The nameless castle

The following morning, after a very satisfactory breakfast, the gentlemen took leave of their amiable hostess, Bernat bácsi lingering behind the rest to whisper significantly:

"I will not say farewell, Katinka hugom, for I am coming back to tell you all about it." Then he took his place in the extra post-chaise, and bade the postilion drive directly to the neighboring castle. The Nameless Castle was built on a narrow tongue of land that extended into Lake Neusiedl. The road to the castle gate ran along a sort of causeway, which was protected from the water by a strong bulwark composed of fascines, and a row of willows with knotty crowns. A drawbridge at the farther end made it necessary for the person who wished to enter the gate to ask permission.

On ringing the bell, there appeared at the gate the servant who has already been described,—the groom, coachman, and man of all work in one person. He had on a handsome livery, white gloves, white stockings, and shoes without heels.

"Is the count at home?" inquired the vice-palatine.

"He is."

"Announce us. I am the vice-palatine of the county, and wish to pay an official visit."

"The Herr Count is already informed of the gentlemen's arrival, and bids them welcome."

Now, however, something curious happened.

Before the groom opened the hall door, he produced three pairs of socks, woven of strands of cloth,—mamuss they are called in this region,—and respectfully requested the visitors to draw them over their boots.

"And why, pray?" demanded the astonished vice-palatine.

"Because in this house the clatter of boots is not considered pleasant; and because the socks prevent boots from leaving dusty marks on the carpets."

"This is exactly like visiting a powder-magazine." But they had to submit and draw their socks over their yellow boots, and, thus equipped, they ascended the staircase to the reception-room.

An air of almost painful neatness reigned in all parts of the castle. Stairs and corridors were covered with coarse white cloth, the sort used for peasants' clothing in Hungary. The walls were hung with glossy white paper. Every door-latch had been polished until it glistened. There were no cobwebs to be seen in the corners; nor would a spider have had anything to prey upon here, for there were no flies, either. The floor of the reception-room into which the visitors had been conducted shone like a mirror, and not a speck of dust was to be seen on the furniture.

Beside the oval table with tigers' feet stood the mysterious occupant of the Nameless Castle. He was a tall man, with knightly bearing, expressive face, a high, broad forehead left uncovered by his natural hair, a straight Greek nose, gray eyes, a short mustache and pointed beard, which where a shade lighter than his hair.

"Magnifice comes—" the vice-palatine was beginning in Latin, when the count interposed:

"I speak Hungarian."

"Impossible!" exclaimed the visitor, whose astonishment was reflected in his face. "Hungarian? Why, where can your worship have learned it?"

"From the grammar."

"From the grammar?" For the vice-palatine this was the most astounding of all the strange things about the mysterious castle. Had he not always known that Hungarian could only be learned by beginning when a child and living in a Hungarian family? That any one had learned the language as one learns the hic, hæc, hoc was a marvel that deserved to be recorded. "From the grammar?" he repeated. "Well, that is wonderful! I certainly believed I should have to speak Latin to your worship. But allow me to introduce my humble self—"

"I already have the honor," quietly interrupted the count, "of knowing that you are Herr Vice-palatine Bernat Görömbölyi von Dravakeresztur."

He repeated the whole name without a single mistake!

The vice-palatine bowed, and began again:

"The object of my visit to-day is—"

Again he was interrupted.

Herr Bernat did not like it when any one interrupted him or knew beforehand what he intended to say.

"On the contrary, I came because the baroness desires to renew the lease. She has learned how kind to the poor your worship is, and offers the castle and park at half the rent paid heretofore." He fancied this would melt the haughty lord of the castle, but it seemed to increase his hauteur.

"Thanks," frigidly responded the count. "If the baroness thinks the rent too high, she will find in her own neighborhood poor people whom she can assist. I shall continue to pay the same rent I paid to the former owner."

"Then my business will be easily settled. I have brought my clerk with me; he can write out the necessary papers, and the matter can be concluded at once."

