FOOTNOTES:

Footnote 1: Wegewarte, Chicory (Cichorium Intybus z).

Footnote 2: A play on the name, here meaning quarrelsome.

Footnote 3: Nothing at all.

Footnote 4: Eryngo.

END OF VOL. I.

PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.

COLLECTION

OF

GERMAN AUTHORS.

VOL. 45.

KLYTIA BY GEORGE TAYLOR.

IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.

KLYTIA.

A STORY OF HEIDELBERG CASTLE.

BY

GEORGE TAYLOR.

FROM THE GERMAN BY

SUTTON FRASER CORKRAN.

Copyright Edition.

IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.

LEIPZIG 1883

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.

LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES.

K L Y T I A.

CHAPTER I.

Disturbed by the heavy fall of the young maiden the bats flew out of the dark cellar and whirred wildly around. Toads crept from out of the swampy rain-sodden ground and crawled up the damp wall towards the opening. The terrified mice ran hither and thither. The moon had reached its highest point, and cast its cold rays through the square aperture on the humid wall. A violent pain in her foot aroused Lydia from the faint, into which she had fallen, and in the which she knew not how long she had lain. When she endeavored to stand up, she became aware that her foot was broken. Only half conscious of her position, she looked up through the shaft of the cellar, at the starry heaven above. The Lord on whom she had called for aid had saved her from a hideous fate. "He will not suffer me to perish here," she said with the patience of a person afflicted with a serious illness. But the sight was terrible which the beams of the Moon now falling straight disclosed to her, as her eyes became more and more accustomed to the darkness. Dozens of bats flew noiselessly about in the dark. Horrible toads crawled along the wet walls. A rat ran across her face, so that she had to start up in spite of her pain to frighten the animal away. Overhead, all was still. Lydia reflected that her shouts would attract no one to her, except perhaps her pursuers. She therefore determined to husband her strength till dawn. She would then certainly succeed in making herself heard by some of the children picking berries, or by some of the numerous laborers. Anxiously did she gaze upwards towards the opening to see whether the cold light of the moon was not giving way to the warmer beams of the sun. Her back hurt her from having fallen against stones, the stinging pain in her foot caused her to sob, but she believed that she would be saved, and considered this as a punishment for the guilt which she had been induced to commit. How thankful she felt that her father was absent and therefore not anxious about her. Thus thinking she fell asleep.

She woke, aroused by a stone which fell from above on her wounded foot. "Nothing stirs," she heard a boy's voice say. "I am here," cried Lydia in terror lest her deliverers should depart. "God be praised, young lady," cried a man's voice, "we heard no sound and feared our search was vain. Have you strength enough, to let yourself be pulled up by a rope."

"I doubt it. My foot is broken and my back is wounded."

"Then must we see if the ladder is long enough."

"But you promise to do me no harm?"

"Don't you know me, young Maiden, the Miller Werner from the Kreuzgrund, behind Ziegelhausen."

"Ah, is it you Father Werner," said she crying for joy. "How did you find out where I was?"

"The wretches who hunted you down, said, you disappeared from them here as if the earth had swallowed you up, so we could easily imagine where you were. The scoundrels would have quietly let you perish."

"Yes, it was terrible," said Lydia, "but God punished me for my sins."

The ladder was now let down through the opening, and carefully did the brave old man avoid touching Lydia. Then he himself climbed down holding a burning rosin torch. "A filthy hole, this old cellar," he murmured. "How the bats fly the light. Yes, light is horrible to you, you children of darkness." Carefully did he raise Lydia, who like a child wound her arms round his neck. Cautiously did he climb the ladder to the world above, where he laid her down on the soft turf. The question now was how to carry the sick child, who lay pale and faint on the ground, to the high road beneath. The Miller thought at first of using the ladder as a stretcher, and carrying her down on that. But the ladder was small and hard. To fetch a stretcher would have taken too much time and attracted attention. Lydia also begged urgently that he would hurry. Nothing remained but for the old man to carry her down in his arms, for which purpose he bound her to himself with the boy's girdle. The latter ran down to the village to have a covered cart in readiness below, whilst the father climbed cautiously down the stony footpath leading to the road. Lydia lay still, on the back of the miller, with her arms around his neck, while he sought the most lonely path through wood and vineyard. "The lost sheep," he thought, "torn even to bleeding by thorns and its wool remained sticking to the hedges. But when the shepherd finds it again, he takes it on his back with joy." And he looked at the pretty white hands clasped so touchingly under his prickly chin. The sweet burden lay warm on his back, and the maiden's delicate cheek rested on his shoulder. Then the old gray-beard began to lose his head. It seemed to him whilst looking at those white hands, as if an evil voice close to him said: "Thy Martha never had such hands."

"What does that matter to thee, old sinner," he answered the tempter bravely. "Hast thou always lived among the purer brethren, thou would'st not care in thy older days to keep company with the coarser."

"To be waited upon by such hands, would nevertheless be pleasant," continued the first voice.

"Nevertheless thou hast still thy old wife," answered he gruffly.

"Have not Hetzer, Rottmann and other prophets taught, that when a brother felt, he had not found his suitable spiritual bride, he might loose himself from the older bond and enter into a new marriage."

"Let the disciples of Judas teach. Their end was like his. Old Martha entered the Baptist Communion with me and has ever been a true wife."

