WHEN Agnes came again to the hut, she saw no sign of Jerome. But Harun was there, and for a moment maid and wolf looked on one another, questioning; each meditating whether to make friends, or to fly incontinently into the forest. Agnes had learned by heart Sister Rosala’s tale of the big demon Elemauzer, who liked nothing better than to scamper over the world in the form of a tawny wolf, to snap up juicy girls; while Harun’s knowledge of human kind was summed up in Jerome, Witch Martha, and a certain poacher who twice had nearly winged him with an arrow. But there seemed nothing demoniacal in Harun, and nothing dangerous in Agnes. Therefore, Harun drew near very timidly, wagged his tail, let his red tongue hang out and puffed in friendship, whilst Agnes still more timidly put a small hand betwixt his ears and stroked him. Then from armed truce sprang peace, from peace came comradeship; and before either knew it, Harun was drowsing on the greensward, sinking deeper and deeper into slumber, and Agnes’s gold-brown head lay on his tawny shoulder. The great boughs far above never ceased their talking, and gossiped louder as the south wind, kind and warm, sung over the summer forest. The wood-thrushes whistled in and out; over Agnes’s face great bumblebees buzzed closely, half wondering whether in her red lips there lurked no sip of honey. But she never heard their pragmatic droning, for Harun, sly protector, gave his tail a mighty slap which sent the bees away to less safe-guarded flowers. So noon sank down toward evening. The shadows of the pines were longer, longer. The breeze had sung itself to sleep, and all the woods grew still. Then through the fern-brake stirred Jerome, walking tenderly,—for he would not needlessly crush a dewy blossom,—and stood beside the silent pair.
Jerome had been over hill and dale to Witch Martha’s dwelling with the laudable desire to acquaint that uncanny woman concerning the results of his mission to the Wartburg, and to bid her seek out some one who could communicate with Graf Ludwig and take the child away. He was sorely tempted to deliver Agnes to Martha, and so rid himself of all temptation. Again he told himself it was no safe thing to trust a little maid to one who might sell her protégé’s soul to Devil Baalberith for two Bremen shillings. Martha, however, for her own reasons had remained abroad, and Jerome, when the sun sank, turned homeward—his charge could spare him no longer. Yet not altogether regretful. Something, some one, would be awaiting him at the hut. He would hear a voice,—not his own, not Harun’s shrill bark, not the cry of the wood-bird. He would look into human eyes, he would feel a hand, he would—“Ne nos inducas in tentationem,” prayed Jerome; “plain, plain it is, Lord, Thou hast given me over to Satan, even as Thou didst Thy servant Job, to see if I can endure all and stand.”
First he looked in the hut, and was troubled at finding no form upon the furze bed; then beside the tall tree he saw the sleepers, and almost ere he knew it his lips were twitching in a smile,—O maximum peccatum! O gaudium impium! Joy, not at the contemplation of the beatific vision, but at sight of a noxious beast and of a mortal maid! Nevertheless, as he stood over them, these were the words which seemed sounding.
“And the sucking child shall play on the hole of the asp, and the weaned child shall put his hand on the cockatrice’s den; they shall not hurt nor destroy in all my holy mountain.”
But Jerome only told himself that Satan could wrest Scripture as fairly as an angel; then fortified against temptation he touched Agnes.
“Awake!”
The heavy eyes opened, stared around.
“Ah! but the shadows are long! It grows dark,” said she all wondering, whilst Harun rose and shook his coat free of the pine-needles.
“Yes, you must have slept soundly. It is time to eat;” and Jerome busied himself about the supper,—more trout, bread, cheese, and the remnants of the partridge. He studiously refrained from glances at Agnes, and never spoke save as he must. When the meal ended, Agnes held her pretty head first this way, then that, and followed with a statement.
“I met a woman by the brook.”
“A woman? of what kind?”
“A fat little woman all in black, with two big blacker ravens.”
Jerome frowned. “Then you have met Witch Martha. She has commerce with the Father of Lies; shun her carefully or you can never go to heaven.”
“Oh, but she did nothing wicked. Her speech had far more about Our Lady and the Blessed Saints in it than you hear with the sisters at Bamberg.”
“Her tongue may have a jargon of piety, but her soul is given to Satan.”
Agnes sighed. Jerome was a saint, and he ought to know. Yet it was perplexing to understand that so prepossessing a woman as Martha had stricken hands with the Devil. Presently Agnes began again.
“Holy Saint Jerome, why do you never smile?”
“Have I not told you I was no saint?” and he waxed almost angry.
“Witch Martha and My Lady Abbess say that you are, and I believe they, not you, are right.”
There bubbled to Jerome’s lips an imprecation against those two women which might have seemed worthy of Baron Ulrich’s self. Jerome checked it just in time. “At least,” he comforted himself, “the arising of such blasphemies in my heart proves that I am still a naked sinner.”
“Maid Agnes,” said he, severely, “Witch Martha and the Abbess prattle folly. I am a very wicked man.”
“Is it for that cause you will not smile?”
“Yes;” but he knew she was incredulous.
“Not even if I weave these purple asters and buttercups in a wreath, and set it on your head?”
He did not answer. Conscience told that he ought to rebuke her for tempting him from holy meditations. Why disobey the dictate? Yet he did. She made the wreath. He felt the little flowers upon his hair. He felt the touch of her soft hands upon his cheek; and her eyes looked straight into his.
“Smile!” she commanded, as she might address Harun; “do you hear me, smile!”