"Thank you very much," returned the count, but without offering to shake hands. Instead, he kept his arms crossed behind his back.

"Before we proceed to business," resumed the vice-palatine, "I must tell your worship an anecdote. A professor once told his pupils that he knew everything. Shortly afterward he asked one of the lads what his name was. 'Why,' responded the youth, 'how does it come that you don't know my name—you who know everything?'"

"I cannot see why you thought it necessary to relate this anecdote to me," observed the count, without a smile.

"I introduce it because I am compelled to inquire your worship's name and title, in order to draw up the contracts properly."

The count gazed fixedly for several seconds at his questioner, then replied quietly:

"My name is Count Ludwig Vavel de Versay—with a y after the a."

"Thanks. I shall not forget it; I have a very good memory," said Herr Bernat, who was perfectly satisfied with his success. "Allow me, also, to inquire the family name of the worshipful Frau Countess?"

At this question the count at last removed his hands from his back, and with the sort of gesture a man makes who would tear asunder an adversary. At the same time he cast upon Herr Bernat a glance that reminded the valiant official of the royal commissioner, as well as of his energetic spouse at home. The angry man seemed to have increased a head in stature.

Instead of replying to the question, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, leaving his visitor standing in the middle of the floor. Herr Bernat was perplexed; he did not know what to do next. Was it not quite natural to ask the name of a man's wife when a legal contract was to be written? His question, therefore, had not been an insult.

At last, as the count did not return, there was nothing left for Herr Bernat to do but go to his room and wait there for further developments. The contracts would have to be renewed, else the count would have to vacate the castle; and one could easily see that a great deal of money had been expended in fitting it up. The count had transformed the old hunting-seat, which had been a filthy little nest, into a veritable fairy castle. Yes, undoubtedly the contracts would be renewed.

"Well, Janos, we are not going to dine here to-day; from what I can learn, we are going to be eaten ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

"The groom told me his master was loading his pistols to shoot some one. The count challenges to a duel every one who inquires after the countess."

The voices ceased. The vice-palatine opened wide his eyes, and muttered:

"May the devil fly away with him! He wants to fight a duel, does he? I am not afraid of his pistols; I have one, too, and a sword into the bargain. But it 's a silly business altogether! I am to fight about a woman I have n't even seen! And what will my wife say? I wish I had n't come into this crazy castle! I wish I had n't sealed a compact of fraternity with the baroness! Why did not I leave this whole installation business to the second vice-palatine? If only I could think of an excuse to turn my back on this lunatic asylum! But I am not going to run away from a pistol. The Hungarian noble is a born soldier. If only I had my pipe! A man is only half a man without his pipe. A pipe inspires one with ideas. Where, I wonder, is that Audiat gadding?"

At this moment the clerk opened the door.

"Fetch our luggage, Audiat; we are going to leave this damned lunatic asylum. The Herr Count may see to it then how he renews his lease." Hereupon he kicked off the socks with such vigor that the very castle shook. Then, grasping his sword in his hand, he marched out of his room, and down the staircase, to prove that he was not fleeing like a coward, but was clearing his way by force.

"You are the vice-palatine's clerk?"

"That 's what they call me."

"When do you expect to become a lawyer?"

"When I have passed my examination."

"When will that be?"

"When I have served a year as jurat, and have paid a ducat for my diploma."

"I will give you the ducat, and when you have become a lawyer I will employ you as my attorney at six hundred guilders a year. I know that a Hungarian gentleman will not accept a gift without making some return; I ask you, therefore, to give me for this ducat some information."

"What is it you wish to know?"

"How can I obtain possession of a portion of Lake Neusiedl for my own use alone?"

"By becoming a naturalized citizen of the county, and by purchase of a portion of the shore. I dare say there are some landowners on the shore who would be glad to part with their possessions in exchange for solid cash. If you buy such an estate you will have sole right to that part of the water in front of your property, and to the middle of the lake."

"Thank you. One more question: if you were my attorney, what could you do to prevent me from being ejected from this castle, in case I did not sign a new contract with the present owner?"