"Then take two wives, as permitted by the prophets of Munster. Had not the holy fathers, Abraham, Isaac, Lamech, Gideon, and David more than one wife, why not thou also? It is true that the German princes forbade this to the brethren at Munster, but the Landgraf himself, who persecuted them with fire and sword, followed their example later on."

"Peace Satan," rejoined the old man. "Scripture is opposed to polygamy in spite of Abraham and Philip of Hessen. God gave Adam only one Eva. He created them male and female, not one male and two females. It is also said, 'and they two shall be one flesh,' and not three or four. But verily Martha is now nothing but skin and bones," he thought sadly and sighed.

"You must find me very heavy, good father?" said Lydia in a low tone.

"No," he answered shortly. Then he became conscious that he had better keep up a conversation with his protégée than with the wicked Satan who would tempt him from the right path, and he told her how his son had informed him of the appointment made by Laurenzano, and how the rest had come to pass. Lydia began to weep. "So you know everything, and will certainly consider me very wicked."

"We are all but flesh and blood," said the Miller good-naturedly. "Our souls will stumble so long as they go about on two legs, and each bears within himself a rock of offence."

"I thank you father, for not punishing me more severely."

"That is not my office," replied the Baptist. "I have enough to punish in myself."

"Ah, you are good, but I dare not think what others will think of me."

"People must be allowed to talk, as geese cannot," rejoined the Miller. "Make your peace with God and then be satisfied. Look there is George with the cart."

Joyfully cracking his whip, stood the little devil of the previous night close to his horse. "Now we shall lay you down gently in the waggon and then close the linen curtains." Getting her down was only managed with much pain and difficulty; then the well known Miller drove back unquestioned through the town to the portal of the Otto Heinrich building. The careful Barbara had seen the cart crossing the drawbridge and was immediately at hand. The Miller gave her no information. The young lady had hurt her foot falling was all he said, and carefully was she carried up the steps. Barbara by the Miller's advice wrapped the leg in wet cloths, till the father at his return at mid-day could apply a more surgically correct bandage. The brave Baptist had quietly withdrawn to escape being thanked. The father himself forbade his feverish child to talk, and appeared to be quite contented with the short account given by Klytia. It was sufficient for him that the cure proceeded satisfactorily, and the old Barbara scolded about the open turnip-pit in which more than one person had twisted his foot. When Erastus however asked later on for a more detailed account, he was surprised at his daughter's request to be allowed not to mention the cause of her accident. He shook his head, without however pressing his inquiries. "She must have come to grief through the fault of another," he thought, and was at last glad that she spared him any fresh troubles, as his own business began to demand more attention.

Nothing was heard of Magister Laurenzano in Heidelberg, except that he asked for leave of absence till the re-opening of the College, and wished especially to be relieved from his office of preacher at the Stift.

In the bright town of Speyer with its own independent Bishopric, the throng composing the parliament was so numerous that any individual man was soon lost to sight. Any person who however might have entered Speyer cathedral at the hour of Vespers on the day on which Lydia was rescued, might have seen a young man clothed in black kneeling in the most abject manner before one of the confessional boxes most concealed in the gloom. His confession was at an end and the priest was earnestly addressing him. A woman kneeling close by heard the words: "Only a long discipline, my Son, can restore the equilibrium and order of thy disturbed conscience." From that time onwards for several weeks the same stranger might be noticed entering the cathedral daily at daybreak and at sundown and going down to the dark crypt under the chancel. Thence he disappeared in a side chapel set aside for the use of the clergy of the chapter. "Where can Laurenzano be spending his holiday?" asked the philosopher Pithopöus at the round table in the Hirsch, who loved a rational audience.

"His brother says," replied Erastus, "that he is in Speyer, but I have not been able to hear a word about him from gentlemen who are there in the Kurfürst's suite, although I made all due inquiries."

"Very probably," answered Pithopöus, who liked Laurenzano for the interest he felt in scholastic discussions. "In the bustle which now goes on in that town, an individual is easily lost."

CHAPTER II.

