Christine of the hills
Date: 2024-01-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Vienna (Austria) -- Fiction; Dalmatia (Croatia) -- Fiction

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Title: Christine of the hills

Author: Max Pemberton

Release date: January 11, 2024 [eBook #72678]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1897

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72678

Credits: Donald Cummings, David E. Brown, Sue Clark, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS ***

CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS

Books by Max Pemberton.

THE LITTLE HUGUENOT. 16mo. $0.75.
THE IMPREGNABLE CITY. 12mo. $1.25.
A PURITAN’S WIFE. Small 12mo. $1.25.

New York: DODD, MEAD & CO.

Max Pemberton

Christine of the Hills

BY
MAX PEMBERTON

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1897

CONTENTS

Page
Prologue. | The Pavilion of the Island | 1
Chapter |
I. | Christine the Child | 11
II. | The Quest of the Woman | 16
III. | Andrea Finds Christine | 23
IV. | The Word is Spoken | 42
V. | A Wedding Journey | 50
VI. | In the Hut of Orio | 62
VII. | Christine Awakes | 74
VIII. | A Man of the Mountains | 82
IX. | The White Room | 88
X. | Count Paul at Home | 104
XI. | Andrea Bears Witness | 114
XII. | Andrea Puts the Question | 125
XIII. | “If the Man Lives” | 130
XIV. | The Whirling Fire | 138
XV. | The Apparition in the Cloisters | 147
XVI. | The Second Coming of Ugo Klun | 166
XVII. | Andrea Leaves Jézero | 187
XVIII. | “Le Monde est le Livre des Femmes” | 200
XIX. | Andrea goes an Errand | 210
XX. | La Prova | 216
XXI. | “Zol” | 232
XXII. | The Morning of the Day | 238
XXIII. | The Beginning of the Night | 254
XXIV. | “Joseph” | 263
XXV. | The End of the Story | 278

CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS

PROLOGUE
THE PAVILION OF THE ISLAND

We had been sailing for some hours with no word between us, but Barbarossa woke up as the yacht went about under the lee of the promontory, and with a lordly sweep of his brown-burnt arms he indicated the place.

“Olà, excellency,” said he, “yonder is the pavilion of little Christine.”

I had called him Barbarossa, though heaven knows he was neither Suabian nor renegade Greek of Mitylene, but an old sinner of Sebenico who chanced to have a yacht to let and a week to idle through.

“Shew your excellency the islands?” cried he, when I had made him the offer. “Madonna mia, there is no man in all the city that knows them so well! From Trieste to Cattaro I shall lead you with a handkerchief upon my eyes. Hills and woods and cities—they are my children; the Adriatic—she is my daughter. Hasten to step in, excellency. God has been good to you in sending you to me.”

It was all very well for him thus to appropriate the special dispensations of Providence; but, as the fact went, he proved almost an ideal boatman. Silent when he saw that silence was my mood; gay when he read laughter in my voice; well-informed to the point of learning—this sage of Sebenico was a treasure. For days together I let him lead me through the silent islands and the infinitely blue channels of the “spouseless sea;” for days together we pitched our tent in some haven which the foot of man never seemed to tread. No bay or bight was there of which he had not the history; no island people whose story he could not write for you. Now rising in finely chosen heroics to the dead splendours of Venice, now cackling upon the trickeries of some village maiden, the resources of this guide of guides were infinite, beyond praise, above all experience. And I admitted the spell of mastership quickly, and avowed that Barbarossa was a miracle in a land where miracles were rare and to be prized.

“Yonder is the pavilion of little Christine.”

It was early in the afternoon of the seventh day when the words were spoken. We were cruising upon the eastern side of an island whose name I did not then know. When the little yacht was put about she came suddenly into a bay, beautiful beyond any of the bays to which the sage had yet conducted me. Here the water was in colour like the deepest indigo; the hills, rising from a sweep of golden sand, were decked out with vines and orange-trees and rare shrubs, and beyond those, again, with shade-giving woods of chestnuts and of oaks. So powerful was the sunshine, though the month was September, that all the splendid foliage was mirrored in the waters; and looking down from the ship’s deck you could see phantom thickets and flowery dells and dark woods wherein the nereids might have loved to play. Yet I turned my eyes rather to the shore, for thereon was the house I had come to see, and there, if luck willed it, was the woman in whom my guide had interested me so deeply.

We had held a slow course for many minutes in this haven of woods and flowers before Barbarossa was moved to a second outburst. Until that came I had observed little of the pavilion which he had spoken of, though its shape was plain, standing out white and prominent in a clearing of the woods. I saw at once that it was a new building, for the flowering creepers had scarce climbed above its lower windows, and gardeners were even then engaged in laying out formal terraces and in setting up fountains. But the house was no way remarkable, either for size or beauty, resembling nothing so much as the bungalows now common upon the banks of the Thames; and my first impression was one of disappointment, as the excellent Barbarossa did not fail to observe.

“Diamine,” said he; “it is necessary to wait. To-day they build; to-morrow we praise. There will be no finer house in Dalmatia when the sirocco comes again. God grant that she is not alone then!”

He was stroking his fine beard as he spoke, and there was a troubled look upon his face; but at the very moment when it was on my lips to protest against his riddles he gripped me by the arm and pointed quickly to the shore.

“Accidente!” cried he; “there is little Christine herself.”

At the word, we had come quite close into the woods upon the northern side of the bay. Here was a great tangle of flowering bush and generous creeper rising up above a bank which sloped steeply to the water’s edge. Through the tracery of tree and thicket I could see the glades of the island, unsurpassably green, and rich in the finest grasses. Countless roses gave colour to the dark places of the woods, rare orchids, blossoms ripe in the deepest tones of violet and of purple, contrived the perfection of that natural garden. And conspicuous in it, nay—first to be observed—was the girl who had called the exclamation from Barbarossa.

She was standing, as then I saw her, in a gap of the bank, in a tiny creek where the sea lapped gently and the bushes bent down their heads to the cool of the water. She had red stockings upon her feet, and a short skirt of dark blue stuff shewed her shapely limbs in all their perfection. I observed that the sun had burnt her naked arms to a tint of the deepest brown, and that the dress she wore hung upon her loosely and without affording protection even to her shoulders. Nor was there any token elsewhere in her attire of that state and condition to which rumour had elevated her. A tawdry Greek cap, such as skilled impostors sell to tourists for a gulden, scarce hid anything of the beauty of her gold-brown hair. Her hands, small to the point of absurdity, were without rings; her wrists without bracelets. She might have been a little vagrant of the hills, run out of school to let the waves lap about her feet, to gather roses from the banks above the sea.

This, I say, she might have been; yet I knew well that she was not. Though I had led Barbarossa to believe me profoundly ignorant even of the existence of his “little Christine,” I had seen her once before—at Vienna, in the first week of the January of that year. She was driving a sleigh in the Prater then, and all the city pointed the finger and cried: “That is she.” I remember the look of girlish triumph upon her face as she drove through the throngs which were so eager to anticipate a victory for her; I could recollect even the splendour of her furs and the excellence of her horses; the muttered exclamations to which her coming gave birth. Yet here she was, become the peasant again, on the island of Zlarin.

We had come upon the girl suddenly, as I have written, and the drift of our boat towards the shore was without wash of water, so that minutes passed and she did not see us. So close, for a truth, did the stream carry us to the bank that I could have put out my hand and clutched the roses as we passed. From this near point of view the child’s face was very plain to me. In many ways it was the face of the Mademoiselle Zlarin I had seen in Vienna; yet it lacked the feverish colour which then had been the subject of my remark, and there were lines now where no lines had been eight months before. Whatever had been her story, the fact that she had suffered much was plain to all the world. Yet suffering had but deepened that indescribable charm of feature and of expression which set Vienna running wild after her in the January of the year. She was of an age when a face loses nothing by repose. Her youth dominated all. She could yet reap of the years, and glean beauty from their harvest. Neither dress nor jewels were needed to round off that picture. I said to myself that she was the prettier a hundred times for her tawdry Greek cap and her skirt of common stuff. I declared that the rôle of peasant girl became her beyond any part that she had played in the life of the city. And with this thought there came the engrossing question—how was it that she, who had disappeared like a ray of sunlight from her haunts and her triumphs in the capital, should be here upon an island of the Adriatic, the mistress of a home which made the people about her raise their hands in wonder, the subject of a story of which no man was able to tell more than a chapter? And this was the question I now set myself to answer.

All this passed through my mind quickly as our felucca lay flapping her sails in the wind, and we drifted slowly under the shadow of the bushes. I was still speculating upon it when the girl saw us, and awoke, as it were, from a reverie, to spring back and hide herself behind the bushes. But Barbarossa called out loudly at the action, and when she heard his voice she returned again to the water’s edge and kissed her hand to him most prettily. Then she ran away swiftly towards her house, and was instantly hidden from our sight by the foliage.

“Barbarossa,” said I, when she was gone, “does your wife permit you often to come to these islands?”

The old rogue feigned astonishment for a moment, but pluming himself upon the compliment, he leered presently like some old man of the sea, and his body danced with his laughter.

“Ho, ho, that is very good. Does my wife permit? Per Baccho, that I should have a woman at my heels—I, who am the father of the city and can kiss where I please! Ho, ho, excellency, what a fine wit you have!”

“But,” said I, with some indignation, “the lady had the bad taste to mean that salute for you and not for me.”

He became grave instantly, stroking his long beard and carrying his mind back in thought.

“Securo!” cried he, after a pause; “it was meant for me, and why not? Have I not been a father to her? Was it not to me that she came for bread when all the world cried out upon her for a vagrant and worthless? Did I not shelter her from her brother’s blows and the curses of the priest? Nay, she is my daughter—the little Christine that I love.”

I heard him out, silent in astonishment.

“You know the story of her life, then?” I exclaimed.

“Santa Maria! The story of her life! Who should know it if I do not?”

“Then you shall tell it to me to-night, when we have dined, my friend.”

He nodded his head gravely at the words, repeating them after me.

“To-night, when we have dined, the story of Christine. Benissimo! There are few that have my tongue, excellency. God was good to you in sending you to me.”

CHAPTER I
CHRISTINE THE CHILD

We dined upon a little grass bank of the island named Incoronata, in a clearing of the woods, where the soft night wind breathed cool upon our faces, and the rustle of the leaves was like a harmony of sleep. It was not until the boat had been moored for the night, and new logs had been thrown upon the fire, that Barbarossa bethought him of his pledge, and consented to begin his narrative. Squatting upon his haunches, with his cigar held deftly as a bâton, when the need of emphasis was, this strange old man unfolded a history no less strange. So clear was his sense of proportion, so simple were his words, that I would give much to tell the story of Christine as then—and again on other nights—he told it to me. But his narrative remains a memory—a memory often inaccurate, always lacking those pleasing touches of colour with which he graced his picture. Nor, I think, could any pen set down the charm of his rich voice or the wonders of his manner.

“Excellency,” said he, “the story of Christine is a story of one who, five years ago, had learnt to call me father that she in turn might be called daughter by me. To-day she is the mistress of riches and of a great house; I am still the beggar of the city, who has no right to raise my eyes to her. Yet you have seen that she remembers, as I, on my part, still love.

“I remember Christine—aye, God witness, I remember the day she came, the day she went. Her father was an Italian merchant of Zara; her mother was the daughter of a musician of Marseilles. They brought her to my city when she was a babe; she was seven years old when the fever struck them down and left her to the care of her half-brother, Nicolò Boldù. You have heard of Nicolò—nay, how should you have heard? He was one to be forgotten in his shame, a drunkard, and a lover of women. Well was it for Sebenico that a brawl sent him trembling for his life to that very island where the pavilion of Christine stands to-day. Three days the soldiers hunted for him; three days he lay in the cellar of my house, wailing for mercy with the tongue of a woman. Then I took him in my boat to Zlarin, and within a month he had sent to me for Christine.

“She was twelve years old then, a pretty child that strangers marked in our streets and the priests spoke of for example in the schools. I say nothing of that part which I played both in attending to her education and making it my care that she did not want for bread. God knows, she would have fared ill if no other hand than Nicolò’s had ministered to her necessities. Rare was the day when he had food even for himself. What money he got from his wretched inn out beyond the city walls scarce served for his own pleasures. When the child hungered, he beat her with his belt; when she was hurt with the cold, he turned her into the road to sleep. I alone in all the city opened my door to her; I alone saw her weep, for she had the courage of a woman, and there is no courage like to that.

“Nicolò went to Zlarin, and within a month he had sent for Christine. The trouble which had banished him from the city was a trouble no more. The police had forgotten him, or cared to remember him no longer. He had a right to such help in the hut which he had built upon the island; and the law gave me no claim upon his sister. Yet I parted from her as from one of my own, for she had been the light of my house, and oh, excellency! it is good to give bread to a little child.

“‘Andrea, dear Andrea,’ she cried to me when I put her into the boat—for Andrea is my true name, signor—‘you love me, Andrea; then why do you send me to Nicolò?’

“‘Child,’ I answered, ‘God knows that I love you. But he is your brother, and it is right that you should be with him.’

“‘He will beat me, Andrea.’

“‘As he does to you, so will I do to him a hundredfold.’

“‘I have no one to help me in Zlarin, Andrea.’

“‘Nay, but you shall make friends, little one.’

“‘You will come and see me often—if you love me, Andrea?’

“‘Before the seventh day passes I shall be at Nicolò’s door, Christine. Oh, have no fear; am I not your father, child? Nay, but I will write to the priest at Zlarin, and you shall be his charge.’

“So I comforted her, excellency; yet was my heart heavy for her as she put her arms about my neck, and laid her pretty face upon my shoulder, bidding me ‘Good-bye,’ and again ‘Good-bye,’ until my hands were wet with her tears and my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth. Her brother had sent a neighbour to carry her in his fishing-boat to the island; and it was noon of the day when at last she left me. I watched the sails of the ship until they were hidden by the headland of the gulf, and then returned with heavy foot to my own labour. Nor did I know that God had willed it that I should not see little Christine again until four years had made a woman of her, and of me an old and time-worn man.”

CHAPTER II
THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN

“Yes, excellency, four years passed from the going of little Christine from Sebenico until the day I found her again. You may have heard tell in the city how that I, when youth was still my abundant riches, served in the navy of his Majesty, our Kaiser. I had the training of an engineer; and to engineer’s work at Pola they called me on the morrow of the child’s departure. I had looked for employment for a week; but weeks became months and months made years before I set foot in my house at Sebenico again. Often had I written to those that I knew for tidings of my little one. For a season they answered me that it was well with her. The priest spoke of her brother’s industry and charity. I began to think that exile had made a new man of him, and to hope for Christine. Only when years had passed did I hear the talk which awoke me from my dream. One day a man of Zlarin came to Pola, and, in answer to my earnest question how the child did, told me that nothing was known of her; that she had fled to Vienna to dance in the Prater—that she was dead. I believed none of it, and sent word to her by a friend who had business in Zlarin. He returned to me with the tale that Nicolò Boldù’s house was a ruin, that man and child alike had disappeared.

“I say, excellency, that four years passed before I saw Christine again. It was in the fourth year that my agent returned to me from the island with the tidings, which awoke no little self-reproach that I had done nothing to keep faith with her. Vain indeed that I had taught her to call me father, when thus I left her friendless and without word in the place of her brother’s exile. Heavily as my work pressed upon me in Pola, I turned my back on it as the awakening came to me, and was content to look lightly upon my loss, if only I might repair the injury I had done. Nay, three days after they told me that the island knew the child no more, the steamer set me down at the priest’s house upon it, and I was asking for news of her.

“‘I have come for Christine, sister to Nicolò Boldù,’ said I to the bent old man who ministered to the needs of twenty souls with a vigilance that would have served for a thousand; ‘she is still among your people, father?’

“‘God reward you for the thought of her,’ he answered me, ‘and grant that she may merit it.’

“I saw that he was troubled, and wished to turn from the subject; but when I pressed him he told me the whole story.