"First, I should take advantage of the law of possession, and drag the case through a twelve years' process; then I should appeal, which would postpone a settlement for three years longer. Would that be long enough?"

"Quite!"

Bernat bácsi did not, as he had promised, return to the manor to tell the baroness the result of his visit. He drove direct to his home.

THE MISTRESS OF THE CATS

When they heard the call, "Puss, puss!" they scampered down the roof, leaped from the eaves, and vanished, one after the other, between the curtains of the open window. It was quite an ethnographic, so to speak, collection of cats; a panther-like French pussy from Dund, a Caucasian with long pointed ears, one from China with wavy silken fur and drooping ears. Then the window was closed, for the company were all assembled—four cats, two pug-dogs, and a sparrow, and the hostess, a young girl.

The girl, to judge from her figure, was perhaps fifteen years old; but her manner and speech were those of a much younger child. With her arched brow and rainbow-formed eyebrows, she might have served as a model for a saint, had not the roguish smile about the corners of her red lips betrayed an earthly origin. The sparkling dark eyes, delicately chiseled nostrils, and rounded chin gave to her face certain family characteristics which many persons would have recognized at a first glance.

Her clothing was richly adorned with lace and embroidery, which was not the fashion for girls of her age; at the same time, there was about her attire a peculiar negligence, as if she had no one to advise her what was proper to wear, or how to wear it.

The guests were all assembled; not one was missing. The little hostess inquired after the health of each one in turn, and how they had enjoyed their outing. They all had names. The cats were Hitz, Mitz, Pani, and Miura. They were introduced to the two pugs, Phryxus and Helle. Then the little maid fetched a porcelain basin, and with a sponge washed each nose and paw. Only after this operation had been thoroughly performed were the guests allowed to take their places at the breakfast-table—the four cats opposite the two pugs.

Then a clean napkin was tied about the neck of each guest,—that their jabots might not get soiled with milk,—and a cup of bread and milk placed in front of each one.

No complaints were allowed (the one that broke this rule was severely lectured), while all of them had patiently to submit when the sparrow helped himself from whichever cup he chose. The breakfast over, the guests bow-wowed and miaued their thanks, and were dismissed to their morning nap.

In silence the man and the maid promenaded along the green sward in the shade of the trees. A campanula had just opened its blue eye at the foot of one of the trees, and pale-blue forget-me-nots grew along the path. Blue was the little maid's favorite color; but she was not permitted to pluck the flowers herself. She had never been told why she must not do this; perhaps it was because the flowers belonged to some one else.

Sometimes the little maid's steps were so light and elastic, as if a fairy were gliding over the dewy grass; and sometimes she walked so slowly, so wearily, as if a little old grandmother came limping along, hunting for lichens on the mossy ground.

After the promenade, they seated themselves again in the carriage, which returned to the Nameless Castle, and the gates were closed again.

The man conducted the maid to her room, and the serious occupation of the day began. Books were produced, and the man proceeded to explain the classics. They were his own favorites; he could not give her any others. She had not yet seen or heard of romances, and she was still too young to begin the study of history. The man could teach the maid only what he himself knew; a strange tutor or governess was not allowed to enter the castle.

Because her instructor could not play the piano, the little maid had not learned. But in order that she might enjoy listening to music, a hand-organ had been bought for her, and new melodies were inserted in it every four months.

At noon, when the bell rang a third time, the man tapped at the door again, offered his gloved hand to the maid, and conducted her to the dining-room. At either end of a large table was a plate. The maid took her place at the head; the man seated himself at the foot. They conversed during the meal. The maid talked about her cats and dogs; the man told her about his books. When the maid wanted anything, she called the man Ludwig; and when the man addressed his companion, he called her simply Marie.

After dinner, they went to the library to look at the late newspapers. Ludwig himself made the coffee, after which he read the papers, and dictated his comments and criticisms on certain articles to Marie, who wrote them out in her delicate hair-line chirography.