When Klytia was sufficiently restored to health to be able to sit up with outstretched foot on a chair specially constructed by her father, the visits of her friends who where most anxious to hear all the details of the accident began, thereby greatly tormenting the poor child. Frau Belier especially wished to know so exactly how it all came to pass that finally nothing was left for Lydia but to avail herself of Barbara's device of the open turnip-pit. Happily private affairs remained still uppermost in the minds of these busy women and maidens, and Lydia was endued with sufficient feminine cunning to parry a disagreeable question by referring to another topic. "I am nothing but a false serpent," she used to say reproachfully to herself, "and repay all this love with deceit." She received more visits than she cared for,--only one remained away, one whom she so much feared, one for whom she so much longed. What could have prevented Paolo from coming to the very place chosen by himself? What prevented him even now from at all events asking her father about the health of his pupil? Had the miller not confirmed the fact that the note had been sent by Laurenzano, she would have preferred to think, that her rivals at the Stift had been making game of her, but after what the old Werner had told her she was forced to believe in Paolo's guilt. "He has no heart," she murmured, "otherwise he would have been here long ago." The less the news that could be obtained of him, the more did his conduct appear inconceivable to her. Had he quitted the town forever, in which he had caused so much misery? In that case he would never return! A feeling of horror crept over her at such a thought. Then she heard in the lofty echoing passage a well known elastic step and the voice of her father as he quietly approached. Erastus' head appeared at the door. "My child, Herr Laurenzano wishes to pay thee a visit. Remain lying down so that thy foot may not suffer." Lydia turned first pale and then red. At that moment she saw the figure of the architect, and with the disappointment her composure returned. Smilingly did she stretch out a small white hand to the Maestro. After that the handsome dark-eyed Italian had congratulated her gracefully on her recovery, he told her, that owing to the state of her health he had not up to the present time occupied himself with the repairs necessary to be made on the row of windows of Erastus' apartments. If she permitted it he would now begin the work. Lydia thanked him for his kind consideration. The work would not disturb her in any way; she would retire to the back rooms. The architect looked as childishly sad at her, as would a boy to whom a long wished for pleasure had been denied.--That she should not deny herself the bright sunshine so necessary to every sick person, was the very cause of his visit, he began with hesitating voice and maidenlike blush. It would be utterly impossible for him to undertake the work with any comfort and happiness if he had hourly to reproach himself with having delayed her convalescence. He would in that case prefer leaving the windows as they were, Erastus smilingly sided with him; in short Lydia had to capitulate and agreed neither to leave the room, nor to shut out the health-bringing pure air. Thus it happened that the merry Maestro appeared daily on the scaffold and seized every opportunity of coming to Lydia's window. He used then to tell her about the work, to complain of the laziness of German workmen who wasted half the day in eating, drinking and sleeping, and to praise the frugality and diligence of his Italian countrymen. Smilingly did the maiden bending over her work listen to the complaints of the Neapolitan, whose great delight seemed to consist in talking. As the neighbours however took to looking up at them, she reminded him half-seriously that he was no diligent Italian. "You say that a German eats and drinks as much as ten Italians, but it seems to me that an Italian chatters as much as twenty Germans. Now let me see for once how industrious you can be." Felix retired feeling rather ashamed, whilst she could not help thinking how much the brothers resembled each other. "I am afraid of the Magister," she thought smiling, "and yet long to see him. I am amused at the architect and yet dismiss him from me. Thou foolish heart to prefer sorrow to joy."

One morning the Maestro mentioned his brother to her. He was staying with the Bishop at Speyer where he had some friends. It was then as she feared. He had become Brother Paulus once more and returned to the Jesuits. Sad, and with beating heart did she stoop over her sewing whilst two large tears fell on her work. The Maestro pretended not to perceive this, but whilst angry with Paul on account of these tears, he himself became suddenly aware of how his own heart yearned towards this beauteous fair maiden.

Klytia herself could no longer be in doubt, that the worthy Maestro, whom she preferred to any one after Paul, earnestly sought her love, but her heart was filled with grief for him whom now she must reckon among the dead. Had he not abandoned her insultingly to her fate, disgraced her in her own eyes, was he not continuing on his own crooked dark paths, and had he not ceased to love her if indeed he had ever done so? What would she have given, not to have been daily reminded of him by his brother, and yet she was never so attentive, as when the latter told her of his youthful days in Naples, how he, Paul, and their little sister had played at ball with the golden fruit of the orange groves, sought for colored shells on the shore, hidden themselves in the hollow trunks of olive trees, looked for antique bits and marble splinters among the laurels and mountain-shrubs; of their adventures with huge earthworms, small snakes, scorpions and butterflies; then she saw standing out so distinctly before her the dark elder and the yet more swarthy younger brother, that she felt for them as a sister, and in her dreams she often imagined herself to be that deceased sister of the Laurenzanos. "Take the brown one, the dark one will render thee unhappy," had said the old witch, and Lydia had become superstitious since that terrible evening at the cross-roads on the Holtermann. The magic words of the old woman seemed to be too true. The maiden's heart could not free itself from the demoniacal priest, and it remained after Paul's faithless flight, in the trusty brother's power. Quite involuntarily, in her dreams, these innermost thoughts, still unknown to herself assumed expression.