“‘Would that I could speak otherwise,’ said he, ‘but the child has been a thorn in my side since the day you sent her to us. Neither love nor example avails with her. She is a shame to my people and to my village; and now she has become a beggar, and lives like a wild beast in the woods. What was to be done I have done; but she has no thanks for me, as she had none for the good brother who is gone—God rest his soul.’

“‘Father,’ said I, when I had heard him out, ‘you speak of a good brother; the man I knew as the guardian of Christine in Sebenico answered to no such description. It is of another you think!’

“‘Per nulla,’ he answered me, somewhat coldly. ‘I refer to Nicolò Boldù, who had the hut down by the headland, a Christian man who denied himself bread that his charge might eat. Well, she has rewarded him—and me, who taught her the Mass out of my own mouth, and held her pen while she learnt to shape the letters.’

“‘Oh!’ cried I, when he had done, ‘now is this the season of miracles. Nicolò Boldù denied himself bread! Per Baccho, he was sick with the fever when that happened!’

“But I will not weary you, excellency, with any account of that which passed between me and the priest. I saw at once that he was not well disposed towards the child, and I left him, to learn, if that were possible, what was the whole story of her case, and how it came about that the village pointed the finger at her. And first I went over to the headland where the hut of Nicolò used to be; but the house I found tumbling and in ruins, nor was there any sign of recent habitation. A neighbour told me that the man had died in the winter of the year—for it was summer when I returned to Zlarin—and that his sister lived from that time in a hut over by the eastern bay, supporting herself none knew by what means—nor, indeed, cared to ask. He counselled me, if I would find her, to strike the bridle-path to the highland above the bay, and there to hunt for her as I would hunt wolf or bear; for the most part of her time she spent in the woods, and there must she be sought.

“‘Not that she is worth your trouble, signor,’ he added, as I thanked him and struck upon the path he indicated; ‘the man who could do good with Christine of the hills must yet be born. Madonna mia, she is pledged to the devil, and the feast will be soon!’

“I turned away from him with anger at my heart and heaviness in my limbs. I had loved the child, excellency, and to hear this of her was worse than a blow to me. ‘Fools all,’ I cried in my bitterness, ‘who know not charity nor loving kindness. There was none better than Christine, none so pretty. As she is, so have you made her. Black be the day he took her from me!’

“Thus did I reproach myself again and again as I followed the path which led me to the head of the woods and the higher places of the island. You have seen Zlarin to-day, signor—have seen what time and money and a man’s love have made it; but it was another place when I hunted its thickets for her I had called daughter, and beat my breast because there was no answer to my cry. The village, which stood then in the shelter of the bight, stands no longer; gardens bear flowers where swamps breathed out fever and pestilence; there are paths in the brushwood where then the foot of man could find no resting-place. Yet the island was a haven to many a cut-purse when Christine ran wild in it; and many an assassin turned to bless the dark places upon its heights. Well I remember it upon that June afternoon, when, running through the woods and hollows, I raised my voice to hear it echo from rock to rock and pool to pool. On the one hand, the blue of the sleeping sea; on the other, and far away as a haze of cloud, the red cliffs and distant mountains of my own Dalmatia. Shady groves everywhere invited to rest and sleep; the splash of falling cascades mingled melodiously with the distant throb of the sea; the scent of flowers filled the whole air with the sweetest perfumes. A traveller would have called it a garden of delights, and have loved to linger there. For myself, the thought of the child was my only thought; and, insensible to all but the necessity of finding her, I pushed on through the woods, forcing a path where no path had been before, cutting my hands often with the briars, blaming myself always for the things which had come to pass.

“Yet had I known what misfortunes my visit was to bring upon Christine I might well have turned my back upon Zlarin, and prayed God to carry her from the path I trod.”

CHAPTER III
ANDREA FINDS CHRISTINE

“I must have continued in my occupation for some hours, excellency, when at last I found Christine. My walk had carried me across the island to that north-westerly point of it which looks over towards the city of Venice. Here there is a great slope of the grassy cliffs to the beach, which is of the finest sand, soft as silk and sparkling as pure gold. A creek of the sea running inland has formed a haven, to which the trees dip down their branches and the bushes their leaves. I had not thought that the child would find a home in any such spot as this; nor should I have gone down to it had not the music of a violin, exquisitely played, as only one of my own countrymen can play it, drawn me thither. In the hope of learning something from the player I descended the slope of the cliff; and when I had walked, it might be, the third of a mile I came suddenly upon a hut built cunningly of wood and thatch in the full shelter of the grassy ravine. A garden that was no bigger than a carpet girt the hut about; and the lawn before its door led straight to the bank of that little creek I made mention of. Here the musician, whoever he was, had his home, and here he now played a wild, haunting melody, whose harmonies gathered beauty as they echoed in the hills. Nay, the spell of the strain was not to be resisted, and long I stood listening like one bewitched, until the theme died away in trembling chords, and mingled its notes with the throb of the ebbing seas. Then, and then only, I knocked upon the door of the cottage, and Christine herself opened to me.

“Aye, it was Christine. Though four years had passed since I had seen her, the face was still the face of the child of Sebenico. I can see her in my memory now, excellency, standing there with a timid, hunted look in her eyes, and her violin pressed close against her side. Wan and wistfully she looked at me, covering her breast with the tattered chemise, glancing at her bare and browned legs and arms as though to make excuse for them. There had been none to tell her in those days that beauty like hers was a rare gift, and to be prized. The words she heard everywhere were words of scorn and of rebuke. And yet, I vow, no more lovely thing has existed on God’s earth than the little musician I saw in the hut of Zlarin that summer evening five years ago.

“She came to the door, as I say, excellency, and it was plain to me from the look in her eyes that she had expected another, and was not a little vexed to find an old man come to trouble her. All recollection of my face—perhaps my very existence—had left her long ago. She could only stare at me questioningly, a flush upon her fair skin, an exclamation of surprise upon her lips.

“‘Corpo dell’ anima tua, do you not know me, little one?’ asked I, nettled to see her indifferent.

“She looked at me the closer when I spoke thus, signor, the light of recognition leaping suddenly into her eyes.

“‘It is Father Andrea,’ she cried at last; and then she put her hand into mine. But there was no gladness in her word or greeting; and while the surprise of this was still upon me, she led the way into the hut which was her home. Never was there a cleaner or prettier place in Zlarin. A little bed with the whitest sheets stood in one corner of it; a big cupboard of mahogany contained unlooked-for possessions; there was a crucifix and an old gilt mirror; a clock to tick merrily, and a table set out with cup and platter. Even a stove, with the embers of a fire in it, had come by some magic into this house of marvels. I remembered when I saw it that the priest had spoken of Christine as a beggar—a vagrant of the hills—worthless and idle, and to be avoided. His words were not to be reconciled with that which I observed all about me in the hut; and when I had seen all that was to be seen I sat down upon her rough-hewn bench and began to question her.

“‘Child,’ said I, ‘how comes it that all these months have passed and you have not written to me?’

“She was sitting upon her bed, thumbing the strings of her fiddle; but now she looked up at me very frankly, and with no fear.

“‘What was news of me to you, Father Andrea, who broke your promise to me from the first?’

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘it is true that I broke my promise; yet necessity carried me to Pola, and so kept me from you. But I wrote often to ask of you, and have sent you many gifts, as you know——’

“‘Nay,’ cried she, and there was truth in her voice, ‘no gifts have I received. Nicolò and the priest must answer for those.’

“‘Speak not so lightly of one who serves Christ,’ said I; ‘as for Nicolò, they tell me that he did well to you here, and that you rewarded him but ill.’

“Now, at this question, excellency, she did not answer me directly, but laughed with much bitterness; and presently, tearing the chemise off her arms and back, she shewed me her flesh scarred and riven where the blows of whip or staff had fallen upon it.

“‘God help me,’ said she, ‘if that were well! Look for yourself and see what Nicolò did for the sister who was left to him. Oh, I have suffered, Andrea—I, the child that loved all and was loved by none—I have suffered, as the Blessed Mother is my witness. Think you that there can be any room in my heart for love now?’

“Excellency, my tongue was busy indeed with complaint against myself when thus she spoke to me, for I knew that I had left her alone; and what cry of bitterness can go up to Heaven like the cry of a lonely child?

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘they have done ill to you; yet remember that no more. Am I not come back to take you to the city, where new friends await you, and a new home?’

“‘To take me to the city—to Sebenico, Andrea?’ she answered, with astonishment in her eyes. ‘Why should you take me there?’

“‘That you may leave this vagrant’s life, and become what your father would have made you if life had been spared to him.’

“She thought upon it for a moment, and then she said:

“‘Nay, let me be where I am—it is well with me here, Andrea.’

“‘Well with you!’ I cried, for her ingratitude angered me, ‘well with you—to have no clothes upon your body; to run in the woods like a savage who knows not God; well with you to rot in such a kennel as this——’

“This I said, for my anger went near to choking me; but she heard me out in a savage silence, neither word nor gesture escaping her.

“‘I shall not go to Sebenico, Andrea,’ she answered very quietly, ‘until Ugo takes me there.’

“‘Until Ugo takes you there! And who, then, is Ugo that he should order and you should obey?’

“‘He is my lover.’

“‘Your lover—you can tell me that with no shame upon your cheek! Your lover! Now for a truth did the priest speak well.’

“Again she heard me with indifference, plucking like a petulant child at the strings of her fiddle. I saw that anger would not avail with her; yet, as I live, I had rather that a man had struck me a blow than that she had spoken as she did.

“‘Child,’ said I, when I had been silent a long time, ‘God is witness that I love you. Tell me—who is this man, and how came he here?’

“‘He is Ugo Klun, the son of the woodlander. He sailed often from Zara when Nicolò lived. His hands built me this hut when I had no other home. I had starved but for Ugo, Andrea!’

“‘You are his wife, then?’

“‘He will come at the feast of the Rosary to marry me, if he is free then.’

“‘He has promised that?’

“‘Surely—he has promised it often. It is I who have held back.’

“She spoke very simply, not fearing to look me in the face, excellency. I began to think that I had judged her in haste, and so put another question to her.

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘what has Ugo asked of thee for all that he has done?’

“‘That I should be a wife to him—what should he ask more, Andrea?’

“I did not answer her, for I had learnt that which I wished to know. Vagrant that she was, she remained the child in heart, in thought, in speech. Though no guiding voice had said to her here is right and there is wrong, the spirit of evil had not breathed upon her mind or withered her innocence. Nor could I help but feel kindly towards a man who, having these things in his influence, had used that influence to such honest ends.

“‘Little one,’ said I, presently, ‘we will talk more of Ugo to-morrow; but what means he by this saying “free”? Is he not free as I am free and you are free?’

“‘Nay,’ she said, ‘has he not yet his years to serve? They will make a hussar of him, Andrea, and I shall see him no more.’

“She said this with so much unconcern, signor, that I looked searchingly at her, asking her the question which had long been in my mind.

“‘You love him, child?’ I said.

“She shook her head, rising from her seat that she might watch the sun setting in a great ring of red and golden light above Venice and the west.

“‘Do I love him?’ she exclaimed presently. ‘Madonna mia, how shall I answer you! There are days when I say that it would be happiness to be with him always; other days when I tremble at his touch. Is it love to draw away your lips when he holds them in kisses—love, to tremble when he puts his arms about you? If that be so, I love him well. Yet he is the only friend I have ever known; when he is away I hear no voice and see no face. They have turned me even from the church door in Zlarin. Oh, I am very lonely, Andrea!’

“There were tears in her eyes now, excellency, for the first time since I had come to her, and I drew her head down upon my shoulder, putting my arms about her as I had done in the olden time.

“‘Little Christine,’ said I, ‘you shall be lonely no more. To-morrow we will find a new home and new friends. God be praised that I have found you again.’

“The burst of weeping comforted her. She began, after a while, to laugh through her tears; and remembering that I had come far, and had eaten nothing since midday, she put bread and fruit upon her table, and a bottle of the wine of Mostar. And at this she fell to telling me how she lived by her needle, doing work that Ugo brought her from the city, and existing on the pence which would have been starvation to a beggar. She pointed also to the little fishing-boat anchored in the creek, letting me know that it had come to her from her brother together with the furniture of the cabin and the old violin she played so sweetly.

“‘Pietro taught me,’ said she, as she busied herself to serve me, ‘Pietro, who comes to sing the Mass on Sundays. He promised me that I should play in Vienna some day—but look you, Andrea, he is like the rest now.’

“‘Child,’ asked I, ‘how came it that they speak so of you in the village?’

“‘It was the word of Nicolò, my brother. He whined to the priest, and would have sent me as a servant to the Sisters at Zara. But I ran from him and hid myself in the woods. Oh, it is good to be free, good to lie in the shade of the trees and to look over the sea and dream of the city and the people beyond. I have read of it in books, and I think sometimes that I shall wake from my sleep to see the things I read of. Can you not understand, Andrea?’

“I told her that I could; yet, God knows, I understood Christine but ill. She was not a peasant, excellency, for her father had been a man of some little learning, and her mother was a musician of rare gifts. Had I thought upon it, this remembrance would have led me to discern the double nature which was then my stumbling-block. For here was one reared as a savage, yet controlled at every turn by the birthright of natural culture; a vagrant in name, yet a little queen in gesture and in speech. The visions which deluded her were the visions of a past growing up and magnifying with the years; carrying one whose world was a few acres of thicket and of sand out to the life across the sea. Isolated as she was, friendless, homeless, never once did she cease to dream of a greater world, where triumph and love and that pride of self which is victory awaited her. The same spirit, I doubt not, held her back from the embraces of the peasant who worshipped her. She was grateful to the man in that he was a friend to her. But at his touch she trembled; his kisses were like coals of fire upon her lips.

“Something of these thoughts, signor, passed through my mind as the child waited upon me so prettily in her cottage. I knew that her beauty would be riches to her wherever she might carry it; I could feel instinctively that conscious superiority which birth may give and circumstance cannot check. And this was odd to recognise in one whose legs were bare and whose hands and arms were burnt almost black with her labour in the sun. Yet she had but to speak and her rags were forgotten; but to take her crazy violin in her hand to awaken the mind to passionate dreams or to all the sweets of languorous rest. Long I listened to her that night, as the dark came down upon the Adriatic, and the sea moaned upon the beach before her door. It was as though she had put some spell upon me with her wild, untrained music; had carried me back to remember forgotten days of my own childhood; had peopled the island with unnumbered men and women, or had set before my eyes visions of the greater cities themselves, with all their world of sound and light and struggle and death. The whole of her soul was in the music, excellency; it awakened her to laughter, to tears, to joy. Her face was the face of one transformed while she played; yet she had but to set down her violin, and indifference, silence, nay, almost the shadow of hate, were to be read in her eyes.

“I speak of these things, excellency, that you, when you come to hear of the whole life of the woman you have seen to-day living in luxury and in the light of gratified desire, may know of the impulses which led her to the path she followed, and of that surpassingly curious childhood which fate decreed should be her portion. When I left her that night in her cottage, to lie myself at the house of the priest, my chief thought was of her future, and of the man to whom it would be given to hold her in his arms.

“‘For,’ said I, ‘that man will either pluck a thorn for his pillow or take treasure to his house—yet which of these he is to do the God above us alone can tell.’

“Next day I rose at an early hour from my bed, and, having heard Mass in the little church, set out upon my journey to the eastern shore. There were many of the islanders now ready to help me, for the news that I had money in my pocket was quick to be noised abroad, and one old woman tottered far upon her stick that she might look at a piece of gold again. But I listened to none of them—neither to their tales of the love they had treasured secretly for the child nor to their offers of service.

“‘Fools and hypocrites,’ cried I, ‘who would drain the oil from the wounds of him that fell among thieves; even as you did unto the little one so will I do to you. Begone! or I will lay my staff upon your backs!’