When Ludwig and Marie separated for the afternoon, he touched his lips to her hand and brow. Marie then returned to her own apartments, played the hand-organ for her pets, changed her dolls' toilets, counted her gains or losses at cards, colored with her paints a few of the illustrations in the magazines, looked through her "Orbis pictus," reading without difficulty the text which was printed in four languages, and read for the hundredth time her favorite "Robinson Crusoe."

And thus passed day after day, from spring until autumn, from autumn until spring.

Evenings, when Marie prepared for bed, before she undressed herself, she spread a heavy silken coverlet over the leather lounge which stood near the door. She knew very well that the some one she called Ludwig slept every night on the lounge, but he came in so late, and went away so early in the morning, that she never heard his coming or his going.

Often the little maid had determined that she would not go to sleep until she heard Ludwig come into the room. But all her attempts to remain awake were in vain. Her eyelids closed the moment her head touched the pillow. Then she tried to waken early, in order to wish him good morning; but when she thrust her little head from between the bed-curtains, and called cheerily, "Good morning, dear Ludwig!" there was no one there.

Ludwig never slept more than four hours of the twenty-four, and his slumber was so light that he woke at the slightest noise. Then, too, he slept like a soldier in the field—always clothed, with his weapons beside him.

One day in the year formed an exception to all the rest. It was Marie's birthday. From her earliest childhood this one day had been entirely her own. On this day she addressed Ludwig with the familiar "thou," as she had been wont to do when he had taught her to walk. She always looked forward with great pleasure to this day, and made for it all sorts of plans whose accomplishment was extremely problematic.

And who came to congratulate her on her birthday? First of all, the solitary sparrow, whose name was David—surely because he, too, was a tireless singer! Already at early dawn, when the first faint rosy hues of morning glimmered through the jalousie, he would fly to the head of her bed. Then the cats would come with their gratulations, but not until their little mistress had leaped from the bed, run to the window, flung open the sash, and called, "Puss, puss!" Then the whole four would scamper into the room, one after the other, and wish her many happy returns of the day.

When the pugs had gone through their part of the program, the little maid proceeded to attire herself, a task she performed behind a tall folding screen. When she stepped forth again, she had on a gorgeous Chinese-silk wrapper, covered all over with gay-colored palms, and confined only at the waist with a heavy silk cord. Her hair was twisted into a single knot on the crown of her head.

"Come in!"

The man who entered was surprised.

"What? We are not yet ready for the drive?" he exclaimed.

The maid threw her book aside, ran toward him, and flung her arms with childish abandon around his neck.

"We are not going to drive to-day. Dost thou not know that this is my birthday—that I alone give orders in this house to-day? To-day everything must be done as I say; and I say that we will pass the time of the drive here in my room, and that thou shalt answer several silly questions which have come into my head. And forget not that we are to 'thou' each other to-day. And now, congratulate me nicely. Come, let us hear it!"

The count almost imperceptibly bent his knee and his head, but spoke not one word. There are gratulations which are expressed in this manner.

"Very good! Then I am a queen for to-day, and thou art my sole subject. Sit thou here at my feet on this taboret."

The man obeyed. Marie seated herself on the ottoman, and drew her feet underneath the wide skirt of her robe.

"Put that book away!" she commanded, when Ludwig stooped to lift from the floor the volume she had cast there. "I know every one of the four volumes by heart! Why dost not thou give me one of the books thou readest so often?"

"And why dost thou read such books?"

"In order that, should any one in the castle become ill, I may be able to cure him or her without a doctor."

"And must the person die who is ill and cannot be cured?"

"That is generally the end of a fatal illness."

"Does it hurt to die?"

"That I am unable to tell, as I have never tried it."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the maid. "Thou canst not put me off that way! Thou knowest many things thou hast not yet tried. Thou hast read about them; thou knowest! What is death like? Is it more unpleasant than a disagreeable dream? Is the pain all over when one has died, or is there more to come afterward? If death is painful, why must we die? If it is pleasant, why must we live?"