Above the door of the Ruprecht building where dwelt Felix, might be seen a beauteous piece of artistic work of old German architecture, before which Lydia had as a child often stood in delighted wonderment. Two lovely angels' heads mutually o'ershadowed by each other's little wings; holding in brotherly affection within a wreath of roses, a pair of compasses, the sign of the masons. The Builder's guild had evidently thus intended to go down to posterity. The common people however related, that these two lovely twins had been the delight of the architect who had built the Schloss. To have them continually at his side he had taken them up on the scaffold, rejoicing in his two fresh-looking courageous boys. One day however one of them stumbled and dragged the other down with him. The architect became almost deranged, so that the building did not proceed. Instead of looking after the work, the sorrowful father daily made a wreath which he adorned with white roses and carried to the cemetery near the Peter's Church where were buried his darlings. The Emperor Ruprecht however became angry at the length of time the building continued, and ordered the Priest, who had buried the children to urge on the architect. He answered that all was ready, but that in his grief he could not conceive a proper ornament for the gateway. The Priest exhorted and consoled him to the best of his ability; the same night the twins appeared as bright angels to the father bringing back with them the wreath of roses which he had laid that morning on their grave. When the architect was roused the next morning by the light of the rising Sun, he thought of his dream, it seemed to him that the perfume of the roses still filled his room, and on rising, behold there lay the wreath fresh and fragrant, which he had the previous morning laid on the grave of his little ones, and which he had seen withered the evening before, but the white roses had turned to red. It was immediately plain to the architect how he should decorate the gate-way. He chiselled his children as angels as they had appeared to him, bearing a rose-wreath, and in the middle he placed a pair of compasses, the symbol of an art, to which he now bade a lasting farewell. On St. John's day 1408, the key-stone of the gate-way was fixed in, and the Emperor Ruprecht himself spoke the dedicatory oration. When he wished however to return his imperial thanks to the workmen, the architect had disappeared. Whilst all the bells were pealing loudly and filling the Neckar valley with their deep notes, the Master whom they were honoring, trod along the Michaelspath over the mountains to the monastery on the Heiligenberg. He became a monk and gazed from his cell at the tower, reared over the graves of his darling children, till his two boys once more appeared to him, crowned him with roses and bore away his soul into Abraham's bosom. This was the story as told to Lydia by her nurse, and when she thought of angels, the beauteous bearers of the wreath over the gate-way before which she daily passed always presented themselves to her memory. None of the noble statues wrought by Master Colins on the magnificent Otto Heinrich building had ever come near the impression made by these angels' heads. One evening after Felix had again been speaking about the games he and his brother Paul had played in their garden fragrant with roses at Naples, Lydia dreamt that night, that she was flying in the air above the Holtermann in the direction of the castle, and just as she was about to settle down the two angels of the Ruprecht building came towards her. The one was grave and cold, whilst the other which resembled Master Felix smiled on her joyously. Presently the one with the earnest, beauteous expression, which Magister Paul always wore when teaching opened his mouth and said: "Take Felice." On this she woke up, hearing also the witch saying distinctly: "the fairer one is the right one;" frightened she raised her head from the pillow and saw how the moon shone clearly into her room. Long did she think over this wondrous dream, in which the dearest impressions of her childhood and the terrible experiences of the previous weeks were so mixed together, then she fell asleep once more. The following morning she could not withstand the temptation of seeing whether the two angels' heads really resembled the brothers? Everything was quiet and peaceful in the court. This was the first time she had ventured out since her accident. She took a glass to draw water from the well-house, supported by the pillars taken from Charlemagne's palace in the Palatinate near Ingelheim. Whilst lowering the bucket she gazed at the beloved images at her ease. No one was there to disturb her at her early task. The glass filled with the pure water of the well sparkled in her hand. Clear shone the morning-sun on the Ruprecht building, and to see the images better the maiden was forced to approach closer. She protected her eyes against the light with her hand and looked intently at the well-known figures. Gently and kindly seemed the angels to smile back on her. The younger one to the left might stand for the grave Paolo, the older one to the right the joyous artist. Right! "He is the right one," the words of the witch kept dinning in her ears. And did not the compasses in the middle refer to Felice's art? Not the breviary, but the implement of the Maestro is surrounded by the roses of love. "But they are both clad as choir-boys." The thought distracted her. The angels' heads seemed to float, to nod to her, to greet her. Dazzled by the light it seemed to her confused eyes as if the wreath were coming away. Suddenly a full blown rose fell at her feet. Surprised she looked around whether she could see anyone. She picked up the flower. It was the same kind of deep-red rose as was sculptured on the wreath round the angels. With a feeling akin to superstition she looked up to see whether the beautiful rose had not fallen out of the wreath encircling the lovely children? But none was missing. The windows on the whole of that side were closed, with the exception of a single one, and that belonged to Felice's room. Smilingly she placed the flower in her glass, and hurried back as fast as her lame foot would permit, for just at that moment a servant maid inclined to question her about her early appearance in the court came out of the house. She did not however feel attracted towards the "red-haired Frances," who in admiration for the rose pressed too familiarly at her side.

Lydia felt mentally and morally perplexed and confused. She could not bring herself to see in her wondrous dream and the extraordinary morning salutation received on her first appearance abroad a mere accident. Thus she sat, dreamingly pondering over these events near her seat at the window, when her father entered and for the first time alluded to her relations with Felix. He praised the architect's knowledge of art and lofty sentiments, he reminded her that though he himself was not so old, yet he was in delicate health and wearied of work. What would become of her, if it pleased God to call him suddenly away, he asked. Lydia wiped her eyes and kissed her beloved father. Erastus did not insist on an answer, but he left her in sweet confusion once more alone in her room, she looked more kindly at the rose and said to herself, "God must know why it is better thus. The demoniacal attraction for the Magister has precipitated me in the fullest sense into an abyss, the more quiet sympathy of the kindly Maestro has guided my feet not to serpents, but to roses," and blushingly she bent her face over the flower and inhaled deep draughts of its perfume.

That very morning Felix had proceeded so far with his work as to have reached Lydia's window. He noticed his rose on her table in the glass of water and looked gratefully at the maiden. Then he set to work repairing the cornices and pilasters over Lydia's window, and it seemed as if these required the most strict attention, the work took so long completing. In the meanwhile the Maestro related amusing anecdotes to the fair patient, who sat sometimes at the window, at other times supported on a pillow she stretched out her injured foot, and however timid Lydia had felt in the presence of the Magister, she did not let herself be overwhelmed in any way by his chatty brother. It was a proud feeling for her to be thus able to completely subjugate such a man, for a handsome horse renders even a timid rider bold and blithesome. "I wish Signorina," he said, "you would advise me about my work; Master Colin's figures seem to me, if I only look in at your window, to become daily stiffer and more inanimate. To you who live now so long under them, have not the aged gentlemen perhaps confided some secrets of their inner life, to which I could give expression on their empty faces?"