“They ran at my words, signor, but still cried for alms in the Name of God; and when no alms were given to them, they cursed me until the woods echoed with their voices. Nevertheless, I turned a deaf ear to them; and going my way I came at length to the creek of the sea, and to the hut where I had found Christine again. It was my expectation that she would be up and looking for my coming; but I heard no voice when I called out to her from the garden, and when I would have knocked upon her door I saw that it was open, and that the cottage was empty. My first thought was that she had gone out to the sea to fish, for I saw that her boat no longer lay at anchor in the creek; but when I had looked a second time, and had observed the disorder which had fallen upon the place, the truth was not to be hidden from me. Everything in the cottage bore the stamp of her flight. The drawers were opened and rifled. There was an empty coffee-pot upon the rough wooden table, and two cups by it. The bed was stripped of its blankets and sheets; the crucifix was gone; the gilt mirror was cracked, as if broken in the haste of her leaving. No need of words to tell me the story. She had surrendered at last, I said, to the will of the man, and had fled—God knew to what home or to what fate.

“I said this, excellency, moved at the first to remember all my abiding love for her; the memory of her childhood and that which she had been to me then. But anon, and as I stood looking out upon the sea and the empty creek, a great anger against the man came upon it, and I vowed that wheresoever he had gone, there would I follow him, until the truth should be known and right should be done. For that she had gone away with Ugo, the son of the woodlander, I never doubted. Or had I done so, the lie would not have deceived me long. Scarce, indeed, had I turned my face again towards the house of the priest, when a hag burst out from the shelter of the woods and gave me the news.

“‘Ho, ho, Father Andrea, seekest thou thy little one? Nay, but thou shalt find her with the woodcutter. Thou wilt not forget that I have told thee. The Mother of God bless thee! She left with him at daybreak. I saw them sail. Thou wilt remember me—oh! there was jade’s blood in her veins—jade’s blood! What! do you not hear me?—I spit upon your face in hell!’

“I left her croaking; but the news was then round the island, and those who before had begged of me now came out from their holes to whine upon my misfortunes. Even the priest, who in his own way had wished well to her, could not help me. Christine’s flight was in some way a vindication of himself, a justification of that which he had done. It remained only for him to raise his hands in condemnation—to cry that the fault was none of his.

“‘Certainly,’ said he, ‘one who travels upon the devil’s road must come at last to the devil’s house. Did she not cross the yule-log at the feast of the Nativity? What else was to be expected, friend? She was a hussy from her birth up. Santa Maria! the words I have wasted upon her!’”

He spoke thus; but I was in no mood to war with him.

“‘Friend,’ said I, ‘there is a Gospel which teaches us that we love our neighbours as we love ourselves. If you believe in that, how great must your love of Christine be! Waste yet a few more words upon her, I beseech you, and tell me what you know of the woodlander who has carried her to the city?’

“‘That will I do,’ exclaimed he, ‘though little there is of good in the telling. The man is the son of Alvise, the steward of Jajce. His father would have made a priest of him and sent him to help the Catholics of the mountain towns. But he fled from the seminary, and has lived where he could, though chiefly upon a neighbouring island. A man of hot blood and temper, friend, neither Christian nor infidel—a savage, and yet not a savage, since he can read from the book and hold a pen in his hands. Per Baccho! the devil hath paired them finely!’

“‘Is he not, then,’ I asked, ‘such a one as might win a woman’s love?’

“‘Accidente—is that a question to put to a priest? What is a woman’s whim to me that I should scan the face of every lout who comes lusting to the village?’

“‘Nay,’ said I, ‘but you must have seen him often if he lived as you say.’

“‘Oh, surely, I saw him often—a gloomy, silent man, who gave few civil words that he might hear few. Yet I have heard that he was the friend of the children here and was beloved of them.’

“‘And where, think you, must I seek him now?’

“He shrugged his shoulders, as though he pitied me.

“‘Where must you seek him? Nay, how shall I tell you? Am I his keeper? Be advised of me, and go back to your work in Pola. She would only mock you for your pains, as she has mocked me for mine.’

“This was his counsel, excellency, but his words fell on deaf ears. I had determined already that I would know how it fared with Christine. ‘At least,’ said I, ‘he shall stand before the altar with her; and if he will not do that—did she not tell me that they would make a hussar of him?’ Nay, I knew that he had drawn an unlucky number, and that I had only to raise my finger to send a corporal and troopers to the work. We are all soldiers in Austria, excellency. If Ugo Klun refused to answer the summons to serve his time with a regiment, a prison instead of a wife awaited him. I said that he should come to that if ill befell Christine; and with this rod in my hand I set out for Sebenico.”

CHAPTER IV
THE WORD IS SPOKEN

“It was late in the afternoon, excellency, when the boatman put me ashore among my own people. I had learnt from him in crossing that Ugo Klun and Christine had sailed from the island at dawn; and when I stood upon the quay a friend of mine confirmed the tale.

“‘The son of the woodlander—have you not heard? He came here at noon with a wench from Zlarin, and has set off with her to the hills. She called him husband—olà, he has a good wit, has Ugo, the rogue!’

“Thus he spoke—one who knew the man and had seen him that day in the streets of Sebenico. It was a poor story, he being able to tell me no more than this simple fact, that the two had come and gone, and that the woman had called the man husband. And this it was that troubled me. For if she had really stood before the altar with Ugo—then was my work at an end, and nothing remained but to turn my steps northward and go to my business. Yet, think as I would, I could see no means by which this lawful consummation had come about. That the two were not married upon the island of Zlarin I knew well. How, then, I asked, should she call him husband rightly so soon as the ship which carried her from Zlarin touched the quay at Sebenico? The more I thought upon it, the more convinced I was that he had tricked her with some promise, saying: ‘Come with me and I will shew thee this and that, and you shall be my wife when we are in the city.’ Nay, so sure was I of this that I went at once to the Place du Dôme, and there inquired of the priests if any marriage had been celebrated that day, either there or in the neighbouring churches. They were ready enough to make inquiry for me; and presently were able to tell that no priest in Sebenico had celebrated the Sacrament of marriage for three days. I had looked for no other answer, yet I went from the church with pity at my heart. A great gulf seemed to have opened between the child and myself. I could think of her as child no more—and yet must think of the woman and of the path she had chosen.

“Signor, there was pity at my heart for a truth, and yet more than pity. I have told you that I had left Zlarin firm in my purpose to follow the affair to the end, and, if need be, to let the law do for me that which I could not do for myself. This purpose was not changed but strengthened by my visit to the cathedral. What counsel of charity or of kindness, I asked myself, should stay my hand? I was an old man and could not hunt in the mountains for her I called my child, as a younger might have done. Had I started upon such an errand, the very stones would have called out upon me for a fool. Yet I knew that I had but to whisper a word in the ear of the police-inspector in Sebenico to trap my man as surely as though a prison then held him. Long I hesitated, standing in the busy street, and thinking again upon all that might be, saying what I could for the motives of the one and the surrender of the other. For I knew that once the word was spoken, that once the police knew that Ugo Klun, the son of the woodlander, had been drawn for the army at Jajce and had fled from the service, no afterthought could save him. There was no retreat from a step like that. Either I let the man and woman go, or I separated them for ever. Excellency, do you wonder that my will faltered, and that the word came slowly to my lips?

“It came slowly—aye, an hour passed and found me still walking in the Place du Dôme. Perchance I had never spoken, and had returned to Pola, if a sudden memory of my talk with little Christine had not recurred to me at the very moment when I was telling myself that she was no longer a child and must take upon her own shoulders the burden she had sought. I remembered then that she had confessed rather to aversion than to love; had told me of her dread of the man’s touch, of her fear when he held her in his embrace. ‘She has gone with him,’ I said, ‘in the hope that he will carry her to those cities she has seen in her dreams. Love is no part of the bargain. He or any other, what matter so long as she is taken from the savage life she lives to that current of the greater life which is her ambition. It may be that she knows nothing of that which awaits her; that in her childish fancy she sees herself running through the world hand in hand with this friend she has found, maintaining to old age the simple affections of her island home. What the awakening will bring, God alone can tell. It may be that he will leave her; and that she, cut adrift in a land where woman is reckoned a little lower than the animals, will become the victim of those who know neither fear nor pity.’

“In the island it was different, excellency. We remain children of Italy, faithful sons of the Church; the old spirit of our past still breathes upon us the breath of freedom and of faith. But cross the mountains and all is changed. It is to pass from the West to the East; to leave a land where woman is the creature of reason and of affection for one where she is but a beast of burden and the slave of passion. To such a land the man was now leading the child. I knew that her exceeding beauty was the most dangerous weapon she could carry for the journey, I foresaw the day when she would be alone—excellency, I spoke the word.

“The sun was setting over the gulf; a great arc of golden light fell upon the distant islands when at last I brought myself to this resolution.

“‘Better,’ I said, ‘that she should awake from her dream this very night than that the morrow should tell her what bargain she has made.’ Perhaps it was that my own abiding love for her helped me in some measure to the action. I whispered to myself that so soon as the man was in prison at the fort I would take her to Pola with me. She would be my daughter in fact if not in name. I would spend money to give her education; and those wonderful gifts of hers should make her famous among the musicians of Italy. As for the woodlander, she would forget him in a month. She would even laugh at herself for this day’s work, and thank me for my share in it. The man would serve his years in the landwehr, and those days he must spend in a cell would help to make a good soldier of him. They would catch him in a few hours, for he had left the town in a rumbling waggon, and that would be no match for the troopers at the fort sent out to the pursuit of a deserter.

“This I said to myself going up the hill to the office of the police. Once I had bent my mind to the resolution, I hesitated no longer. A few words to a sergeant at the bureau—and my purpose was fulfilled. He took down my story, noting that Ugo Klun, the son of the woodlander at Jajce, had been drawn for service with the hussars, but had fled to the hills; that he was seen in Sebenico at noon that day, and was then supposed to be upon the road to Verlika.

“‘You have done well,’ said he; ‘there is too much of this sort of thing, and we are in trouble at Vienna about it already. We shall catch your man before midnight; and that will be something. You must drink a glass of wine with me, my friend.’

“I declined his offer, pleading that I had been long away from home and must see to my own affairs before the dark fell. But I had not taken many steps from his office when a man, who had there listened to our talk, pulled at the sleeve of my coat and spoke a word to me.

“‘Accidente, old Andrea,’ cried he, ‘but you are no friend to the lovers!’

“‘How—what mean you?’ said I, drawing back from him.

“‘To put fetters upon a man’s legs when he is away with his bride. Per Baccho, that is cunning work!’

“My heart was chilled at his words, and my lips trembled when I said:

“‘She is no bride of his.’

“‘No bride of his?—then the devil must have divorced them. She was married before my eyes this very morning. I had business last night at Incoronata, and she came there at Mass to-day. The priest married them before I sailed. Santa Maria, but you have laid his sheets well, old Andrea!’

“I turned from him impatiently, and went in silence and in gloom to my house. That Christine had chosen to cross not to the city, but to a neighbouring island, and there to receive the Sacrament of marriage, was a thing I had never looked to hear.

“‘Now God forgive me,’ said I, ‘for those whom He has joined together I have this night put asunder.’”

CHAPTER V
A WEDDING JOURNEY

“What befell Christine and Ugo upon their wedding journey will best be told as a plain tale, excellency,” said the admirable Barbarossa, taking up the thread of his narrative as we set sail for Spalato two days after I had seen the last of his famous island. “I played small part in her life then, or for years afterwards. Though I had opened the spring whence flowed the stream of her misfortunes, I was not to witness them, or to be friend to her as I had wished. The blow which fell was not to drive her back to the home she had left or the man who waited for her. It carried her rather out upon the flood of life; opened her eyes to the visions she had enjoyed in her dreams, yet shewed them to her through a veil of tears.

“I say that it carried her out upon the flood of life, for that is common knowledge, excellency. You yourself have heard the tale in Vienna as the gossips love to tell it. That which you have not heard is the word of Christine herself, as I had it in the capital a year ago; the simple tale of a woman who could stoop from triumph to the old friends who had wished well to her, could look down over from the heights where fortune had carried her upon the difficult path she had trodden. She told me her story without ornament or emphasis—the story of a dreamer’s life. As she spoke, so may I speak, for she opened her heart to me; she laid bare her soul as a child before its father.

“In this attempt to follow the fortunes of a boy and girl lover cast loose suddenly upon the world, I would take your mind back with mine to the day when my word spoken at the bureau of the police sent mounted men into the hills in pursuit of the fugitives. Christine had indeed been married upon the island which is named Incoronata. She told me that my coming to Zlarin had decided her on the step. The boy had long pressed her to go to the mainland with him that they might seek their fortunes together. Until I came to put before her my proposals for a decent life in my own city she had turned a deaf ear to all such suggestions.

“‘Some day, Ugo—some day, I will go with thee,’ she would cry to the passionate boy, who carried her image before his eyes day and night, and never slept but that in fancy he had his arms about her; ‘some day we will see the great city together—and thou shalt have thy wish.’

“Thus she answered him, suffering him rarely to cool his burning lips upon her own, to hold her in his arms as he had wished to do. He, in his turn, knowing something of the nature of the girl, gave in to her, and would have waited many a day had not I come to the island and proposed to take the little one with me to Pola. The very thought that she must be immured in a town, and for a season in a convent—for thus I had proposed—broke down the resolution she had formed. No sooner was my back turned upon her hut than she prepared to leave it; and the man himself chancing to come to her with the dawn, they set out for the neighbouring island and were married when Mass was done. And let this be no surprise to you, excellency. We are a primitive people, and the forms and ceremonies of towns are nothing to us. Set a couple before a priest, and say to him: ‘Give these the Sacrament, for they wish it,’ and he will ask no other reason. Rather, he will thank God for the day, and hasten to the work.

“They were married at Incoronata, the boy and the girl, and meeting there with a fisherman who knew them, they crossed in his ship to Sebenico. Few words had until this time passed between them, for the boy was content to feed his eyes upon her whom he now called wife; and she in turn was too full of the sights and sounds around to think of aught but the world she was entering. Four years had she lived a child of the woods and the lonely seashore. Do you wonder that the voices in the city drummed upon her ears, that her eyes were dimmed by the things she saw, that she forgot all else but the multitudes that passed before her? Nay, I have heard that fear so prevailed with her when she came into the great street of the city that she begged her lover to take her to her home again, and was held back by him with difficulty when she would have run down to the sea.

“‘Ugo,’ she cried, ‘my eyes are blinded with the things I see. Take me back to Zlarin!’

“He turned to her, and saw that she was trembling and very pale.

“‘Courage, little wife,’ he answered; ‘another hour and we shall be out on the hills. Have you not my hand to hold, carissima? Oh, it will be nothing when a day has passed, and we are on the road to Vienna. They will laugh at you, sweetheart, and you will laugh at yourself.’

“Thus he spoke to her, and shielding her with his arm, he took her straight to the northern gate, beyond which is the house of his kinsman. He knew well enough that there was danger to him so long as he remained in Sebenico, and it was his plan to set off to the mountains at once, hoping if ever he reached Vienna to be secure from the pursuit of the soldiers.

“‘Not that they will look for me here, little Christine,’ said he, ‘for who will tell them that I have been drawn at Jajce? But a friend might come—and then they would take me. Madonna mia—and on my wedding day! What would become of you, carissima?’

“He said this to her when they had passed the city walls in safety; but she heard him calmly, answering him with none of those loving protestations he had looked for. The man had yet to learn that her flight had been the outcome of her impulse; that his marriage was on her part little more than the expression of a great gratitude. All else had been brushed aside that she might flee the convent I had chosen for her. Her only desire was to see the things she had pictured in her sleep. She was child still, and the meaning of marriage to her was that she should walk through life holding her lover’s hand. How many, excellency, have not, in their childhood, cherished so pretty a delusion? Thus it was that she was dumb before his questions, and followed him silently; and when they had passed safely through the town together, he took her to the house of his kinsman, leaving there the waggon with the few things she had brought from the hut. He had determined, so soon as he had given her meat, to set out on horseback for Verlika; and though she was quite unaccustomed to such a mode of travel, she rode well enough on the pack saddle he had put upon her pony.