Children ask such strange questions!

"Life is a gift from God that must be preserved as long as possible," returned Ludwig, evading the main question. "Through us the world exists—"

"What is the world?" interrupted Marie.

"The entire human race and their habitations—the earth."

"Then every person owns a plot of earth? Where is the plot which belongs to us? Answer me that!"

"By the way, that reminds me!" exclaimed Ludwig, relieved to find an opportunity to change the subject. "I have not yet told thee that I intend to buy a lovely plot of ground on the shore of the lake, which is to be made into a pretty flower-garden for thy use alone. Will not that be pleasant?"

"Thou art very kind; the garden will be lovely. That plot of ground, then, will be our home, will it not? What is one's home called?"

"Then every country is not one's fatherland?"

"If our enemies live there, it is not."

"What are enemies?"

"Persons with whom we are angry."

"What is angry? I have never yet seen anything like it. Why art thou never angry?"

"Because I have no reason to be angry with thee, and I never associate with any one else."

"What do those persons do who become angry with one another?"

"They avoid each other. If they are very angry they fight; and if they are very, very angry they kill each other."

The maid was tortured with curiosity to-day. She drew a pin from her robe, and secretly thrust the point into Ludwig's hand.

"What art thou doing?" he asked, in surprise.

"I want to see what thou art like when thou art angry. Did it hurt thee?"

"Certainly it hurt me; see, the blood is flowing."

"Ah, heaven!" cried the maid, in terror, drew the young man's head toward her, and pressed a kiss on his face.

He sprang to his feet, his face pale as death, extreme horror depicted in his glance.

"There!" exclaimed the maid. "Thou dost not kill me, and yet I have made thee very angry."

"This is not anger," sighed the young man.

"What is it, then?"

"It has no name."

"Then I may not kiss thee? Thou lettest me kiss thee last year, and the year before, and every other year."

"But thou art fifteen years old to-day."

"All my thoughts are filled with thee."

"Thou knowest that I have always been allowed to make one wish on my birthday, and that it has always been granted. That is what some one accustomed me to—thou knowest very well who."

"Thy desires have always been fulfilled."

"Yes; and children understand how to desire what is impossible. But grown persons are clever enough to know how to impose on the children. Three years ago I asked thee to bring me some one with whom I could talk—some one who would be company for me. Thou broughtest me cats and dogs and a bird! Two years ago I wished I might learn how to make pictures; and I was given paper patterns to color with water-colors. One year ago to-day I wished I might learn how to make music; and a hand-organ was bought for me. Oh, yes; my wishes have always been fulfilled, but always in a way that cheated me. Children are always treated so. To-day thou sayest that I am fifteen years old, and that I am not any more to be treated as a child. Mark that! To-day, as heretofore, I ask something of thee which thou canst give me—and thou canst not cheat me, either!"

"Whatever it may be, thou shalt have it, Marie."

"Thy hand on it! Now, thou knowest that I asked thee not long ago to send to Paris for a 'Melusine costume' for me!"

"And has it not already arrived? I myself delivered the box into thy hands."

"Knowest thou what a Melusine costume is? See, this is it."

"To-day, Ludwig, I ask that thou wilt teach me how to swim. The lake is just out yonder below the garden."

The maid, in her pale-blue bathing-dress, looked like one of those fairy-like creatures in Shakspere's "Midsummer Night's Dream," innocent and alluring, child and siren.

Disconcerted and embarrassed, Ludwig raised his hand.

"Art thou going to strike me?" inquired the child, half crying, half laughing.

"Pray put on the wrapper again!" said Ludwig, taking the garment from the sofa and with it veiling the model for a Naiad. "What sort of a caprice is this?"

The child's wish was so true, so earnest, and Ludwig himself had experienced the proud delights of which she had spoken. Perhaps, too, he had related to Marie the story of Clelia and her companions, who swam the Tiber to preserve the Roman maidens' reputation for virtue.