And Jerome—that saint adored through wide Thuringia—obeyed her. He smiled; he almost laughed; but—praised be Saint Simeon—grace was given just to shun that!
Once more the silvery bell in distant Eisenach knelled across the trees, calling to vespers. They knelt down to pray. Jerome had even forgotten to doff the flower crown. The maid prayed in loud whisper,—to Our Lady, to Agnes of Rome her patron saint,—then added something more softly, but he could hear it, “Holy Saint Jerome of the Dragon’s Dale, pray for me.”
Why did he not rebuke her with the thunders of Sinai? Why did his own prayer halt? Had Witch Martha taught the maid some guilty spell? Had the arch-fiend taken a young girl’s shape to overcome this hardened anchorite? But Jerome was silent, and Agnes arose from her knees.
“How long can I stay here?” spoke she, before she went into the hut to lie down.
“I shall try to send at once for Graf Ludwig.”
“Oh! he can know that I am safe; but it is lovely here! I do not want to go away. Harun, the brook, and the birds, and the talking trees, already I love them, but most of all,—you.”
Then he let her kiss him good night. He did not return the kiss; nevertheless he groaned inwardly, knowing he was making progress in sin. True was Master Vergil’s word, “Facilis descensus Averni!”
As he sat in the waning firelight, for the first time in many a month a profound loneliness had stolen over him. Harun had prowled away into the forest. Presently Jerome arose, cast a fresh branch on the fire, and stole into the hut. “I must see if she is safe and warm.”
Through the doorway crept a silver-sandalled moonbeam. It touched on something round and white,—the face of the little maid. All Jerome’s veins seemed turned to fire, yet all that fire was ineffably sweet. He knew the glow and ecstasy of the soul born into highest heaven. A power not sprung of self compelled him. He could not resist; he would not if he could. Bending across that face, he kissed it with his bearded lips. Once,—and the fire leaped into more exquisite heat; twice, thrice, four times,—but at the fourth his soul fell down from its high heaven, like Lucifer, son of the Morning. He rushed from the hut, his heart torn by demons, its fire a maddening pain.
“He, he—Jerome of the Dragon’s Dale—had bestowed a kiss on a maid!”
Jerome had resolved not to sleep that night. He must battle back the fiends, as became a holy soldier. The terror lest he had fallen utterly; lest by this one lapse the credit laid up with God by years of austerity was forfeit,—this was omnipresent. He would have scourged himself, but the whip lay under the bed of the little maid, and now he was most certain that in approaching Agnes he approached a form of Satan. So he knelt and thought that he prayed; but his head was heavy. Thrice he shook the stupor off: but strive as he would, unholy dreams rose uppermost. Women were rising before him, foul and pure, hideous and beautiful. Was it the Blessed Virgin enringed by a host of glittering spirits who was beckoning, who was calling him? No; he knew her now,—it was the Norse King’s daughter, the golden-haired Trolfreda, and the wind that hummed about blew not from the crystal river but from the blue breast of the wild North Sea. Again she was changed,—she was Ada of the Silver Belt, and he rode into Orleans at her palfrey’s side, whilst bright tabarded heralds cried him the stoutest knight of the Loire; but his fairest glory was in the lady’s eyes. Yet again the heralds wore crimson turbans, their faces were black, in their hands boomed paynim atabals. The church spires were spindling minarets. The air was sweet with the musky breath of desert sands. It was not Orleans, but Al-Cairo by the Nile. Obaëdah was leaning down from the swaying camel. He could see the gemmed bracelets twinkling upon her smooth brown arms, the gold upon her raven hair, the rosy lips which parted in the snaring smile. And then back to the tourney at Naples: Kaiser Frederick, crowds, plaudits, crowns,—and Mathilde,—the walk with Mathilde by the sea.
He woke from the vision with a scream of mortal pain. The black woods rang; a frightened bird whirred from her nest. Jerome never knew it. He was in cold sweat from foot to crown, and trembling. So far from praying he had given place to sinful lusts. All the passions of the old life surged back in one fierce wave. The repression of years had gone for nothing. His sins stared him tenfold blacker than the night. Again on his knees he prayed out loudly:—
“O Lord Jesus Christ, if Thou hast any mercy, take far from me this maid, or my soul and the soul of Sigismund my son are lost forever! Thou knowest how I am tempted past endurance. For surely Beelzebub, Sifter of Souls, has sent this child to bring back every ungodly wish and thought. Her power on me is grown so strong! Away with her, Lord! in Thy Blessed Mother’s name,—away with her! or I know not what to do!”
So he prayed long and loud, never heeding whether any ears save those of the wood-birds heard him. He never recked a single, soft, sobbing cry, and the noise of feet receding in the forest. Then came sleep,—as wicked as before. He sank away with a godless song of Walter von der Vogelweide trolling in his ear,—a minne-song in praise of love and laughter in springtime. When he awoke, lo! the ruddy dawn was tinting the greensward. The fire was dead. By instinct he ran to the hut. Empty. He called the girl.
“Agnes! Agnes! Where?”
No answer came. The shouts died down the avenues of trees. He hunted near. He hunted far. The maid had vanished in the night. He should have thanked our Lord his prayer was so swiftly granted. He did nothing of the kind. He was almost cursing Heaven for making his petition good. With eyes aflame, with heart nigh leaping in his throat, he ran toward the Dragon’s Dale. He must find the maid,—yes, though to find her he bartered his own soul and his son’s.