“‘We must take to the hills, little wife,’ said he, as they set out; ‘I know the path well, and I will lead where no soldier can follow. You do not fear, Christine?’

“‘I fear nothing, Ugo,’ she answered; ‘I have no time to think. Surely, they will not follow to the mountains!’

“‘Who can tell?’ cried he; ‘if they had known in the city yonder when I passed through, we had never heard the gate close behind us, sweetheart. They are devils, those Austrians, and hunt men like swine. Some day we shall have our hands upon their throats. God send it soon.’

“He dug spurs into his horse with the words, and leading the pony by the rein, he turned towards the mountains as one who in their shelter would find liberty. A true son of the hills was this woodlander, excellency; hardy as the beasts he hunted, brown-burnt as the leaves in autumn, fearless, dogged, surpassing other men in cleverness with his gun, the subject for hussy tongues and wishes. Dressed up in his coat of green, with boots above his knees, and breeches white as the snow upon the peaks, he might well have been the object of something deeper than friendship in the heart of the little one he had taken to wife. Had it been so, much of that which she suffered in the months to come might have passed her by. But it was not so decreed; love was yet to be born in her heart. And that love was not for Ugo Klun.

“It was growing late in the afternoon when these pretty fugitives struck the mountains which lay between them and their freedom. The road had carried them over the stony plain which borders the seashore; but, turning as the sun began to set, they came upon a narrow bridle-track winding about one of the sandy hills which here stand up boldly to the gates of the Adriatic. At that time the wonder and the fear had passed from little Christine’s face, and she had become silent and brooding. The loneliness of the barren mountains weighed heavily upon her. She saw on all sides nothing but the sullen purple heights, sentinelled by the white boulders of the rock which arose as so many tombstones in her path. All the home she had ever known was now but a haze upon the distant waters. Though no man there had bidden her Godspeed when she began her journey to that phantom world she had pictured, though no woman’s lips had pressed upon her own in sickness or in sorrow, she could yet hunger for the green woods and shady glens she had left for ever. There, at least, she had a roof above her and a warm bed to help her dreams. But here—here in the valley of the stony hills, rising up one above the other until they mingled with the clouds upon the far horizon, what haven had she save the friendship of the man, what shelter but that of the caverns in the heights?

“This from the first was the source of her foreboding; these the thoughts which stilled her tongue. But with the man it was otherwise. Every mile that he could put between the city and himself was a fetter struck off his natural gaiety. The crisp air blowing cool upon the hills exhilarated him and steeled his nerves to new courage. He foresaw happy days of freedom and of love. He looked down upon the wife at his side, and the sweetness of her face filled him with a tenderness he had never known.

“‘Christine, my little Christine!’ he exclaimed as the spires and domes of Sebenico were shut from his view by the gathering of the evening clouds, ‘are you not happy now? Look yonder—we can see the city no more. In another hour we shall laugh at the Austrian, carissima. Let us say good-bye to the sea, for we may never come back to it again.’

“They were standing well up on the hills then, and the waves below them rolled blood-red as the sun’s glory pencilled them with rays of burning light. Here and there upon the horizon the islands stood up to their view, eyots of wood and rock in mists of golden haze. The western sky gave birth to a mighty range of phantom shapes—the shapes of mountains and of cities, of peaks and domes and jagged rocks, cut upon the clouds with chisels of fire. The waters themselves danced with a glittering radiance fair to see. The wind was soft and sweet as a wind blowing from the gardens of spring. Christine herself, standing to observe these things, felt them press a new sense of loneliness upon her.

“‘Ugo,’ she cried for the second time, ‘take me back to Zlarin.’

“His answer to her was a kiss upon her forehead; and bending down from his saddle he put his arm about her and pressed her to him.

“‘To Zlarin, pretty one? What should we do in Zlarin? Say rather that I shall take thee to the hut of Duka, and there get supper. Oh, we will have a merry supper, Christine! There is wine in the pack, and the meat which Dame Vitali cooked, and confections from the shop, and a lamp to light us and sheets for the bed. Madonna mia, I had thought of the hut often. It lies in the mountains like a kernel in a nut. It is the hut of Orio, the shepherd, and I have his word to take thee there. To-night we rest there; but to-morrow we go on, as I have promised thee, sweetheart.’

“‘And to-morrow you will bring me to the great city, Ugo?’

“‘To-morrow to the great city? Nay, little one, we had need of wings for that. It is many days’ journey beyond the mountains. Diamine, that thou shouldest be so simple!’

“His wondering word had no meaning for her. Accustomed to the narrow boundaries of the island, which were her only standards of distance, she had not conceived the possibility that she must ride for days and nights before she might enter the city of her hopes. His explanations added to her gloom. The silence of the valleys began to terrify her. Her limbs ached with the pressure of the saddle. The chill of evening struck her bones.

“‘When shall we come to the hut of Orio?’ she asked wearily, after many minutes had passed, and the silence between them had remained unbroken.

“‘Look,’ he answered her, ‘it is in yonder wood. Ten minutes more and we are safe, Christine.’

“Excellency, even as he spoke, there were soldiers in the valley below him.”

CHAPTER VI
IN THE HUT OF ORIO

“It was almost dark in the little forest of pines when Ugo jumped from his horse and knocked upon the door of the hut of Orio. The shepherd himself gave answer, coming out with a lantern in his hand and a pack upon his back. He and the lad were friends of the old time; and that spirit of mutuality which is the finest spirit of the poor, excellency, had led him to rejoice in the opportunity of so small a service.

“‘Olà, Ugo, is it thou? I have been waiting for thee since the Angelus. Cospetto, it should be a swift horse that carries a bride. Look, now, I am going to lie the night at Duka. What, thou wouldst have my company?—out on thee for a rogue!’

“Such was his hearty greeting; and when he had kissed the bride on both cheeks he lifted her from the saddle and showed her all that he had done to make ready for them. And this, out of his exceeding poverty, was not a little. The poor love the poor; and this man, who lived upon maize bread and ate meat only at the feasts, had spread upon his table a supper from which a noble would not have turned. Fresh sweet fruits, crisp loaves, a steaming dish of meat dressed with garlic, a dainty confection, a bottle of Chianti—these were the treasures he spread before their astonished eyes.

“‘Nay, Ugo, it is nothing,’ he answered to their words of wonder; ‘there is only one day in a man’s life when a fast comes ill—and this is thy day. Let thy wife eat and drink before there is sleep in her eyes. To-morrow she may run through the woods with thee; and the day after I will come again. If there is any talk of thee then, trust that I will carry it. But he will have a keen nose who follows to the hut of Orio. Surely, thy pretty words will lie snug here, my son.’

“The shepherd took his lantern, excellency, and when he had lighted it he set out upon the road to Duka. He was a merry fellow, whole-hearted and kindly, and they could hear his song rising up, faintly and still more faintly, from the thickets and the gorge below them. Only when the note had died away in the whispers of the wind did Ugo turn to Christine, and feel, for the first time since the priest had married them, that she had become a wife to him. She stood there before him, pale, her eyes wan with fatigue, her hair blown awry by the wind, her feet weary, her little Greek cap, which was his present to her, powdered with the dust of the stony road. Yet was she the child of his hopes, the little one whose face he had kissed in his dreams, the one living creature in all the world whose touch was an ecstasy to him.

“‘Carissima, anima mia,’ he cried, ‘now art thou surely my wife! Thou dost not fear my touch, Christine—nay, thou wilt lie in my arms always, for I love thee, I love thee. Oh, there was never love like mine, beloved, and never a wife like thee. Come close to my heart, that I may hear thine beating. My lips burn upon thy face and arms, Christine—sweet wife, dost thou not kiss me?’

“Lovers’ words they were, whispered as sacred messages, while he pressed her to him and his breath was hot upon her cheek. She had been all his hope—this little vagrant of the hills; and now she was his own, to lie warm against his heart, to look love to him with her wondrous eyes. His was Southern blood—the blood of a man nurtured upon the sunlight and the breezes of the woods. He would have killed men for Christine, excellency—but that night—the night of his life—no other thoughts but those of his love were with him when his arms were about the child, and her cheek pressed hot on his. He told himself that she had come to him—would be with him evermore. All his world was in the hut which the forest hid, all the joy of years rolled into one long-drawn day.

“‘Dost thou not kiss me?’ for the second time he asked; and looking up to him, she touched him lightly upon the forehead with her lips.

“‘Ugo,’ she said, ‘I am tired; thy arms hurt me; let me rest, and then I will speak.’

“‘My arms hurt thee—thou sayest so—nay, that is the word of yesterday. I know that thou lovest me, Christine, sweet wife!’

“‘I love thee, Ugo; have I not told thee often? What wouldst thou that I should say? There is sleep in my eyes, and my limbs tremble. To-morrow I will tell thee.’

“She drew back from his embrace, and sinking upon the rough couch of skins which Orio had spread for her, she rested her head upon her hands, and tears sprang to her eyes. The long day’s journey had brought at its end nothing but this sense of homelessness and fatigue which now weighed upon her to complete subjection. She prayed bitterly that some power might carry her back to the island she had left—to the people who had cried upon her, and the desolation of her home. The stillness of the mountains frightened her; she began to remember that she had stood before the altar with the man. Hour by hour that vision of a childish friendship, of a journey upon halcyon days through flowery walks and shady woods, grew dimmer and less pleasing. The flame of a candle in a rude lantern cast a ghostly light upon the face of him she must now call husband, and upon all things in that gloomy hut. Her limbs ached with the labours of the journey; there was mist before her eyes; she was one hungering for love—the love that is sympathy and strength, and the foe to sorrow. She asked, though she knew it not, for a father’s hands, that she might kneel to them and cling to them, and shed unchecked the tears which now fell in burning drops upon her scalded cheeks.

“‘Thou art tired, Christine—aye, surely thou art tired,’ cried Ugo when he had watched her awhile, helpless to stem the tide of her gloom. ‘The road was long, and there is dust on the hills; diamine, thou mayest well feel thy limbs tremble! And I have brought thee here to fast when there is wine upon the table, and the meat which Orio cooked. Accidente, that thou shouldst shed tears on such a night!’

“He was awake to her condition now, and pouring out a cup of the wine which the shepherd had left, he knelt at her side, compelling her to drink, and stroking her cheeks with his hand as he would have stroked the cheeks of some dumb animal. It was not to be hidden from him any longer that her fatigue was akin to illness; for when he pressed close to her he could feel the tremble of her body, and her hands lay icily cold in his. But she drank of the wine he offered her; and anon, when she had rested her head upon his shoulder a little while, he found that she had sunk into a deep sleep; and with a tenderness beyond his state he laid her gently, as one would lay the most sacred thing in the world, upon the bed, and covered her with the wolf skins which the shepherd had prepared. And until midnight, excellency, he watched at her side, forgetful of his own hunger and fatigue; glad that his should be the eyes to watch her thus, his the arms to make a pillow for her head.

“Until midnight he watched, and sleep was still far from his eyes. Nay, his lips were touching the girl’s forehead and his cheek was warm on hers when the sound of a footstep in the wood without called him from his reverie. No longer fearful that Christine would awaken, startled as a hunted deer, he sat up to listen, and knew that he heard the step of man. A moment later there was a knock upon the door of the cottage.

“‘Ugo, dost thou hear? It is I, Orio. Put out thy lantern and open to me.’

“Excellency, the lad’s heart quaked as he heard the words and hastened to obey them. He knew that Orio would not have returned thus unless danger was abroad in the hills; and that danger should have come at such a moment was a bitter thought. Yet his was not the courage to be blown away by the first whisper of warning; and silently, quickly, he answered the summons.

“‘Is it thou, Orio?’ he cried, as the door was pressed back upon him and the wind swept into the hut; ‘then surely thou hast news for me?’

“‘Aye, news indeed, my son,’ said the shepherd, stepping out of the darkness and holding up his hand that the other might hush his voice. ‘There are soldiers now leaving Duka to search for thee. I have the word that they beat this wood on their road to Jajce. Thou hast not a moment to lose—unless thou wouldst feel the teeth of the Austrian dog. Maria santissima—what a word to bring thee!’

“‘Sayest thou that they will first search thy hut, Orio? Then who has spoken of me?’

“‘That will time tell. Think not of it now, but look to the things while I get thy horse. The morrow must find thee in the woods of the Verbas—nay, thou hast not an hour. They are abroad in the pass like dogs in a thicket. Does thy wife sleep?’

“‘God have mercy, she sleeps heavy with cold and sickness. I have tried to awaken her twice within the hour, and she has not answered me. See for thyself how she is able to cross the mountains. They must take me here, Orio. Madonna mia, that it should have come to-night! I cannot leave her—you see that I cannot leave her.’

“The shepherd did not answer the lad at the moment, but struck a match and lighted his lantern. The feeble yellow rays fell upon the face of the sleeping girl, and added to the pallor of it. Though a flush of red suffused the cheeks, there were heavy rings about the eyes, and the hands which before had been cold now burnt with the rising fever. A rapid, irregular breathing, a low moaning, an ever-changing attitude, betrayed the penalties of fatigue and sickness. It was plain that he who carried little Christine from the hut that night would carry her to her death.

“‘God help thee, Ugo; thou sayest well,’ cried Orio, when he had held his hand for a moment upon the child’s temples; ‘she is in the sweat of the fever, and will travel no road to-night. Accidente, that thou must leave her——’

“Ugo, wringing his hands with the trouble and the danger, turned upon the shepherd a look of withering scorn.

“‘That I must leave her—you say that? And you are my friend, Orio!’

“‘My son,’ said the shepherd, quietly, ‘if you do not leave her before the clock strikes again, you will wake to-morrow in the prison at the fort. How then will you watch her? Oh, surely you have no choice! Either the hills or the whip of the corporal—a hard ride to-night or a cell in the city. And look now—I will guide you to a place in the thickets of Glamoch, where all the soldiers in Austria will not find you; but to-morrow before dawn I will be here again, and my wife shall come, and we will do what we can for the little one. Corpo dell’ anima tua, would I leave such as her to the wolves?’

“Ugo listened to his words like one distracted, bending often to kiss the burning face of his wife, or protesting again and again that he would never leave the hut. Misfortune had come upon him so quickly, he had been so near to happiness, that passion and grief together blinded him, and shut his ears to reason. He declared that the soldiers might take him where he stood; that they should come to find his body by that of his wife. Tears sprang to his eyes as he knelt at the bedside and pressed close to her by whom this suffering had come. He cursed the day when first he had seen her, the day when she was born.

“‘Thou wilt come again, Orio—aye surely—to find her dead. Let them take me where I am. I will not leave her. She is all I have. Oh! thou knowest that I love her, and she will wake at dawn and hold her arms out to me and call my name, and there will be none to answer. You cannot wish it—you, my friend?’

“Excellency, the shepherd did not respond to this passionate cry. He had opened the door and put out the lantern even while the lad was speaking; and now he held up his hand and stood to listen.

“‘Hark! dost thou hear any sound, Ugo?’

“‘I hear the breaking of branches in the wood.’

“‘Then get thy horse, lad, and God be with us. The troopers are coming up the glen.’

“Ugo argued no more. Love of the woman had given way for the moment to hate of the Austrian and fear of the prison. With one passionate kiss upon the burning lips of the child, he followed the shepherd through the thicket. And little Christine was still sleeping when the woods echoed to the rattle of rifles, and the shepherd Orio fell dead upon the hillside. For the men had delayed too long, excellency, and the troopers met them face to face as they debouched from the sheltering glade.”