"Whatever gives pleasure to thee pleases me," he said, extending his hand to take hers.

"And thou wilt grant my wish? Oh, how kind, how dear thou art!" And in vain the young man sought to withdraw the hand she covered with kisses. "What!" she exclaimed reproachfully, "may I not kiss thy hand either?"

"How canst thou behave so, Marie? Thou art fifteen years old! A grown-up girl does not kiss a man's hand."

He passed his hand across his brow and sighed heavily; then he rose to his feet.

"Where art thou going? Knowest thou not that to-day thou dost not belong to thy horrid books nor to thy telescope, but that thou art my subject?"

"I go to execute the commands of my little queen. If she desires to learn to swim, I must have a bath-house built on the shore, and look about for a suitable spot in the little cove."

"When I have learned to swim all by myself, may not I go beyond the little cove—away out into the open lake?"

"Yes, on two conditions. One is that I may follow in my canoe—"

"But not keep very near to me?"

"Of course not. The second condition is that in daylight thou wilt not swim beyond those willows which conceal the cove. Only on moonlight evenings mayest thou venture into the open lake."

"Because a telescope does not enable one to distinguish features after night. Other people may have a telescope, like myself."

"Who would have one in this village?"

"The manor has a new occupant. A lady has taken possession there."

"A lady? Is she pretty?"

"She is young."

"Didst thou see her through the telescope? What kind of hair has she got?"

"Blonde."

"Then she must be very pretty. May I take a look at her some time?"

"I am afraid thou mightest fall in love with her; for she is very beautiful, and very good."

"How dost thou know she is good?"

"Because she visits the sick and the poor, and because she goes regularly to church."

"Why do we never go to church?"

"Because we profess a different belief from that acknowledged by those persons who attend this church."

"Do they pray to a different God from ours?"

"No; they pray to the same God."

"Then why should n't we all go to the same church?"

Unable longer to control himself, Ludwig took the shrewd little child-head between his hands, and said tenderly:

"My darling! my little queen! not all the synods of the four quarters of the globe could answer thy questions—let alone this poor forgotten soldier!"

The "little yellow ones" were gold sovereigns; the "white coins" were silver Zwanziger; and the "large red ones" were copper medals of the Austrian minister of finance, worth half a guilder.

"We will send some of the small coins and some of the large ones," decided Ludwig, smiling at the little maid's ignorance of the value of the money.

Tradition maintained that many years before, during the preceding century, the tongue of land now occupied by the Nameless Castle was part of the lake; and it may have been true, for Neusiedl Lake is a very capricious body of water. During the past two decades we ourselves have seen a greater portion of the lake suddenly recede, leaving dry land where once had been several feet of water. The owners of what had once been the shore took possession of the dry lake bottom; they used it for meadows and pastures; leased it, and the lessees built farm-houses and steam-mills on the "new ground." They cultivated wheat and maize, and for many years harvested two crops a year. Suddenly the lake took a notion to occupy its old bed again; and when the water had resumed its former level, fields and farms had vanished beneath the green flood; only here and there the top of a chimney indicated where a steam-mill had been. Magic tricks like this Neusiedl Lake has played more than once on trusting mortals.

On either side of the peninsula on which stood the Nameless Castle was a little cove. One of these the count had spoken of to Marie; the other separated the castle from the village of Fertöszeg.

The manor, the habitation of the owner of the Fertöszeg estate, stood on the slope of a hill at the eastern end of the village, and fronted, as did the neighboring castle, on the lake.

But what could not be seen from the veranda of the manor was that a girlish form swam a little in advance of the boat.

Marie had proved an excellent scholar in the school of the hydriads. Already after the fourth lesson she could swim alone, and sped over the waves as lightly and gracefully as a swan.