"O yes," said Lydia seriously. "Quiet nights they have great quarrels."

"They quarrel, corpo di Venere, you must tell me about this."

"No, I do not betray the secrets of the companions of my home."

"But you nevertheless say, that they quarrel."

"Are you astonished at that? You must see for yourself that they are not on a friendly footing."

As Lydia remained firm in refusing to betray the quarrels of the Statues, Felix rubbed his brows. "As a fact I remember that I myself fell once asleep up here. If I relate to you what I heard in my dreams, you must also tell me what you overheard."

"Perhaps," said Klytia, "let me only hear your story."

"I had been thinking of a fair-haired angel, who dwelt higher than many planets, and soon began to nod." "The angel thanks you," interrupted Klytia pertly. "After a while I suddenly heard, Faith, Hope, and Charity saying close to me: 'We alone are related, in this mixed society, and will have nothing to do with the Heathen world on either side of us.' Then Justice yawned so loud that it could be heard all over the Court and sighed saying: 'How lonely I feel here in the corner near to these dreary virtues. What has Justice in common with self-righteousness? Now if I were only over there next to Strength, I could at least carefully watch to see, that it did not break more columns than were necessary as schoolboy proofs of his juvenile strength.' Hercules next wanted to enter into conversation with Sampson. 'Sir Brother,' said he with a rap of his club, 'it was better fun for us when we were chasing lions, not to mention the honey.' But wasn't he snubbed, 'I am no brother of yours,' answered the proud Jewish hero, 'you are one of the Philistines whom I thrashed, and I will have nothing to do with you.' Next I heard Jupiter sneeze. I looked upwards to see whether the Greek father of the Gods was about to enter into conversation with the Egyptian Serapis? But they both looked different ways and did not deign to exchange a friendly word. Once indeed Zeus cast a look down at Mars and Venus and then sighed: 'Gracious Heavens, how thin they have become.' Is it not true that you meant something of this sort when you said that Colins' figures could not endure one another? You have indeed a quick hearing, bellezza, and a poetical mind."

"Now," replied Lydia, curling up her nose, "do you suppose that when we sit at work all day we think of nothing but the cross-stitch. But it was ever clear to me, even as a child, that a totally different harmony and unison of mind was expressed in the two angels' heads on the Ruprechtsbau, than by any of the figures exhibited here by Master Colins, some of which he took from the cloister-school at Malines, the others from Italy, where you still remain semi-heathens."

"You are right, Signora, but in my home we are accustomed to this mixture."

"Your head is perhaps furnished in such a manner, Sir Artist," said she teasingly, "that the characters of the Bible and the Greek Gods meet each other therein as they do on Master Colins' façade!" Then she blushed at her own boldness, but Felice's boundless veneration was too great a temptation to a little naughtiness on the part of this young Thing just fresh from school, who missed not a little her daily scrimmages with the aristocratic young ladies of the Stift.

"When you speak of a want of harmony," said the Artist, a little excited at Klytia's want of veneration for his learning as a man, "you allude above all to the insipid German texts in monkish verse, which the deceased plump Count Palatine stuck under the Gods and Heroes, in place of which I would willingly read a classic epigram in the latin language. But you are quite right, the entire façade is an emblem of the contention which takes place in our mortal life. The beauties of Greece and the virtues of Christianity strive for mastery in our hearts. And not only are the figures in contradiction, but the Antique and Gothic forms are at variance with one another. The harmony of construction, which composes true classic architecture is wanting. How discordantly do the Gothic arms and shields contrast with the Antique lines of the portal. The highest beauty consists in the artistic blending of the red sandstone and the blue sky, and when the Kurfürst lately stated that he wished he could burn down the, to him, hated sculptured casket, I could not help involuntarily thinking, how beautifully the ruin would stand out, when the blue sky should be seen through the voided casements."

"Gracious powers," cried Lydia. "As long as we live up so high, do not try such an experiment; and now go on with your work; I do not want to hear any lecture which may end by your falling down and breaking your neck."

Pale and hurt Felix drew back. His hopes nevertheless stood higher than he thought; but Lydia had remarked, how the neighbours were craning their necks to look up at the scaffolding, on which Felix was carrying on his assault, and she heard the "red headed Frenz" say that Lydia's windows must have needed an extraordinary amount of repairing, as the Italian gentleman never seemed to leave them. "They will make a handsome couple," Herr Bachmann now asserted in no low tones, "the tall dark Italian, and the fair haired maiden. I shall be rejoiced, Frau Barbara, when they make their first appearance in church together." This then was the cause of her dismissing Felice in so summary a manner.