CHAPTER VII
CHRISTINE AWAKES

“There was but one little window in the hut of Orio, and so well did this lie in the shadow of the trees that the sun’s rays hardly searched the room in which Christine slept. Yet so old was the habit of the child that she waked with the first glimmerings of dawn, and sprang up from her bed, thinking that she was in her own home and that the waves of the Adriatic were lapping before her door. It was only when she stood upright, to see all things swim before her eyes and to feel her limbs tremble beneath her, that some consciousness of change came upon her, and she sank back with a little cry of surprise upon her lips. Then for the first time she became aware that she had not slept in her own bed. She saw the remains of the supper which Orio had spread, the fruit in the basket, the baked meats, the half-drunk bottle of wine. She looked at the rough bed upon which she had slept and observed the skins which covered it—skins both of bear and of wolf. Minute by minute her awakening mind built up for her the picture of the yesterday. She remembered that she had left her own home and had come to a city where the multitudes of men and women and the great shapes of the buildings had frightened her. She recalled the words of the priest upon the island named Incoronata, how that he had spoken gravely of the love and the service which the Sacrament demanded. She fell to thinking of the kisses which her lover had pressed upon her, of his passionate devotion when they had come to the shelter of the hut, of her own coldness and repugnance at his touch. Nor did she forget that she had gone to sleep with her hand in his, that he had promised to watch until she should wake again.

“Remembrances such as these are formed slowly, excellency. The whole of the yesterday was lived again by little Christine, before she realised that the man should have been with her at that moment in the hut. It was plain to her now that she had been ill; that the dreaded fever of the marshes by the sea had scourged her limbs and dried her mouth, and breathed its hot breath upon her parched skin. Yet Ugo had left her—without word or message. Though she cried to him again and again as she dragged herself to the door, and stood shivering in the cool wind of morning, there was no answering voice from the thicket of the forest. The very grandeur of the scene around her, the distant snow mountains, the amphitheatre of the hills, the gloom of the woods, terrified her. She could see the valley lying far below, with its stony road winding sinuously about the heights; but neither man nor beast trod it. No living thing stood out to dispute the lonely glory of the pass; there was no sound—not so much as of a bird’s note or the splash of waters. To her untrained fancy it seemed as though they had set her down in some pit of the world, wherein she was doomed to unending captivity. She brought herself to believe that she had lived the night of death, and was now awake in a kingdom cut off from her God and from humanity. She looked to see the gorge below peopled with ghostly figures of men and beasts; she waited to hear the dirges of damned souls and the cries of the imprisoned spirits.

“Let not this be any matter of wonder to us, signor. Here was one whose only schooling for years past had been the schooling of the hills and the sea. Always a child of a wondrous imagination—a child who saw visions in the glades of her island, and whose quick brain peopled the very shore and sky with phantoms—the weakness of fever had now compelled her mind to conjure up these pictures and these fears. She has told me often that when she awoke in the hut and found that Ugo was not at her side she believed indeed that the shadow of death was upon her. All her old life was left behind for ever, she said. Never again would she hear the sound of human voice, or know anything of the human affections. The ramparts of the hills looked like so many gates of her prison. She thought that she was doomed for unnumbered years to wander through the silent valleys of the pass. Never might she come to the great city for which her ambition hungered, and wherein the triumph of which she had dreamt vaguely awaited her. Yesterday these things might have been; to-day they were for ever done with.

“These, excellency, were the thoughts of her waking moments. They passed away anon as the sun rose and the strength of the fever began to abate. Always the possessor of unsurpassable health, sturdy of limb and body, fortified by plain living, Christine was no subject for malaria. The mountain air and the sweet sleep she had enjoyed brought her speedily to a greater tranquillity and to a clearer understanding. She began to say that Ugo had gone down to one of the villages to get bread for breakfast; or that he was tending the horses in a clearing of the thicket. She expected momentarily to hear his voice or his step. Weak as she was, she ran a little way into the wood and called his name. She stood again to scan the road below her, and observed now that there was a waggon upon it. But there was no answer to her cry; no sign of him she sought. Even his horse and her pony were gone; and not so much as a word to tell her for what cause or at what hour they went. She could make nothing of the enigma, had no clear reasoning powers; and faint and weary she returned to the hut and moistened her lips with the wine which Orio had left. Then she lay upon her bed again, and slept until the hills were red with the dying light of the sun and all the western sky was ablaze with flame.

“When she awoke for the second time the fever had left her, and she was conscious no longer of that devouring weakness which had consumed her energies at dawn. She was hungry too, and she ate with relish of the food which remained and drank from the flask which was to serve for her bridal supper. She could think now—think well with that clever little brain of hers; and she began to tell herself that Ugo had left her not because he had wished, but because he must. She recalled his fear that they would make a hussar of him, and remembered his aversion to linger in Sebenico. Possibly, she said, this fear had carried him from her side to some more remote place in the hills, and he would come again when the night fell. That he had been hunted down by the soldiers she did not think; for her sleep had been unbroken, and she knew that he would not have left her without word. And while she in her friendship uttered many a devout prayer for him, she could not think of his return without some displeasure, nor forget that there had been a shudder upon her lips when he had held her with his kisses.

“Upon that night and during the week which followed Christine slept in the hut of Orio. Her food was maize bread; her drink was the shepherd’s wine. Yet when the hours passed and no man came to her, when the bread failed and she began to want even water to drink, reason told her that if she would see her lover again she must seek him in the hills. She had suffered bitterly—suffered from weakness and from solitude, from the regret of home and the loneliness of the hills. She had looked out across the mountains, and in her fancy had seen the cities and the men of her dreams lying beyond the ramparts and the eternal snows. That strange and haunting voice which often had bidden her in her childhood to rise up and look upon these things with her own eyes now returned and whispered to her that fortune lay beyond the heights. She had memories still of those early years when love and affection had been hers in a home beyond the seas. It seemed to her that she would find across the mountains a link which would bind her to this unforgotten past, and fulfil that destiny which instinct told her was rightly hers. The day upon which she had given herself to Ugo Klun was already being forgotten. The fact that she was the man’s wife was one she ever failed to realise. She cared only to know that she had cut herself adrift from the unchanging years of captivity—that a new world and a new home were hers to seek and hers to make.

“Excellency, it was upon the seventh night after her coming to the hut of Orio that she quitted the thicket of the woods and descended the bridle-path to the high-road of the pass. Three days later, at the full heat of the day, she was picked up insensible upon the road to Jajce by Count Paul Zaloski, who was riding to his home from the mountain town of Livno.”

CHAPTER VIII
A MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS

“Count Paul found Christine insensible upon the road, excellency, and called at once to his steward, who followed him on horseback:

“‘Hans, do you know this woman?’

“‘I, Herr Count—donnerwetter, that I should know her! And yet——’

“‘Hans, you are a fool! I asked you if you knew the woman. Get down at once and lift her from the ground.’

“The steward lumbered off his horse and raised the girl in his arms. She lay with her white face hidden by the rushes at the roadside; but now the Count could see it, pale as it was, and pinched and wan, yet the face of Christine, unalterable in its sweetness.

“‘Herr Count,’ said the steward, ‘this is no woman from Jajce; she has the clothes of a peasant of Zara. And, Herr Count, I think that she is dead.’

“He spoke, they tell me, as if he had taken some dumb thing in his hands. That his master should be concerned because a peasant girl lay dying in the road was beyond his comprehension. He had seen them die by scores, for he had lived forty years in the mountains. One more or less—what matter? Oh, life is very cheap in Bosnia, excellency.

“The Count waited until his steward had raised Christine up; but no sooner had he looked upon her face than he sprang from his horse to bend over her and listen for a beat of the heart or a sign of breathing in the body. They laugh now when they tell the story in Jajce, excellency, for that was the first time their master had held a woman in his arms.

“He knelt at her side, and holding his hand upon her breast, he spoke again to his steward:

“‘Dip this handkerchief in the lake and bring water in the cup of the flask. Quick—have you not seen a woman faint before?’

“The steward stared with increasing wonder.

“‘Himmel,’ he cried—‘a little brandy upon her lips, now.’

“‘Would you choke her, imbecile? Get the water, before I lay my whip upon your shoulders!’

“The man ran to the brink of the lake, for they had just passed the town of Jézero, and bringing the water and the wetted handkerchief, he helped his master to bathe Christine’s forehead and to chafe her hands. Count Paul had not followed the great war of the year ’70 for nothing. There was no better surgeon in the State. So well did he treat the patient whom God had put in his path that anon she opened her eyes, and the name upon her lips was neither that of her lover nor of the shepherd. Excellency, she spoke of me, crying for Father Andrea.

“‘Girl,’ said the Count in his brusque way, now wetting her lips with the brandy, ‘how did you come here?’

“The question was repeated, but she had no strength to answer him, only crying for me again, and then shutting her eyes as though she would sleep.

“‘I am tired,’ she said; ‘oh, I sink through the ground. Let me rest, Andrea; it is well with me here.’

“Her voice was weak when she spoke, yet it was sweet as of old time—a plaintive, winning voice, captivating as the note of a bird. Count Paul the recluse, accustomed to the grating tones of the native women, thought it the prettiest voice he had heard.

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘you are right; this is no peasant woman. I am going to carry her to the house. Let the white room be prepared—and hot wine. Do you hear me—the white room and hot wine!’

“The steward’s eyes were very wide open when he heard these things, signor, and he did not cease to mutter to himself while he raised the girl from the ground and put her into the arms of his master—strong arms, which made very light of the burden, yet bore it with much tenderness. He himself rode on as he had been told, cantering over the soft grass of the park to the great house which for five centuries has been the home of the Zaloskis and the keystone of their fortunes.

“‘Himmel,’ he said as he rode, ‘that he should bring a woman to his doors—he who has lived forty years without touching a woman’s hand—a slut that he picks off the road. And in the white room, too! What a thing to get abroad! He will be taking a wife next, and she will be calling me “fool” also. God of Heaven! that I was born to such a service.’

“He continued to mutter thus all the way to the great house; and when he had come within call of it he bawled to the grooms and the men about that they should run down the road and help their master. So great was the din which he made that all the household presently was abroad in the park, and only the maidservants and the priest were left to listen to him. Not that they failed to be ready listeners, excellency, for a woman could ever roll a scandal prettily in the mouth; and as for the priest, Father Mark, he would have walked an hour any day to wag his tongue with five minutes’ gossip.

“‘What,’ he cried now to the complaining steward, ‘the Herr Count brings a guest to the white room? He has picked her up in the road, say you? Out on you for a tale-bearer!’

“‘It is no tale, Father, as you may learn presently for yourself. He is coming through the park now, and is cuddling the woman as you would cuddle a bottle—that is to say, as I—sinner that I am——’

“The priest waited to hear no more. Hatless and without his cloak, thinking nothing of the heat of the sun or the dignity of his office, he strode over the grass with long strides on his journey to meet the Count. That a woman was to be brought as a guest to the house of Paul Zaloski was a thing he could not contemplate with equanimity. Yet he had to contemplate it presently, when little Christine lay sleeping in the white room of the château, and the servants were striving one against the other to do her service.”

CHAPTER IX
THE WHITE ROOM

“The white room, excellency, was, until a year ago, the only chamber in the house of Paul Zaloski which was set apart for the entertainment of women. Elsewhere, the many rooms which opened off from the cloisters and the silent corridors were so many tents for soldiers—barrack-like dens, in which the only furniture was a bed, and the only adornment a crucifix. There were periodical days when Count Paul would break these crucifixes with the flat of his sword or any weapon that came handy—for he was ever a man of a violent temper, and he had a religion that he kept to himself. Old Father Mark, the priest, was permitted rather than welcomed in the house. He had been a servant of the Count’s father; and while he would not swerve a hair’s-breadth from the formularies of his office, he did many a good deed among the poor of Jajce, and had once converted a Turk—a fact upon which he relied for a comfortable seat in Paradise. He it was who replaced the crucifixes when the Count broke them in his wrath; and he never failed after such an outburst to spend hours before the altar in the chapel, praying that a curse might not come upon the house.

“Side by side with these miserable apartments I have spoken of, the white room was a thing to see. The great bed of it was heavy with gold and painting; there was a canopy above, supported by carved figures of angels. Many mirrors with gold frames almost hid the panels of the wall, themselves decked with frescoes and medallions. The carpet had come from the looms at Serajevo; the roomy chairs were from Vienna; the fine cut glass from Venice. Twenty years before the day of which I write, the house had many rooms such as this to shew; but the people had plundered it when Austria came to take their country, and the last of the Zaloskis was no lover of gewgaws or of women’s finery. Camp beds, without crucifixes above them, were good enough for him. While there was a room ready for his sister, who came at Easter from Vienna and remained regularly one month in the château, he cared nothing in what state the other apartments might be.

“‘Let them rot,’ he would cry to the priest, when the good man spoke of restoration; ‘let those buy carpets who have nails in their feet. I have no money for fopperies. If you find my beds hard, there is an hotel in Jajce, Father, with pretty chambermaids to tuck you in, and a cellar full of sour Burgundy to split your head before matins. What! you have no tongue for that? Then mind your business and leave me to mine.’

“Father Mark used to twinge at these rough-and-ready rejoinders; or, when the Count persisted, he would shut his ears and go out to pray in the chapel. Not that he personally was any lover of fine stuffs or of gilding; but he looked upon the house of the Zaloskis with the eye of an artist and the soul of a great builder. He loved every stone in those ramparts, which had stood invincible before Turk and heretic through so many centuries. He had pride in the traditions of a family which had witnessed for the faith with its blood, and had surrendered nothing to the example of Eastern barbarism and teaching. Had he been consulted he would have made the castle a centre of power and of learning, whence his religion might have spread abroad an influence to the uttermost ends of the province. The Count was the only obstacle—the Count, whose heart was shut to women—the man who was the last of his race, who cared nothing that an heir should be born to him.

“But I am telling you of things which have small concern with this story, excellency. Rather let me show you Christine, not asleep, but awake and well clothed, and wondering, in the white room to which she had been carried on that day the Count found her. Her aimless flight from the mountains had brought her very near to death. What food she had got by the way had been thrown to her by those who had compassion upon her pretty face and her obvious need. And for a week she lay in the Count’s house hovering between life and death. I have heard it said that nothing was more remarkable than the care bestowed by the master of the château upon this little vagrant he had snatched from the roadside. Always an incurable lover of the medical science, he found in this case an occupation most congenial to him. Scarce an hour passed, they tell me, but he was at her bedside; he watched her through the dangerous changes of the night; he brought physicians from Jajce and Livno. And all this, excellency, without one thought of the sweetness of the face before him, or the pretty figure which lay racked with pain in the great gold bed of the white room. Such things were nothing to him; but the disease—that was worthy of his skill and of his knowledge. And when at last he knew that he had won a victory—when the fever was gone, and the pulse beat calmly, and the flush had left the cheeks—then he returned to his own work with no more thought of little Christine than of a wench in his scullery.

“‘She is no peasant’s daughter,’ he would say to the priest; ‘I must have her history when she is well enough to tell it. She wears a silver ring on her finger; but so does every slut in Dalmatia, for that matter. You shall make her speak, Father, and we will send her to her home—but that must be some days yet. Meanwhile—no little flirtations on your own account; you understand me?’

“Father Mark held up his hands in horror at the suggestion; and the Count, with a sly twinkle in his eye—such a twinkle as this, excellency—went off to hunt the bear in the mountains of the Verbas. It was just then that Christine was lying like one bewitched in the great bed.

“From misery, beggary, and a couch of the brushwood she awoke to see those splendours which were to her like the splendours of Paradise itself. Remember her education—recall her training in those fine superstitions which are the wealth of the islanders—and then how shall we wonder that there was a time when she believed that the spirits had carried her up to a mansion of the heavens? Such comfort she had never known; of such marvels her imagination had taught her nothing. For hours she lay dazed and fascinated and spell-bound, asking herself if the angels in the paintings lived, if her limbs really rested upon a bed, or were not rather floating in a gauze-like cloud. Of memory of that which she had passed through there was at the moment none. It was as though the years which had come between her childhood and that pleasant hour had never been. Her lover; her island home; the people who had cried upon her; the shepherd; the hut in the hills—these she had forgotten. Her prevailing sense was that of rest and gladness—of a great gladness and of a perfect content.