She did not need to wear a hat on these evening swimming excursions; her long hair floated unbound after her on the waves. When the twilight shadows deepened, the swimmer would speed far ahead of the accompanying canoe. She had lost all fear of the water. The waves were her friends—they knew each other well. When she wished to rest, she would turn her face to the sky, fold her arms across her breast, and lie on the waves as among swelling cushions like a child in a rocking cradle. And here she was allowed the full privileges of a child. She shouted; called to the startled wild geese; teased the night-swallows, and the bats skimming along the surface of the lake in quest of water-spiders. Here she even ventured to sing, and gave voice to charming melodies, which floated over the water like the sounds of an Æolian harp.

One evening, after the waning moon had risen, Ludwig's canoe, as usual, followed Marie, who was swimming a considerable distance ahead. Among the peculiarities of Neusiedl Lake are its numerous islets, the shores of which are thickly grown with rushes, and covered with broom and tall trees. Such an island lay not far from the shore in front of the Nameless Castle; it had frequently aroused Marie's curiosity.

The little maid was now permitted to swim as far out into the open world of waves as she desired, only now and again signaling her whereabouts through a clear-toned "Ho, ho!"

During this time Ludwig reclined in his boat, and while the waves gently rocked him, he gazed dreamily into the depths of the starry sky, and listened to the mysterious voices of the night—the moaning, murmuring, echoing voices floating across the surface of the water.

Suddenly a piercing scream mingled with the mysterious voices of the night. It was Marie's voice.

Frantic with terror, Ludwig seized his oars, and the canoe shot through the water in the direction of the scream.

"Marie!" cried the count, greatly alarmed, seizing the girdle about her waist and lifting her into the canoe. "What has happened? Who is following you?"

The child trembled violently; her teeth chattered, and she gasped for breath, unable to speak; only her large eyes were still fixed with an expression of horror on the water.

Ludwig looked searchingly around, but could see nothing. And yet, after a few seconds, something rose before him.

What was it? Man or beast?

The head, the face, were head and face of a human being—a man, perhaps. The cheeks and head were covered with short reddish hair like the fur of an otter. The long, pointed ears stood upright. The mouth was closed so tightly that the lips were invisible. The nose was flat. The eyes, like those of a fish, were round and staring. There was no expression whatever in the features.

The mysterious monster had risen quite close to the boat.

Ludwig seized an oar with both hands to crush the monster's head; but the heavy blow fell on the water. The creature had vanished underneath the boat, and only the motion of the water on the other side indicated the direction it had taken. Terror and rage had benumbed Ludwig's nerves.

What was it? Who had sent this nameless monster after his carefully guarded treasure? Even the bottom of the lake concealed her enemies! He could think of nothing but intrigues and malignant persecutions. Rage boiled in his veins.

He enveloped the maid in her bath-mantle, and took up his oars.

Marie murmured something which sounded like a remonstrance.

"I will shoot the creature!" repeated Ludwig, savagely.

The young girl withdrew trembling to the stern of the boat, and said nothing further; she even strove to suppress her nervous terror, like a child that has behaved naughtily.

When the boat reached the shore, Ludwig bade Marie in a stern voice to make haste and change her bathing-dress, and became very impatient when she lingered longer than usual in the bath-house. Then he took her arm and walked rapidly with her to the castle.

"Are you really going to shoot that creature?" asked Marie, still trembling.

"Yes."

"But suppose it is a human being?"

"Then I shall certainly shoot him."

"I will never, never again venture into the lake."

"I am certain of that! If you once become frightened in the water, you will always have a dread of it."

"My dear, beautiful lake!" sighed Marie, casting backward a sorrowful glance at the glittering expanse of water, at the paradise of her dreams, which the rising wind was curling into wavelets.

"Go at once to bed," said Ludwig, when he had conducted his charge to the door of her room. "Cover yourself up well, and if you feel chilly I will make you a cup of camomile tea."

All children have such a distaste for this herb tea that it was not to be wondered at if Marie declared she did not feel in the least chilly, and that she would go at once to bed.

More than once she awoke from her restless slumber and called softly:

"Ludwig, are you there?"