The beauteous morning was succeeded by a close afternoon. Since that dream the images of the brothers came up before her so continually that she could hardly tell them apart. But the present moment maintained its right. The gloomy priest disappeared in the joyous artist, and from the moment that Lydia had accustomed herself to the thought, that the Magister could never be hers, and that he had only played a sinful part towards her, she sadly compelled herself to find once more her idol in the happy trusty friend. Thus there remained much that was true in her unfaithfulness. In reality she only cared for Felix for Paul's sake. The artist in the meanwhile stood outside on his scaffold in a pensive manner. The oppressive heat, precursor of a storm weighed him down, and Lydia's dismissal had deeply affected him. He made no effort to resume his jokes of the morning, and could not even hum an air. "Could I have offended him?" thought the kind-hearted child within, "he has become so silent;" as she looked upwards at the streaky sky, a gust of wind blew the dust in her eyes, and whirled the loose leaves high up into the air. "May the storm not break forth before that he is safely down from his scaffold," thought she anxiously as a heavier gust burst forth. The windows rattled, the shutters blew to, slates fell from the roof, boards were carried off and crashed into the court beneath; slates, panes of glass, bricks, came tumbling from above, and noise and confusion were heard on all sides of the court. Lydia rushed to shut the window, and then saw Felice clinging convulsively to the shaking scaffold. "Come in here, in here," she cried in her fright to him. He shook his head sadly, and made a motion to show that he would slide down the poles so soon as the wind abated. A more violent gust caused the bricks to shower down from the roof and shook the whole scaffold. "Felix, Felix," cried the terrified maiden stretching out her arms towards him. A happy smile played over his features, and with one bound the active youth was at her side. As she closed the window, he had already folded her within his strong arms. "I have won thee by storm," he cried rejoicingly, but she was silent and loosed herself from his embrace. "You called me in, now keep me," he said earnestly, "you wished to save my life, save it in reality." She gazed on him long and earnestly. It was, as if the image of some departed friend was before her, and she was endeavoring to find some similitude. Then blushing she sank her head. Thoroughly happy he shouted for joy, laid his arms around her neck, his lips sought hers. The storm outside, which now burst forth, did not disturb his happiness. The rain streamed down into the court below. What mattered it to him? At every sheet of lightning he kissed her quivering eyelids, at every clap of thunder he pressed his lips to hers. "I have wooed thee by thunder and lightening, may it strike me if ever I prove unfaithful to thee." Suddenly her father's voice was heard outside, as he himself had likewise been driven home by the storm. Lydia drew back terrified, but Felice seized fast hold of her hand and thus went with her to meet the physician. Astonished Erastus drew back for a moment, and then said smilingly, "Ah, is this so," and kissed Lydia's pure forehead. She remained silent and blushingly laid her innocent head on her beloved father's breast. "You are welcome to me," said Erastus turning to Felice, "provided only that you abjure papistry." The Maestro bounded like a shying steed. "It cannot be your meaning, noble Sir," he said, "that I must confess a belief, which my heart does not admit."

"Such is not my meaning," answered the physician, "but when you stole my child's heart, you must have well known, that Erastus would never choose a papist for son-in-law. What I oppose here in Olevianus' church discipline, is the power of the priesthood, the subjugation of conscience, how could you therefore expect, that I should ever permit my child to confess to one of your priests?"

"That she shall never do, noble Sir. She shall live in her faith, as I in mine."

"Where could that be possible? Certainly not here in Heidelberg. You would never be accepted as citizen, and in your country my child would certainly be imprisoned by the Inquisition."

"In Austria it is however possible," replied Felix. "I shall return to Master Colins in Innsbruck. The noble minded Kaiser Max admits both confessions, and marriages between members of the two religions are not uncommon there." Erastus shook his head thoughtfully. Lydia's resigned calm also led him to ask himself, whether his child was not in reality acting in obedience to his wishes, and whether this young heart was really ripe enough for binding vows? He at last said, "I will seek more information as to how matters stand in Innsbruck, do you likewise seek to know more about our faith. Lydia is still young. Let us put off the final word to a later day." Thus it remained. Master Felice would have willingly appeared in the character of an accepted lover, but as Erastus permitted him to visit Lydia as before, he declared himself satisfied for the time. When his work was over, he hastened to Klytia, and sat joking and lounging at her side. She was ever gentle and kind to him, but never cast her thoughtful quiet manner aside. She had assumed a timid reserve, which forbade any too demonstrative love. The excitement of decision once over the poor child felt herself to be inwardly divided against herself. She loved, but whether Paolo, or Felice she knew not; she was engaged, but the father forbade any public acknowledgment. Good and gentle of disposition she suffered Felice to love her, without however granting him the slightest rights. Usually, when the artist visited her of an evening, her Dante lay ready, and by compelling him to read aloud, she held his passion in due bounds. But even the majesty of Dante's poetry became melodious song when read by the loving artist, and we may well imagine what verses he most looked forward to, in the hope, that the narrative of Francesca da Rimini would serve to thaw her icy reserve. But Lydia had wisely looked over the book beforehand, and was prepared against this would-be adopted means. The fifth canto containing the story of Rimini's unhappy lovers, lay open in its usual place, on the evening so much longed for by Felice, but Lydia received him with maidenlike sedateness. He had that day carefully curled his locks and held in his hand one of those dark-red roses which had first told his love, but he had not the courage to offer it to her, for she had moved her seat further from him than on any previous evening. It is true he read beautifully that day, or nearly as beautifully as "he," but as he was just about to begin the story of the lovers, who also read together, "how Lancelot wrapped in pure love," to "often did their eyes meet and lovingly rose the color in their cheeks, and often did he kiss the smile of his beloved," she closed in maidenly scorn the book and her "we won't read any more to-night" dispelled in an exasperating manner Felice's hopes. Out of humor and disappointed he sat near her turning over the leaves of Lydia's prayer book. He found pressed therein a blue flower. It stabbed him to the heart, for the maiden had thrown his rose out of the window the moment it withered. Hastily did he close the book which only hid Paolo's flowers. The following evening Lydia begged him to read to her one of the sonnets of his beloved Michel Angelo. He noticed with joy whilst he read, how tenderly her blue eyes were fixed on him, but when he left off, to return her gaze, she murmured as if in a dream: "He is paler." Thus it became clear to him that she only sought Paolo's features in his own. She grew more and more sad and still. It appeared to him as if the blooming color on her cheek paled. "She has deceived herself," he sighed. "When the sunflower is forcibly prevented from gazing at the sun, it withers away. Paolo will ever be her Apollo. Poor child!" But a colder feeling entered into his own heart, he could never rejoice in a love, which he owed to another, and which through him was bestowed upon his brother. "She wished to marry Paolo in effigie," he murmured angrily to himself, "and she does not even find the image resembling."