“Once or twice during the first hours of waking she had seen a kindly face bend over her. It was the face of Mother Theresa, the housekeeper at the château. She, good soul, watched unceasingly when the Count had resumed his old occupation. She had children of her own; she fancied that she could read the story of this child. And when at length she saw that her patient was coming back to life again, her joy was that of a mother who has found a daughter.

“‘My little girl,’ she said, kissing the white forehead and holding the shrunken hand—‘nay, sweet, you must not raise that pretty head; by-and-bye we will get up together, dear, but rest now.’

“She pressed cooling drink to the parched lips and smoothed the long brown hair; and, excellency, the words were sweet to her who had never known what a mother’s word may be. They were sweet, for love and kindness seemed to be breathed with them. Yet of their meaning Christine knew nothing. She had never spoken any other tongue than the dialect of Zlarin, which is wholly Italian. Mother Theresa was an Austrian of Linz; and although she had a smattering of the uncouth speech of Bosnia, German served all her purposes in the château. As well might she have spoken Russian to her patient, who did but lie and smile lovingly upon her, and open her eyes wider at the wonders, and tell herself that here, indeed, was the palace of her visions, here the destiny which she had crossed the mountains to fulfil.

“In this happy state she lay for three days, but upon the third day she rose from her bed. The Count was away at Serajevo then, and Father Mark having business with his bishop, it befell that Mother Theresa was left to do her will with the patient. So soon as Christine was strong enough they went abroad in the park together, and the first breath of autumn being upon the lake, the child shewed the old mother how well she could sail a boat, and how familiar she was with all things concerning the woods and waters. Nor, when they drove to the town of Jajce together, did the number of the people or the shapes of the buildings frighten her. You know Jajce, excellency? Ah, she is a queen of the hills, a white city of the mountains; her minarets rise up abundantly like silver spires above the unsurpassable green of the heights; she listens ever to the foam of the great cascade which thunders at her gates; the spray of the waters bathes her as in a foam of jewels. In her streets are Turks and Christians, Greeks and Jews. Friars raise their voices against the allah il allah of the muezzin; a new hotel rubs shoulders with the catacombs where lie the dead who fought against Mohammed. Yet she is the one citadel which time has not touched nor civilisation conquered. Her walls stand to-day as they stood when Kings of Bosnia looked out from them upon the armies of the infidels. Her people dress as they dressed when Corvin was their lord; her castle still marks her glory and the glory of her chiefs. She is a city of the East and of the West—a gem of the mountains, like to nothing that was or is or shall be.

“Christine saw Jajce, and found new delights in its contemplation. The invigorating winds of autumn now began to fill her blood with youthful strength and vigour. The colour came again to her cheeks when the crisp mountain air wooed them; her eyes sparkled with health restored. And she was quick to make friends in the château. Old Mother Theresa adored her; Hans, the steward, being convinced that his master had no such thoughts as he feared, remembered that he was once at Trieste, and had three words of Italian for his dictionary. He called her carina, and treated her like a little schoolgirl come home for the holidays. As for the priest, who made it his first business to inquire, as well as he could in his broken Italian, what was her faith and who were her parents, even he admitted that she had brought a new spirit to lighten the gloom of the house of the Zaloskis.

“‘My daughter,’ he would stammer as he endeavoured to impart to her the mysteries of the catechism, ‘you know that there is hell-fire for the wicked?’

“‘You say so, Father,’ she would answer him.

“‘But I wish you to believe that there is.’

“‘I will try, Father.’

“‘You must try always,’ he repeated, ‘try to think of the good God above you and of the burning fire below—the fire which is, which is, my child——’

“But the priest was ill-equipped when he came to the larger use of Italian adjectives, and he would turn in despair to question her upon that past concerning which she had as yet remembered so little.

“‘You have a home, my child?’

“‘Si, si,’ she answered him.

“‘Your father lives there?’

“‘I have no father but Father Andrea.’

“‘Is your mother dead?’

“‘I do not know; I have never seen her.’

“‘This ring, my child—is it a ring of betrothal or of marriage?’

“‘It is a ring of marriage.’

“‘Where, then, is your husband?’

“‘He left me in the mountains, in the hut of the shepherd Orio.’

“‘That was long ago?’

“She shook her head. Though health had restored her memory to her, it had yet left but faint and blurred impressions of that week of suffering in the hut. She realised little of the meaning of the tie she had contracted; of sense of obligation there was none.

“‘Girl,’ said the priest, severely, ‘the Holy Gospels teach us that the wife should cleave unto her husband. You are well punished for your sins, as God always punishes those who break His commandments. You must return to Zlarin when your strength is wholly restored. I must speak to the Count when he is back again. I fear you have acted very wrongly.’

“Her only answer was a merry laugh, excellency. He neither frightened nor convinced her. She did not believe that the God he spoke of would ever carry her back to that loneliness and misery which she had fled. Nay, all exhortation was lost upon her; and when the Count returned at the end of the week he found Father Mark full of bitterness and despair.

“‘Oh, indeed,’ cried the priest, ‘a pretty guest you have brought to us! She has a husband at Zlarin, and the holy truths are so many fairy tales to her. This very morning she met me in the park and cried to me: “Father Mark, tell me about hell-fire.” A child would have asked in the same tone for the story of Blue Beard. She has demoralised your house, and the devil is in the music she can make.’

“But the Count only laughed at him.

“‘Trust a priest to be busy when there is a petticoat in the place,’ said he; ‘who is your rival, Father Mark?’

“At this, excellency, the holy father went again to the oratory to pray.

“Count Paul, although he had twitted the priest, had determined secretly that he would make himself aware of his strange guest’s history without further loss of time. He had been overmuch occupied with the military affairs of the province during his absence in Serajevo; but now that he was home again he began to see that he had taken a somewhat serious responsibility upon his shoulders, and that he must face it without further loss of time. He made up his mind that he would speak to Christine on the morrow; but when the morning came there was much to hear from his steward and business to do with the Prefect of Jajce. It was not until the afternoon that he thought again of his intention, and that thought was thrust upon him curiously.

“He was riding up from the town, and had entered at a gate of the park which is near the eastern end of the lake. There is a little wood here, excellency, and great trees give shade even at the zenith of the summer. The Count had turned his horse from the road, for the sun is hot in Bosnia even when the autumn is come, and he was cantering gently towards his house, when he heard the notes of a violin, played very sweetly, yet with moments of passion and swift cunning execution which betrayed the musician of large powers. Surprised that such music was to be heard in his own park, he rode straight to the thicket whence the sounds came, and speedily unravelled the mystery. Old Mother Theresa had carried food and drink to a little bower of the woods, and there was gathered a merry party—Hans cutting odd capers to the music of the fiddle, the dame applauding, the priest leaning against a tree with laughter and disapproval marked together upon his frowning face, Christine sitting cross-legged upon the grass and wringing, from the crazy old instrument they had found her, music which would have set the oldest foot beating to its rhythm. So absorbed, indeed, was the party in the lilt of the dance that Count Paul remained for many minutes unobserved; and in this interval he used his eyes quickly. Nor could he at the first bring himself to think that the little girl he then saw, so gay, so full of happiness, and of such incontestable beauty, was the wan-faced starving creature he had found upon the Jajce road not a month ago.

“Well, indeed, may this pretty apparition have caused him wonder. You have seen Christine for yourself, excellency; have seen her now that she has passed through the heat of her trial, and sorrow has left its stamp upon her—you have seen her, and you know that she is a woman whose face is not to be forgotten by him who has once looked upon it; a woman whose lightest gesture is grace, whose limbs are the limbs of painters’ dreams. Think of her, then, when the whole sweetness of youth was written in her dancing eyes, and the new joy of her life was bursting into blossom. Oh, surely this man may well have stood dumb in his surprise, slow to believe that some trick had not been played upon him. And to this conclusion her new dress helped him. No longer did ragged finery draggle about her limbs. No longer was the dust matted in her hair. She wore a pretty gown that the dame had made for her with loving labour. Her shoes were of yellow leather, and had buckles like the priest’s. Her vest was scarlet, slashed with gold—for that had come all the way from Serajevo, and was the secret gift of the well-meaning Hans. She had a dainty white cap to hide the gold in her curls, and silver bracelets rattled upon the arm which held the bow. And when to these were added the lustre of her deep-black eyes, the ripe red flush upon her cheeks, the pout of the little mouth and the comely shape of her limbs, she was indeed a picture to please, a creature to invite the love of all that set their eyes upon her.”

CHAPTER X
COUNT PAUL AT HOME

“Here, then, excellency, is the little Christine whom the Count saw as he stood at the edge of the bower and gazed upon the scene with surprised eyes. Not until the capering Hans had sunk down exhausted upon the turf, and Mother Theresa had clapped her hands again and again, and the priest had raised his finger in warning, did the group become aware of the master’s presence, and hasten to put on some show of respect and greeting. As for Christine, Father Mark had not failed to impress upon her the nature of her obligation to the owner of the château, and no sooner had she seen him than she ran forward, and holding out her hand very prettily, she took his and pressed it to her lips.

“‘Herr Count,’ she said—for thus had they taught her to address him—‘I thank you, oh, I thank you from my heart—the Blessed Mother give me words—I will be your servant always—I am so happy here, Herr Count, and it is to you that I must speak—you will not send me back to Zlarin?’

“The Count listened to her earnest prattle, not knowing whether to be amused or troubled. The touch of her lips upon his hand had been very sweet, and, stern recluse that he was, he had no heart to resist such attractive pleading.

“‘Child,’ said he—and he spoke Italian very readily—‘we will talk of all these things presently. Come up now to the house, that I may learn your story.’

“He offered her a stirrup leather, and holding to this she ran by his side, awed by his presence, yet drawn to him by an instinctive feeling that here she had found a friend. And he encouraged her to talk, desiring to form some opinion which would help him to deal with her future.

“‘Well, my little girl,’ he said cheerily, ‘and who taught you to play the fiddle?’

“‘Pietro,’ said she, ‘Pietro who sings for the priest at Zlarin. Oh, Pietro is a wise-head; he has great eyes and great ears and great hands like yours, Herr Count. When he opens his mouth it is just like looking into a pumpkin. He talks to his fiddle and his fiddle talks to him. It is good to see Pietro at the feast, Herr Count—such notes out of his mouth—oh, they are like cannon on the sea; such anger—oh, it is something to watch Pietro beat his fiddle when he is angry. And he laughs and nods his head all the time, and says: “What music I make! What injustice that I do not play at Vienna!” He taught me the scales, and when I could not do it he would beat his breast and break my bow and smack my face; but when I pleased him he would cry: “Brava! the whole city shall dance to music such as that.”’

“The Count had smiled when she spoke of his great hands, excellency, for in truth he was a big man, uncouth of limb, large of frame, and a very giant in strength. But forty years of life had robbed him of all the vanities, and he was pleased to find one who spoke truth and had no shame of her words. He could not help but remember, as he looked down upon the picturesque little figure running at his side, that life in the house of the Zaloskis had been a poor round of official dulness these twenty years and more. Christine brought him to a sudden recollection of a past day when a woman had enchained him and drank of the heart’s blood of his affections, leaving him at last a soured and broken man. He recalled the hour when a glance from eyes, that were very like the eyes of his little Italian girl, had warmed him to ecstasies of hope and love; his mind went back to those fleeting years of passion when a woman’s hand had led him, and a woman’s whim had betrayed him and had cast him out with affections withered and soul embittered. They had given him the name of woman-hater since those days. Strange, then, to hear the babble of a pretty girl’s voice in his own park, to feel his hand warm at her kiss. More strange that such things should have been pleasing to him, that he should have decided in his mind not to send Christine from the house if circumstances would permit him to retain her there.

“He had come to this conclusion as he rode up to the gate of the château, and giving his horse to a groom, led the way to his study. This was a great vaulted apartment in the east wing—a room with many pillars buttressing the arches of the roof, and windows opening towards the green mountains of Jajce. The walls of it spoke eloquently of the Count’s common employments—hunting implements, swords, suits of mail, old guns which dying Turks had dropped, spears, lances, pikes, adorned them. The tiled floor was covered with the soft skins of wolf and bear; other skins were piled upon the couches and the chairs. The heavy sideboard of oak shone resplendent with silver cups and jugs—mighty jugs for mighty drinkers. A small case for books, many implements of science, a table littered with papers, seemed out of place in that museum of a hundred wars—a soldier’s room, excellency, the room of a man whose ancestors had fought unnumbered battles.

“To such a room Count Paul led Christine. Here he pulled off his big riding-boots, and having lighted a cigar, he sat down at his table and bade her squat upon the cushion of skins at his side. And then he fell to questioning her.

“‘Child,’ said he, ‘they tell me that your father, Andrea, is now living at Sebenico, and that you ran away from him when he wished you to finish your education in a convent?’

“‘My father Andrea!’ she answered with surprise. ‘Oh, he is not my father, Herr Count, he is only my friend.’

“‘How came it, then, that he wished to send you to a convent?’

“‘It was because of Ugo—of Ugo Klun, who was to take me to Vienna. He is my husband, you know.’

“She said it, excellency, with no more concern than if Ugo had been her dog.

“‘Your husband, girl!’ cried the Count, angry at her indifference; ‘you have a husband, then?’

“‘I stood with Ugo before the altar upon the island Incoronata,’ she answered, playing with the bracelets upon her wrist; ‘he called me wife, and the priest blessed me. We rode that day to the mountains, for I feared to go to Sebenico to the Sisters, and Ugo feared that they would make a hussar of him. It was to the hut of Orio the shepherd that he carried me, and there I was ill with the fever. When I awoke Ugo had gone, and no one was with me in the hut. Then I tried to find him in the hills, and I ate all the bread, and the road was hot, and the sun burnt my face, and—oh! it would have been good to die! You will not send me back to Zlarin, Herr Count?’

“She asked him pitifully, her black eyes raised to his, and yet he could not promise her.

“‘That is for your husband to say. First we must find him, child. You would wish that, of course?’

“Her answer astonished him.

“‘Herr Count,’ she cried, clinging to his knees, ‘how shall I tell you—the Blessed Mother give me words! Ugo is my friend, he has been good to me. I thought that we should be friends always, that he would take me to the great city; but when I was with him in the hut and he put his arm upon my neck and burnt my lips with kisses, I knew that it could never be, that God had meant it otherwise. Oh, his kisses hurt me; I shuddered at his touch—I, who wished to thank him and to be his friend. Herr Count, blame me not; we cannot give these things; we cannot love because we wish it. Do not send for him; let me be your servant always. I will work for you, I will serve you. Oh, I have known no love in all my life, God help me! I have been alone always; there has been none to care; even my brother beat me. When I was a little child they let me beg for bread. Herr Count, what happiness if you should speak a word of love to me—if you should hear me now! I cannot go back to Zlarin—I cannot! The holy angels are my witnesses, Herr Count.’

“She had sunk slowly to the floor, and she lay now with her head pillowed upon her arm and her right hand holding still the right hand of the master. So deeply did she feel the words she spoke that her whole body shook with her sobs and the floor was wet with her tears. She had tasted so sweet a draught of happiness that the thought of putting down the cup was bitter to her beyond words. And in her exceeding grief, excellency, she brought the Count to a memory of a day in his own life when he too had asked for the bread of love and had hungered. Such tears as she then shed openly he had shed in his heart, and they had frozen there, shutting out for twenty years all the warmth of human affections.

“‘Come,’ he said, when he had waited awhile, and she had raised her burning face to his, begging for an answer, ‘tell me more of your husband, and then perhaps I shall answer you. You say that they would have made a hussar of him—where, then, was he drawn?’

“‘He was drawn at Jajce—your own city. His father is the woodlander, but Ugo left him a year ago, for he would not serve, since that would have taken him from me. They must have heard that he was at Sebenico, and that is why he left me in the mountains. Herr Count, I cannot go back to him—I cannot go!’