But no one answered the question. Since her last birthday Ludwig had not occupied the lounge in her room. Marie had discovered this. She had placed a rose-leaf on the silken coverlet every evening, and found it still there in the morning. If any one had slept on the lounge, the rose-leaf would have fallen to the floor.

The following day Ludwig was more silent than usual. He did not speak once during their drive, and ate hardly anything at meals.

One could easily see how impatiently he waited for evening, when he might go down to the lake and search for the monster—a sorry object for a fury such as his! An otter, most likely, or a beaver—mayhap an abortion of the Dead Sea, which had survived the ages since the days of Sodom! All the same, it was a living creature, and must become food for fishes. Marie, however, prayed so fervently that nothing might come of Ludwig's fury that Heaven heard the prayer. The weather changed suddenly in the afternoon. A cold west wind succeeded to the warm August sunshine; clouds of dust arose; then came a heavy downpour of rain. Ludwig was obliged to forego his intention to row about on the lake in the evening. He spent the entire evening in his room, leaving Marie to complain to her cats; but they were sleepy, and paid no attention to what she said.

"I should not like to venture out of the house in such weather," said Marie to her favorite cat, who was dozing on her knee. "Ugh-h! just think of crossing the lonely court, or going through the dark woods! Ugh-h! how horrible it must be there now! And then, to pass the graveyard at the end of the village! When the lightning flashes, the crosses lift their heads from the darkness—ugh-h!"

The clock struck eleven; directly afterward there came a hesitating knock at her door.

"Come in! You may come in!" she called joyfully. She thought it was Ludwig.

The door opened slowly, only half-way, and the voice which began to speak was not Ludwig's; it was the groom.

"Beg pardon, madame!" (thus he addressed the little maid).

"Is it you, Henry? What do you want? You may come in. I am still up."

The groom entered, and closed the door behind him. He was a tall, gray-haired man, with an honest face and enormously large hands.

"What is it, Henry? Did the count send you?"

"No, madame; I only wish he were able."

"Why? What is the matter with him?"

"I don't know, indeed! I believe he is dying."

"Who? Ludwig?"

"Yes, madame; my master."

"For God's sake, tell me what you mean!"

"Oh, heaven! what shall we do?"

"I don't know, madame. When any of us gets sick the count knows what to do; but he does n't seem able to cure himself now; the contents of the medicine-chest are scattered all over the floor."

"Is there no doctor in the village?"

"Yes, madame; the county physician."

"Then he must be sent for."

"I thought of that, but I did not like to venture to do so."

"Why not?"

"Because the count has declared that he will shoot me if I attempt to bring a stranger into his room, or into madame's. He told me I must never admit within the castle gate a doctor, a preacher, or a woman; and I should not think of disobeying him."

"But now that he is so ill? and you say he may die? Merciful God! Ludwig die! It cannot—must not—happen!"

"But how will madame hinder it?"

"If you will not venture to fetch the doctor, then I will go myself."

"Oh, madame! you must not even think of doing this!"

"I think of nothing else but that he is ill unto death. I am going, and you are coming with me."

"Holy Father! The count will kill me if I do that."

"And if you don't do it you will kill the count."

"That is true, too, madame."

"Then don't you do anything. I shall do what is necessary. I will put on my veil, and let no one see my face."

"But in this storm? Just listen, madame, how it thunders."

"He will shoot me dead; I know it. But let him, in God's name! I do it at your command, madame. If madame is really determined to go herself for the doctor, then we will take the carriage."

"No, indeed! Ludwig would hear the sound of wheels, and know what we were doing. Then he would jump out of bed, run into the court, and take a cold that would certainly be his death. No; we must go on foot, as noiselessly as possible. It is not so very far to the village. Go now, and fetch the lantern."

Several minutes afterward, the gates of the Nameless Castle opened, and there came forth a veiled lady, who clung with one hand to the arm of a tall man, and carried a lantern in the other. Her companion held over her, to protect her from the pouring rain, a large red umbrella, and steadied his steps in the slippery mud with a stout walking-stick. The lady walked so rapidly that her companion with difficulty kept pace with her.