CHAPTER III.

After the completion of the mysterious exercitia, Paul returned to Heidelberg from Speyer. His brother found him serious, pale, but calmer than before. Instead of the lurid passionate glare of the eye which had so often terrified Felice, he found him at times struggling with his tears. He did not resume his office in the Stift. The parson of a neighboring village, who was looked upon as a Lutheran at heart, filled that post. From the mouth of the Abbess, who had inquired into Paul's unexpected disappearance and Lydia's sudden illness with more suspicion than any one else and who thereby had come nearer to the truth, did he hear of the misfortune which had befallen his beloved pupil. During her narrative the old lady had fixed a curiously cold and searching look on him, and her fingers played with the rosary, no longer at her side. Luckily for him he did not at first connect this event with the appointment made by him on the Kreuzweg, so that he was enabled to ask in an unconstrained manner for exact details. "I heard the news on the same day that I received your letter from Speyer," said the Countess in a cold tone, and again she looked at him with a piercing gaze. Abashed he rose up and hastily took his leave. It was evident that this woman saw through him, and only had to open her mouth to ruin him.

Added to his crime towards the ministers was now another towards Erastus, whose child perhaps crippled for life, had had her peace of mind destroyed in any case through him. From that hour he no longer ventured to visit the Stift. Hastily did he reject his brother's offer to share his dwelling in the Schloss. He preferred taking an apartment by himself in the marketplace. There he often worked till late in the night, as might be seen from the light in his window; by day he would stand for hours at the window and survey with saddened look the throng in the market, or follow with his eye the single individuals who might at a later hour cross the emptied square, as if envying each man his freedom. After some time had elapsed, when once again a more sympathetic relation had sprung up between the brothers, Felix made known to him his engagement to Klytia. Paul turned pale, and for the first time the tigerish glare in his eyes intimidated his brother; then silently did he turn to the window. "I know she loves thee," added Felice, "but thou art not freed from thy oaths. Renounce thy order and I will at once retire. But Klytia is too good to be toyed with, she must not be torn up as a flower on the road-side, for a passing pleasure and then cast away."

"I have raised no objections," said Paul in a husky voice.

"Then dost thou renounce her?" asked Felix earnestly.

"It is well as it is. I wished to free myself when in Speyer but did not succeed. We are bound by more chains than you imagine. I must have become Protestant in earnest, so as to shake them off; that I cannot do. I must have given up all hopes of returning to Italy, and that also I cannot do. I cannot be free, but I have sworn, never to let myself be made a tool of again."

Felix pressed his hand. "Thou shouldst quit thy dubious position here altogether."

"That I will do. But I can only do so by order of my superiors. I am waiting for them, God only knows with how much sorrow."

Thus the brothers parted. Grief concerning Klytia had disclosed the true feelings of Paul's heart more than ever before, and Felice now knew what fierce contentions had taken place, in spite of this cold pale face.