“The Count heard her out, and then, rising from his seat, he unlocked the cabinet which held the books, and took from it a volume wherein the reports of the Prefect of Jajce were filed. Two of these, the most recent, he scanned without comment, but at the third he stopped, and an exclamation broke from his lips.

“‘Christine,’ said he—and that was the first time he had called her so—‘you are telling me the truth?’

“‘I swear it,’ she cried.

“‘You do not wish to go back to this man?’

“‘God knows that I cannot go.’

“‘Then think no more of him, my child, for he fired upon his officer and was shot by a trooper in the woods of the Verbas ten days ago.’

“The Count closed the book with a snap; but Christine, trembling and very pale, and awed by the words she had heard, rose to her feet.

“‘He was my friend,’ she said, and that was all, for as she spoke she ran from the room and listened no more. Grief and joy had conquered; the desire of years seemed gratified in that hour, the veil lifted off her life.

“Yet this was the cruelty of it—that even while the Count was telling her of the man’s death Ugo Klun, hidden in a cave above the Verbas, was saying to himself that the pursuit would soon be over, and that he would return to hold little Christine in his arms again.

“Excellency, the report had lied that a corporal might profit.”

CHAPTER XI
ANDREA BEARS WITNESS

“You have told me, signor, that you know neither Jajce nor her mountains. May it be my privilege, if you are of a mind to see the wonders of this incomparable land, to be your companion in the venture! And when that day shall come, let it be a day neither of dreadful summer nor of unrelenting winter; a day when the hills are sweet with the air of spring; when the rills run down foamed with golden light; when the grass of the woods is carpeted with the year’s first flowers. Then we shall see the minarets of the city rising up like silver towers above the fresh waters of the river; then will the thunder of her cascade make music for our ears. She will win a victory over our affections; we shall hold her in perpetual honour.

“I am led to speak in this way since I am still mindful of my last journey to the town of the falling rivers, and of the many troubles that beset my path when I sought Christine in her new home. You may ask well enough how it was that I, having, in my misconception, sent soldiers to save her from shame, did not at once search for her in the mountains and carry her back to Sebenico. As God is my witness, I did this, and all else that might bring back to me the daughter I loved. Ten days I rode in the heights, asking of all that passed by for tidings of my child; ten days I searched the woods and the villages between Livno and my own city. But that very secrecy which the lad Ugo had observed stood between me and my desires. None but the shepherd knew where Christine had slept upon the night of her marriage. Vague rumours of a sharp pursuit in the mountains, intelligence of the fate of Orio, divergent accounts of the capture of the deserter, of his attack upon his commanding officer and his death—these things came slowly to our ears in a province where gossip is high treason and the publication of news often a felony. Indeed, I had begun to look upon little Christine as one snatched from my love and my life, to say that I should never hear her pretty prattle or touch her hand again, when—and that was five months after she had left the island—the summons from Jajce came to me, and I learnt not only of her new estate, but of her happiness and her fortune.

“She wrote the letter with her own hand—no longer the childish scrawl which was her gift from the priest at Zlarin, but neater characters, telling of some education and of culture. I read there that she was not forgetful of the old time or the old friends; but it was plain that the fervour of childhood had left her, and that she had put on the sober dignity of womanhood. Such love as she expressed for me was expressed in measured terms; she spoke of her great gratitude to the Count and of his unceasing kindness to her; she made mention of Father Mark and of her other friends; and she concluded by exhorting me to cross the mountains to Jajce and there to tell all I knew of her early life and circumstances—‘for,’ she said, ‘this I owe to my benefactor, and you alone can pay the debt.’

“I read her letter, and on the third day after, having suffered much by the way, I was driving my sleigh over the frozen park of Count Paul’s château. The scene was one to linger in the memory, excellency, a scene to bear witness to the glory of God, and of nature, which is God’s child. Peak upon peak, shining in the sun like domes of ice, rose up above the path I followed; Jajce herself had put upon her a mantle of snow; her frozen cascades were so many ropes of gold and of jewels; the great lake had become a vast mirror, like a mirror of silver; the hills themselves were full of the dismal howling of the wolves. From such desolation it was good to pass to the warmth and the welcome of the house of the Zaloskis; good to hear the barking of the dogs, to see the bright flame of the fires, to feel the spreading heat of the many stoves. But better than all was it to remember that little Christine was then in the house, and that I was about to hear her voice again.

“They received me in the great hall, excellency, the priest coming forward to meet me, and whispering a word in my ear before he led me to his master. He had a kindly face, open and sincere; and ill as Christine had liked him at the first, I make sure that she has reason now to love him. This, indeed, his words proved, as you shall learn subsequently.

“‘My friend,’ said he, ‘you must first drink a glass of prune brandy, and warm yourself with the soup which Hans shall bring us. I know very well what the cold may be on the hills. Let us thank God for these thick walls around us.’

“He poured me a glass of the liquor, which was like fire to the stomach; and when I had drunk it I asked for Christine.

“‘She is in the library with the Count,’ said he, and I thought with just a little bitterness; ‘it is astonishing what service she seems to be to him. There is nothing like a woman’s hand, Signor Andrea, and hers is very ready. I have said from the first that she is no peasant’s child.’

“‘You have spoken well,’ I replied; ‘she is no peasant’s child. Her father could remember the day when he was first man in Zara; her mother had a gift of music above the common. The vagaries of trade and the coming of the Austrian—I speak freely, for I read your nationality in your face—brought ruin to their house. God be praised that she has found another home!’

“‘Amen to that,’ cried he. ‘You must forgive us if the singular nature of her story has made us desirous to learn all that can be learnt. I took this opportunity of speaking to you, since I would rather hear anything that is to be told than have it come suddenly to the ears of the Count. Christine’s influence over him is very remarkable. Heaven forbid that I should speak against him—but he is another man since this little guest crept into his life. You will understand that I should not like him to hear ill of her.’

“‘Hear ill of her!’ cried I; ‘per Baccho, Father, I would like to know the man that would speak it. Hear ill of her—Holy Mother, what talk!’

“‘Then you are able to say that she is a good girl?’

“‘A good girl—cospetto, she is as innocent as a child at her first Communion. What! you would condemn her for running away to the hills with a lout who had promised to save her from a convent? That is pretty charity, Father!’

“‘I condemn her for nothing, signor; I am only anxious to know.’

“‘Then you know now,’ said I, and I spoke with some heat; ‘you have the word of Andrea of Sebenico.’

“‘The glory be to God,’ said he; ‘and now I will take you to her, for she has been asking for you all day.’

“He led the way from the hall, excellency, and passed down a vaulted corridor of stone, from the further end of which I heard the loud tones of a man’s voice—a rich and resonant voice, which would have held cavalry at the charge. I thought it strange that Father Mark, who hitherto had shewn some conceit of bearing and of manner, should become timid and reserved so soon as he heard his master speaking; but thus it was; and when we came to the door at the end of the passage he was humble and as fearful as a schoolboy.

“‘The Count is busy, I fear,’ said he, knocking timidly; ‘he is angry with the Prefect, and is putting down notes of his reply. Ah! that is a full stop; now we can go in.’

“Excellency, the full stop was a blow with the fist upon a cabinet or a table—a blow like the fall of a hammer upon the iron. We took advantage of its echoes to open the door, and a moment later little Christine’s arms were about my neck. Ah! that was an hour to remember, an hour of my life—to have the wanderer’s cheek against my own, to hear her pretty words, to know that she could still call me Father Andrea. Yet I forgot not in whose presence I stood, and so soon as I had returned my child’s greetings I turned towards the Count and saluted him with proper respect.

“‘Herr Count,’ said I, ‘this is a happy day for me,’ and with that I continued to bow to him, until suddenly he stopped me peremptorily.

“‘Sit down, sit down, Signor Andrea,’ cried he; ‘you have been long in the coming, but are none the less welcome for that. We will give you a glass of hot wine, and then you shall talk to us. I’ll wager it was cold out yonder. Christine, see that the old man is made comfortable.’

“Excellency, I was hurt that he should have spoken of me in this way, for, poor as I am, there is old blood in my veins; yet I saw that he meant no hurt, and that his manner was the manner of a soldier, little given to courtesies. Nay, it was impossible not to feel respect for one who had so many of those gifts which men value. Rough of speech, huge of person, not wanting kindly eyes, to be reckoned handsome by the women, oddly dressed in a dark green military tunic—you would have marked Count Paul even in a regiment of Guards. There was a command in the lightest word he spoke, an invitation to obedience which few dared to resist. Yet you felt that his approval was something to be won and kept, that a kind word from him was precious as the gifts of others.

“But while I say this of the man, it is difficult to speak of the new Christine I found in the château of Jajce. Oh, she was changed beyond words, signor. Five months had made a woman of her; had robbed her of none of the graces of her childhood, yet had added other graces to them. She was always a tall child; but she had grown since I had seen her, and now stood up almost to the shoulder of the Count. Her new dress, brought from Vienna; her new manner of speech, for they had taught her much German; her pretty airs, like the airs of a little princess, all became her exceedingly. I saw that she was worthy of the château—was worthy of any fortune that could come to her; and this I made bold to tell the Count when he began to question me.

“‘Herr Count,’ said I, ‘she was the best of children, and I have loved her as one of my own.’

“‘And yet you left her four years to starve upon the island of Zlarin,’ said he, drily.

“Christine, eager to see that my wants were attended to, had run away while he spoke thus harshly. I did not fail to observe that the Count followed her steps with his eyes—nay, that his eyes rested upon her alone when she was in the room.

“‘Sir,’ said I, ‘it is true that necessity carried me from my duty to the child during the space of four years; but now that I am able, I am willing to repay. If it is your wish, I will take her back with me on the morrow, and will make it my charge to see that she is educated by the Sisters as I have promised.’

“Excellency, it was a wise answer, putting off at once the burden of his reproaches. He replied to me with your English word.

“‘Verdammt!’ said he, bringing his fist heavily upon the table, ‘she shall go to no convent! You hear that, old man? Then speak no more of it.’

“‘Herr Count,’ said I, ‘your wish is a command to me. Yet there is one by whom it might not be so regarded. I speak of Christine’s husband, Ugo Klun.’

“‘Her husband, Signor Andrea!’ he cried with a start of surprise. ‘But he was shot in the mountains five months ago!’

“‘So the word goes,’ I answered; ‘but there is another story. Few know the hills like Ugo, Herr Count.’

“It was plain that this suggestion came very ill to him. He got up from his chair and paced the room twice before he spoke again.

“‘Pshaw!’ he exclaimed at last; ‘this is all nonsense. I have read the corporal’s report with my own eyes. He killed the fellow himself, and helped to bury him. Your tongue wags too fast, my friend; see that you keep it still when the girl comes back.’

“I bowed my head, excellency, being careful to lose nothing of my dignity before him. But when Christine came running back again, and I observed the restlessness of his hands and the flush upon his face, the whole of his secret was mine, and no longer was anything hid from me.

“And in my heart I said: ‘God help them both if Ugo Klun is living still in the cave above the Verbas.’”

CHAPTER XII
ANDREA PUTS THE QUESTION

“I lay that night in one of the barrack-like rooms of the château, excellency; but on the following afternoon, the Count being gone to Livno, I found myself alone with Christine for the first time. I thought the opportunity good to question her; and she was ready in reply, though it was not to be hidden from me that I was necessary to her no longer, and that some little reticence in her manner was the outcome of her new estate.

“‘I am happy, yes,’ she said, as we talked together in the great hall and looked out upon the dazzling white hills above Jajce; ‘so happy that I wake often in my sleep and ask if I ever lived in Zlarin, or married Ugo, or ran away to the hills. It is good to have a home, Andrea.’

“‘Well spoken, truly,’ cried I; ‘and it would be strange if you should remember that there was one old man in Sebenico who was glad to see Christine of Zlarin again.’

“‘As I am glad to see him—though four years have passed. Forgive me, Andrea; you were very kind to me.’

“‘It is something that you should think of it,’ I exclaimed; ‘did I cross the mountains to be treated like a boy at his catechism? Per Baccho, it is “four years, four years” on all your tongues!’

“At this she took my arm very prettily, and speaking as she used to speak, she said:—

“‘Do not regret your journey yet. There are few who come to the house of Count Paul who do not learn to love him. Be wise and speak well of him.’

“I was somewhat appeased at this, and it seemed to me, when I thought upon it, that I had been to much expense one way and the other in helping Christine to her present happiness, and that the day might be near when the Count would care to remember the debt. Yet this I kept from the girl, going on to talk of riper matters.

“‘You speak, child,’ said I, ‘of the Count’s generosity. You have found him a kind master, I do not doubt.’

“‘He is not my master; he is my friend,’ she replied; ‘yet I could well live and die in his service. There could not be love enough in the world for Count Paul, Andrea.’

“‘And you have forgotten Ugo Klun, Christine?’

“Her face flushed at the mention of that name, and she withdrew her arm from mine, standing in the window and looking wistfully across the whitened hills. Presently she said:

“‘Do not speak of the past. Is there not something in every life which it is happiness to forget? And I have so much to remember here, so much to learn, so much to repay. The day has not hours enough for all that I would do to tell Count Paul of my gratitude.’

“‘He speaks, then, of keeping you at the château?’

“‘He has said so from the first, though the priest wishes him to send me to a convent in Vienna. It is dreadful when he contradicts Father Mark, Andrea. You see, one does not learn much in the woods of Zlarin. But I work every day, and they are very kind, and the Count is patient, and I am never to leave them. He tells me that always.’

“I was wondering in my mind, excellency, if he had also told her anything of that I had seen written upon his face when he spoke to me the day before.

“‘Child,’ said I, suddenly, ‘you never loved Ugo Klun—that is, with the love that a wife should bear towards a husband.’

“‘You know that I did not,’ she answered very quickly; ‘who was there to tell me what love was?’

“‘True,’ said I; ‘but that needs no telling when the heart is right. What would you say now if I told you that here in this very house you are ready to give that which the lad Ugo wished so sorely?’

“She turned upon me, her eyes wide open in surprise and cheeks flaming scarlet.

“‘What are you saying, Andrea?’ she cried.

“I bent down over her, and whispered the answer in her ear:

“‘That Count Paul would be very pleased to step into the shoes of Ugo Klun.’

“‘You mean that he loves me?’ she exclaimed, starting back with the cry on her lips.

“‘I am as certain of it, child, as of the ice on yonder lake.’

“Excellency, for some minutes she stood looking at me like a frightened deer. Then suddenly she laid her head upon my shoulder, the blush coming and going quickly upon her face, and said:

“‘Andrea, Andrea, I am not worthy; take me back to Zlarin.’”

CHAPTER XIII
“IF THE MAN LIVES”

“Signor, I did not take Christine back to Zlarin, as you may well imagine. Rather, I laughed away her scruples, telling her that she was worthy of any man’s love, and that it was her plain duty to remain at the château. For the matter of that, though it was not hidden from me that the Count loved her, none the less did I deem any change in her condition impossible for months—nay, for years to come. Paul Zaloski was not one to marry the first that he picked off the roadside, without mature deliberation and a long-confirmed resolve. It was even possible that no thought of marriage would enter his head. The honour of a woman is a cheap commodity in Bosnia. Things which would shame Western eyes are there without significance. If the Count chose to offer love to the child, and to seek no sanction of the Church, the world, I said, would applaud him. Nor was it to be expected that the last of the Zaloskis should link his name and his fortune with one whose story was like a fable from a book and whose birthright was poverty. The very suggestion would have been scouted in the market-place—the idea scoffed at as the idea of a fool.

“As this was my thought, so was it the thought of others. Scarce had I comforted the child, making merry over her suggestion that I should take her back to Zlarin, when the priest met me in the garden of the house, and asked me to his room, there to drink a glass of prune brandy with him. I went the readier because he had shewn me some friendship from the first, and I had found him to be a large-minded man, very able to read the future; and when we had settled ourselves near to his big fire of logs, and he had placed a bottle of the liqueur, with cigars, at my elbow, we began to talk of many things, but chiefly of Christine and of her prospects.

