the shepherd, laughing and turning the ring about as it sparkled in the sun, "for such a jewel as this you might strip me of my skin as well as my shirt." He glanced at the girl as she ran lightly off to keep the sheep together. "A smart girl she is! and it all slipped off her tongue as easily as a Pater noster."
And he fetched the things out of the hut, and began to help the blind man to put them on. In a few minutes Donatus appeared from behind the hut, another man. His breast and arms were bare, for the scanty garment scarcely met round his shoulders and loins, and he had modestly wrapped the ragged cape round his slim white knees.
"How handsome you are!" said the girl, gazing up in innocent astonishment at the manly young form that had hitherto been so completely concealed by the monk"s black frock and cowl. Donatus blushed involuntarily, the simple words disconcerted him; to this moment he had never thought whether he were handsome or hideous, and he was full of regret at having to exhibit himself in such a guise before the eyes of men. Already he was considering whether it might not be possible to face all the danger of proceeding in his monk"s dress. He was overwhelmed with shame, shame at his undignified disguise--when he suddenly perceived the unpleasant odour of burning wool; the girl with quick decision had flung the monkish garb on to the fire by which the shepherd was cooking his midday meal; it gave Donatus a shock of horror, it was as if he himself were being burnt.
"The sacred garb that you wear smells of the scorching of your too-easily inflamed desires," Correntian had said to him in that last night. Now the flames had indeed taken possession of it and consumed it. He stood by in brooding silence, and with deep sighs he made the sign of the cross over the fire and himself. Then he pressed his breviary and the cross of his rosary to his lips and hid them carefully in the scanty robe that covered his breast.
"Beata, where are you?" at last he asked, putting out his hand.
"Here," said the child, going quickly up to him.
"Let us go."
"Here is the hat," said the little girl with prudent forethought, and she put the hat of coa.r.s.e straw plait on his head. "Now we can go on.
Farewell shepherd, and as you hope for salvation do not betray us, promise me that, by the Holy Virgin."
The shepherd laid his right hand in hers which she held out to him.
"The Holy Virgin need not trouble herself when you forbid it. I think no one could refuse you anything. Go in peace, I would rather you should stay with me and help me to mind my sheep, but it is better so, for if I had you to look at I should forget the sheep! It is well that the pious brother there is blind, for if he had eyes to see you it would go hard with him."
"Farewell," said the child, interrupting him and hurrying Donatus away.
"You are trembling, Beata. Do not let his idle prating annoy you. The world is full of these baser souls, but they cannot come near us; they vanish before us like the dust clouds that whirl up beneath our feet."
"Ah! but you see, my lord, this is what happens to me wherever I go, first they torment me with friendly advances, and then when I fly from them they curse me and call me a witch."
"Poor little witch!" and an expression played upon his lips, a faintly sweet and merry smile.
"Oh! you are smiling, you are smiling," cried the child joyfully. "I can see you smile for the first time!" and again she would have said, "How handsome you are!" But for the first time in her life she coloured consciously, and the words died on her lips.
Donatus laid his hand on the child"s head. "Let me feel how tall you are?" said he, "are you quite grown up?"
"I should think so," said the child, leaning her head on his breast.
"See I reach up to there." Donatus felt the height with his hand.
"Only so far! Oh! then you will certainly grow taller yet. How many summers old are you then?"
"That I do not know."
"What, child, do you not even know how old you are?"
"Wait, not by summers, but I can count by trees."
"By trees?"
"Yes, wait a little. Every year since I could run alone my mother made me cut a cross in a young tree when the birds were building their nests. Now here in Munsterthal there was one tree," she reckoned on her fingers, "on the road to Marienberg there was one; two at Nauders, and five in Finstermunz, and in the Ober-Innthal three, that makes twelve, then there are three in Lechthal, and one on the way down, in Vintschgau; that makes sixteen little trees. So that since I came into the world there must have been seventeen springs, for when I cut the first cross I was so tiny that my mother had to guide my hand with the knife; so she told me, for I cannot remember it."
"Then you are already seventeen summers old? I thought you were still quite a child," said Donatus thoughtfully.
"And what colour are your eyes?" he went on presently. "Brown or blue?"
"Brown I fancy, but I cannot be certain, for I have no mirror but the water, but mother used to say they shone at night like owl"s eyes."
"And your hair?"
"Reddish-brown. The children used to call me Hairy-owl when they saw me combing it, because I could cover myself all over with it like a cloak; here, feel my plaits, they are as long as I am tall. I have to fasten them up." And she laughingly drew the thick, half unplaced locks through his hand while he wondered at their length and weight.
"And your eyebrows grow together, the true sign of a witch?"
"Alas, yes."
"And a little rosy baby mouth?"
"Yes, may-be--I do not know."
"Beata! oh, would I could see you!" he said for the first time since they had been together. It thrilled her with delight as he said it, she herself knew not wherefore.
CHAPTER V.
It was now noon-day; Beata and Donatus took a short rest to eat their bread. The forest waved high above their heads, and close to them the noisy Wildbach tumbled down the cliff, and the girl fetched some of the cool water for their frugal meal.
"I cannot hear you, Beata, are you there?" asked the blind man.