The Magister had returned to Heidelberg with a feeling of deep shame. He had been received in a most friendly manner, but if asked how he had spent his holidays, he turned pale and answered evasively. The friendliness with which the common people greeted him, oppressed him. "They have so good an opinion of thee," he said to himself, "which thou dost not deserve." Since he had admitted his unworthiness to himself by his foolish flight, and affirmed this acknowledgment in the confessional and in a written declaration, he knew himself as if portrayed. His inward impurity if but only of a negative kind had become external and practical, and it seemed to him as if thereby the intended sin had been in reality committed. Involuntarily he sought to discover in the face of each acquaintance whether his flight was known in Heidelberg, and yet he dared not make the slightest allusion to it, lest he should himself betray it. His secret ever on his lips, he feared that he himself might reveal it. Ever listening to hear it, terrified by any accidental word, guileless did he wish to live among the guileless, and nevertheless he ever thought of his sin, and the most insignificant allusion drove the blood to his heart. Thus did he sojourn among men, humble, fearful, modest, nevertheless full of suspicion and mistrust, with that shy manner peculiar to nocturnal animals by day, an image of an evil conscience worthy of all pity. Besides this an especial punishment caused by an accidental circumstance, of which no one had the slightest conception, was reserved for him. There are new melodies which spread like epidemics, for a while rule the market, till finally they are as totally forgotten as their predecessors. The newest melody for the time in Heidelberg was the Gavotte of that jovial Huguenot Henry IV. of France: "Oh! thou beauteous Gabrielle," heard played by Paul on the day when he took flight to Speyer. The baker's boy who left the warm bread of a morning at each house, whistled in shrill notes, "Oh! thou beauteous Gabrielle." The cobbler's boy who carried the boots and shoes repaired for his master's customers took good care that it should not be forgotten. From out of the open windows was heard the "beauteous Gabrielle" in whose honor the maidens of the Palatinate let their passionate thoughts pour forth. The "beauteous Gabrielle" was played of an evening by the bands in the public gardens, and drunken students sought their beds late after midnight humming the tune of the "beauteous Gabrielle." If this eternal repetition became wearisome to nervous people, it connected itself ever in Paul's mind with his downfall. If his thoughts had once freed themselves from the comfortless recollection of his imprisonment, of his guilt, of the overwhelming consciousness of having been a perjured priest, immediately the hated melody made itself heard, and he saw himself in the ignoble position of a priest compelled by his evil conscience to take flight, and the words of his unknown monitor sounded in his ears: "Fly for all is betrayed." He had once met on the street the red-headed boy to whom he had confided his message to Lydia. The boy had saluted him in an evidently derisive manner, and Paolo blushed to the roots of his hair. He feared to find in every peasant wench the bearer of his warning and meet a second person who knew of his sin. Every mocking gesture, made by some uncouth pupil of the college during the hours of instruction quite decomposed him. He could not free himself from the feeling that he was being watched, being spoken of. He continually fancied himself abused and as he looked aside pale and agitated, when people wished to greet him, he was in reality treated with less friendly feeling than before, in the which he only saw a confirmation of his opinion, that a universal contempt was felt for him. By day and night he thought over whether it could be proved that he had betrayed the clergymen, whether he in case of an inquiry could deny the appointment made with Lydia. All his thoughts were concentrated on this point; he was hurrying towards depression and monomania. A coarser nature would have easily set aside trespasses which as a fact had never been committed; his melancholy disposition supplemented the evil. In his own eyes he was not like other young men who had stumbled, but a priest who had broken his oaths, and violated his consecration. For God punishes heavily the sins of men, the more their moral conceptions are developed. None can enjoy at one and the same time the pure pleasure of ideality and the debasing joys of sensuality; for the proverb "quod licet bovi non licet Jovi" avails also when inverted. "Thou hast wished to purchase pleasure outside the limits of the law, and purchased thereby sorrow," said he to himself. "Thy just punishment has been meted to thee and only in so far as thou deservest it." And yet it seemed to him as if in early days much injustice had been done to him.

Accompanying this feeling was his grief for his lost love. Since Klytia had become another's, he felt for the first time, that his sentiments towards the sweet fair child had in reality been more than a sensuous dream of his passions. He might have been so happy, wherefore had he repelled this happiness? His love became serious, when however it was too late.

Weighed down by all this mental pressure he soon became quite another man to the public. The Jesuitical tirades, by which he had formerly excited the wonderment of the young came no more from his lips. Since a genuine feeling had found admission into his heart, the pious phrases fell away from him as withered leaves. The living seed of life, budding in him, cast out all that was false, fictitious or mendacious. He prayed much for himself, in the pulpit the words seemed to choke him. Even when following the coffins of those whom he accompanied to their last resting place, he felt himself void, inwardly dried up and wretched. It was no reality to him, that the sorrows of those left behind and for whom he prayed filled his heart. They might go and beg for aught he cared. It was no verity to him that the fate of the deceased in another world troubled him, he might go down to Hell or to Heaven, as it might please God. Sorrow for sin is egotistical and destroys all feeling of pity for the grief of others. One single wish filled his breast as he walked behind the hearse in his black gown, to be himself within that narrow coffin about to be imbedded in the cold still earth, above which bloomed the trees and flowers, the birds sang, and clouds by day passed over so lovingly, on which at night the moon shone so quietly and peacefully. All the spiritual commonplaces, with which he had formerly drawn forth the tears of those attending a christian's funeral, were now wiped away from his memory. Since that a veritable feeling now ruled him, sorrow for his lost happiness, he experienced no longer those fictitious emotions, those false sensations. The veneration of others, for him a sinner, weighed him down to the ground. Every salutation due to his position, told him that he was a liar, and he felt ashamed of an office, from which his heart was so far distant.

As he was once again preparing himself to hold divine service, this feeling over-mastered him. "And wherefore dost thou not break loose from these bonds?" he asked himself. "Who has told thee, that this can be thine only vocation? Why willst thou not prove which is stronger, a fate, which years ago seized upon a mere boy, or the riper will of a man?" For the first time he determined to act without consulting Pigavetta, and to resign his office without reference to his superiors. Though in so doing he did not free himself, yet it was one lie the less.

"Magister Laurenzano requests to be relieved from his spiritual functions," said at a sitting of the Church council held in the Auditorium of the former monastery of the bare-footed monks, the President Zuleger, a young Bohemian. "This is to be regretted on account of his oratorical talent, but as spiritual duties are not obligatory with his professorial chair at the College, the request must be granted." The others agreed. "Conclusum," said the President to the Secretary, "the request is granted, with the hope nevertheless, that Magister Laurenzano will of his own accord from time to time preach the Gospel to the parishioners. Fiat decretum, but let it be written out in a friendly manner," added the President. The Secretary also did his best. But we, who know Magister Laurenzano's mental disposition, can hardly condemn him, for not giving way to the wishes of the honorable Collegium. Whilst Paolo thus apparently separated himself from the work of God, divine Grace had begun a work in his heart, which through repentance and sorrow refined him into a new man. The Magister did not speak with his spiritual tyrants about his fresh plans. He waited to see, what orders would be given to him. But Pigavetta appeared not to notice Paul's disappearance from the pulpit, in fact he acted as if Paul did not exist.