“‘We owe you hearty thanks, Signor Andrea,’ said he, while he filled my glass and lighted a cheroot; ‘this is no weather to be out on the hills, though your desire to see little Christine must have helped you on the journey.’

“‘Diamine,’ replied I, ‘that is so; yet what says the proverb, “la povertà è la madre di tutte le arti”—the poor must dance when the rich pipe. Father, I could not refuse the Count’s invitation, and I doubt not that he will hold the fact in remembrance. Three days of labour have I lost in the coming, to say nothing of peril by the way. But this would I do again to-morrow, and more, if little Christine could be helped thereby.’

“He looked at me curiously, knocking the ashes off his cigar with much deliberation.

“‘Undoubtedly,’ said he, ‘the child owes much to you. It is your intention now, I understand, to carry her to Sebenico, and there to place her with the Sisters of the Perpetual Adoration. That would be a work of much merit.’

“‘Per nulla,’ said I, ‘all that is old talk. It is true that I mentioned the matter to the Count when he saw fit to make a charge of neglect against me; but he would not hear of it, and I confess that the burden would be heavier than my shoulders could bear. She has a good home here; why should I seek to check the providence of God and to take her from it?’

“He heard me out, and then, going first to see that the door of the room was shut, he drew his chair closer to mine, and unfolded his scheme.

“‘Signor Andrea,’ he said, ‘we are both men of the world. If others blind their eyes, that is no reason why we should walk in the darkness with them. You especially should be very ready to hear of any plan by which one you love may be snatched from the danger which is threatening her soul and the soul of a man whose every action I may not approve, but who is bound to me, nevertheless, by many ties of affection. You follow me?’

“‘Perfectly,’ I replied, ‘remembering always my own exceeding poverty.’

“‘As I remember it, and think of it in all I would do. It must be plain to you that the Count, my master, is not the one to entertain, even for a moment, the thought of marrying a little peasant girl out of Dalmatia——’

“‘And why not?’ cried I.

“At this, excellency, he fidgeted upon his chair, and made a little gesture of impatience.

“‘There are a hundred reasons,’ said he.

“‘Body of my soul,’ said I, ‘but I would like to hear them! And if it comes to that, Father, let me tell you that I can conceive no greater happiness for my child than a union so exalted, so noble, so worthy of her beauty, as this would be. A hundred reasons! Santa Maria, what talk!’

“I made my answer so, not believing a word I said, but intending to hide from him any appearance of falling in too readily with his suggestions. And in this I succeeded beyond my expectations. His tone became less confident; he filled my glass again and drew his chair yet nearer.

“‘You misunderstand me, my friend,’ said he. ‘It may be as you say; he may even contemplate a step so disastrous to his ambitions and his house. It lies upon us who have his interests at heart—and with his interests the interests of the child also—to save him from himself and his reckless will. We can do that in one way only—by sending her to Sebenico.’

“I nodded my head gravely, and he proceeded:

“‘You, I am well aware, are in no way able to bear so heavy a burden. That knowledge makes me the more willing to contemplate some personal sacrifice in any proposal I have to make. I am not a rich man, but if you, demanding the charge of Christine as a right,—and I believe such guardianship was conferred upon you by her brother’s will,—should carry her to the convent of the Perpetual Adoration, I on my part will pay all the charges incurred by her education there, and, moreover, will ask you to accept a thousand francs a year for any expense you may be put to in the matter. Thus alone can we save the Count from himself and the child from the peril. You follow me, signor?’

“I followed him well enough, excellency, for my brain was very busy as he spoke. And one thing was plain to me from the first. If Count Paul meant to marry Christine, then could I look for something more than a thousand francs a year from her. ‘She will never forget the hand which gave her bread,’ I thought; ‘she may even appoint me to some place about the house wherein the weight of my years may be made light.’ On the other hand, if there was danger to be faced, then was it my duty to accept the priest’s offer; ‘for,’ said I, ‘in that case my presence will be a reproach to them, and they will turn me away from their gates.’ But my difficulty was to read the Count’s intention aright; and until I had so done it was not prudent that I should either reject or accept the offer of the priest.

“‘Father,’ said I, ‘your words are the words of a righteous man. Let me think upon them until to-morrow, and then you shall have my answer. Meanwhile there is one possibility we have both forgotten in weighing up these chances. I refer to the man Ugo Klun, who before the law, if not before God, is Christine’s husband. How do we know that he is dead?’

“This was my saying to him; yet, God knows, I had done better to have cut off my right hand than to have spoken so foolishly. No sooner had he heard the words than his face flushed with the blood which ran up to it, and clutching me by the arm so that his fingers seemed to touch my bone, he asked:

“‘My friend, do you think that Ugo Klun still lives, then?’

“‘How should I think it?’ replied I, for now I saw my folly; ‘it is at the most an old woman’s tale. Was he not shot in the woods above the Verbas? You have read the corporal’s report with your own eyes. Accidente, Father, is not that enough?’

“He was walking about the room now, muttering to himself and snapping his fingers. I do not think he heard my answer, for presently he came and stood opposite to me, and with a great beat of his fist on the table he cried:

“‘If the man lives, God helping me, I will find him.’

“He would have said more, but even as he was repeating his words there was a loud knocking on the door of the room, and when we opened quickly we found Hans, the steward, breathless with news which sent us running to the park and crying for help as we ran.”

CHAPTER XIV
THE WHIRLING FIRE

“A word from Hans had carried us from the house, but the great measure of his news we had while we drew our cloaks about us, and armed ourselves with the guns which stood always in the hall of the château.

“‘God of Heaven! that I did not tell her!’ gasped the trembling steward. ‘She set off an hour ago to wait for my master in the park. I never thought that she would pass the gates—how should I?—but now comes the news that she is on the Jajce road! May the day be black that sends me with such tidings to my master!’

“You, excellency, who are a stranger to the mountain land about Jajce, may well know nothing of the meaning of such words as these; yet to us, fed from our childhood on knowledge of the woods, the message of Hans was like tidings of death itself. Even the peasants in their numbers scarce dare venture out upon the hills when the sun has set and the howling of the wolves makes dismal music of the night. I, who know the passes as I know these waters, would as soon cast myself down from yonder campanile as put horses to my sleigh when the light of the sunshine is no longer upon the snow. For if I did so, then might I look to leave my bones upon the road—to be torn limb from limb by hungry beasts before the lamps of the village were lost to my view. Christine was aware of no such dangers. She had heard tales in the summer time of travellers who had been devoured in the desolate places of the mountains by ravenous packs; of bridal parties whose wedding journey had been a journey to the terrible death which the hills hold in store for the reckless. But that peril should await her within a stone’s throw of the Count’s park was a thing she had not dreamt of. Eager to greet again the man who was more dear to her than anything in the world, thinking to please him by meeting his sleigh when it was yet some distance from the house, she had ventured beyond the gates, and had disappeared at last down the road to Jajce. A peasant had remonstrated with her almost at the lodge of the park; but, his tongue being unknown to her, she had laughed at his gesticulations, and had gone on—God knew to what peril or to what fate.

“You may be sure that tidings of all this were spread abroad very quickly by the men of the Count’s household. So fast did the news run that we found quite a little company at the gates of the park, the grooms being come from their stables, the woodlanders from their huts. Of these some had torches in their hands, for it was now full dark; some carried sticks, some lanterns. It was agreed quickly, even above the babble of the talk, that we should strike all together down the road to Jajce; and we trusted that the flare of our torches and the sound of our voices would help to keep danger from the path. In this we were not disappointed, though we had not gone more than half a mile from the house when the need for our journey was made manifest to us. We could see by the moon’s light, which shone gloriously upon the whitened hills, the creeping forms of packs upon the heights. From wood to wood they skulked—scores, nay hundreds, of the famished beasts; and their howling was like a very dirge of the dead. Mournfully, weirdly, now with a ferocity which chilled the heart, now long-drawn as the sighs of damned spirits, the haunting wail went up. That was a heavy winter—a winter when the frost made the hills like domes of iron; when the snow lay heavy and deep upon the grass; when the cattle died in the fields and the bears came down even to the gardens of the houses. It was a season when the wolf was to be found at the very gates of the city: when the flesh was torn from the woodlanders’ bones as they sat in their huts; a season spoken of now in hushed whispers, remembered by a people born and bred to such perils.

“We could see the wolves skulking in the thickets, excellency, and we drew the closer together at the sight, raising our voices and kindling new torches. Yet so great was the hunger which the beasts suffered that presently they became bolder, and began to collect in little groups at the side of the path; while here and there one would leap out, snapping his teeth and shewing us eyes which flashed red in the dim light. And at this some of the grooms began to lose heart and to cry out that our errand could end only in disaster to ourselves. Even the steward was shaking with terror, and alternately reproaching himself and assuring us that we were out on a fool’s business.

“‘Holy Saints,’ he would cry, ‘how they bark; it is like the howling of souls in hell! Did you hear that, Father? The Virgin pray for us. Yet what can we do? That I should go to the Count with such a tale! Think you that she is on the Jajce road? God help her, then. Yet she might as well have looked towards Jézero. Fool that I was to think of coming abroad!’

“‘You speak well, Master Hans,’ cried one of the grooms; ‘this is no errand for men with wives and children to look to them. Not that I am afraid. Who says that lies. I never yet feared man or beast—the Lord have mercy on my soul.’

“A loud amen followed the rogue’s words, and we went on a little further, descending deeper into the gorge and the darkness of the woods. Here the road was very lonely, the trees bridging it over with their branches, and the mountains above seeming to be fleecy vapours hanging in the dome of the heavens. We could hear the pursuing beasts pattering in the thickets at our side, and they howled no longer—a sure sign that they were making ready to spring out upon us. Presently Hans, who was in the van of the company, stopped running altogether, and stood crying to us to listen to him.

“‘One word,’ said he; ‘we are going too fast for Father Mark—I can see it by his step—and this is no place to rest in. It is my advice that we return to the park and then venture a little way down the road to Jézero. Had she passed by here, surely we had overtaken her before this.’

“‘Aye, truly,’ cried another; ‘I am with Master Hans. Go back, say I, and try towards Jézero. It’s here that Gozzo, the shepherd, was torn last year, with his horse. You don’t forget that, Father? Not that I am afraid—who says that lies.’

“They stood now clamouring round the priest, who, be it said to his credit, was the best man among them. I can see him in my mind now, excellency, panting heavily for want of his breath, and raising his stick to bring them to silence.

“‘Who goes back,’ he said presently, ‘him will I bring to account here upon the spot. Louts! do you leave a woman in her peril? What tale will you carry to your master? That I should call such carrion my children! Go on, I say, or you shall feel my cudgel on your shoulders!’

“They were a little shamefaced at this, all hanging very closely together, and cocking their guns in readiness to fire. Even I, to whom the bark of a wolf is no more than the clatter of a pebble in a brook, found some comfort in the fact that I stood at the priest’s side, and was thus in the centre of the group. As for the pack in the thicket, it had become bolder at our halt, and we could now see the brutes, some snarling in the bushes at our side, some jumping before us from the wood to the road, and again from the road to the wood, others dogging our steps and waiting for that moment when one beast more bold than the rest should spring to the attack and a hundred should follow him. So closely did they press upon us at last that we formed a ring in the centre of the path, and fired a rattling volley into them, a great flame of fire lighting the black place of the thicket, and sending them howling and rolling in the depths of the snow. Then, with another loud shout, we ran on through the wood, and found ourselves, to our infinite satisfaction, again upon the open road.

“You may imagine how, in all these trying moments, my thoughts had turned upon Christine. If we, fifteen good men, with torches to light us and guns in our hands, must press together to turn the peril from our path, how, I asked, had it fared with an unarmed girl knowing nothing of the peril or the road. One hope only I had, and it was this—that Christine had passed through the wood while it was yet daylight, and had taken shelter ultimately in the village lying between the great house and Jajce. Yet I knew that this was unlikely; and it was ever in my head that the child had perished already, and that we must go to the Count with the story of her death in our mouths. Nor could I imagine any man so bold that he should bear such news, though it was my consolation that some other than myself must be the messenger.

“I was pluming myself upon this, and telling myself that I, at any rate, should be excused, even if I lost hope of recompense for my care of the child, when Father Mark of a sudden stopped us in our walk and raised his hands warningly.

“‘Hush!’ said he; ‘I thought that I heard a woman’s cry!’

“We all listened with bent ears, but so loud was the howling of the brutes about us that we caught no sound, and the priest spoke again.

“‘I am sure that I was not deceived,’ said he; ‘it was a cry that I heard, and it came from the hamlet yonder.’”

CHAPTER XV
THE APPARITION IN THE CLOISTERS

“The hamlet which he pointed to was known as Trenak, a little settlement of six houses in the hollow of the woods. No sooner were his words spoken than I had great joy of them, saying that surely Christine must have taken refuge in the village. And in this I was warranted when we had waited—it might be the space of a minute—for then we heard the cry which he had heard; and with a loud answer we all ran together down the road; those that had feared now heading the company, and each man very solicitous to be first upon the scene. Yet we had not gone two hundred yards from the spot when we were all huddling together again, and the sound of a gun-shot twice repeated had stiffened the limbs of every man among us.

“‘Hark to that!’ cried the steward, over whose brow the sweat was pouring despite the heaviness of the frost; ‘whoever is down yonder is at close quarters with the pack. God help them!’

“‘It was a Winchester rifle that was fired,’ exclaimed a woodlander. ‘There is but one hand in the province which holds a Winchester, and that is the hand of the Lord Count.’

“‘You say well,’ cried I; ‘the Holy Mother help us to tell him the news.’

“I have never seen men so sorely troubled, excellency. Though they had no alternative but to run on swiftly to the help of their master, yet each desired his fellow to be first, and the excuses they made, some dropping their guns, others rekindling their torches, were a thing to hear. Only at the last, and when we heard a new cry of terror, and the rifle was fired repeatedly, did the urgency of the danger drive them to forget all else, and send them headlong to the turn of the road whence the one street of the village is to be observed.

“Never shall I forget the sight we saw as that street came to our view. It was like passing from the darkness of a stormy night to the glare of a terrible day. There, at a stone’s throw from the first of the houses, was the sledge of Count Paul, its electric lamps—for he built it after the model of the one at Munich—shining so brightly that all the village was lit by them. We could see a dozen lusty men dealing stout blows with their cudgels upon the ravenous beasts, of which fifty at the least were snarling and snapping at the shivering horses. We could see the wolves tearing the flesh in strips from the staggering leaders of the team, or leaping at the villagers, or rolling in the snow as the bullets struck them and the cudgels broke their backs. High above the throng was the form of the Count, his rifle smoking in his hand, his voice as clear and resonant as the voice of a sergeant at the drill. And Christine stood at his side, seeming to make light of the peril.

“Excellency, that was a scene to remember; the glow of the lamps in the ‘whirling fire,’ as the peasants call the sledge, the howling of the wolves, the sharp reports of the rifles, the piteous moanings of the horses, the shouts of the men—above all the figure of the Count shielding little Christine. As for me, I never recall a moment so welcome to me; nor could I fail to remind myself that my word in urging on the men when they would have turned back had done not a little to save the child’s life and the life of Count Paul. Certainly, our coming was the turning-point of the attack; for the presence of the master had put new heart into the poltroons who had followed me from the house, and so soon as they saw him they ran on towards his sledge, shouting like madmen, and firing so wildly that two of the villagers were wounded by their bullets. Nevertheless, the pack being now taken on two sides, and the din and noise being beyond words, many minutes had not passed before the last of the wolves was limping to the woods, and we were gathering about the Lord Count to congratulate him. He, however, had thanks for none of us, since Christine, who had stood up boldly while there was work to be done, had now fallen like a dead thing upon the snow at his feet, and all his care and thought were for her.

“‘How came the child out upon the road?’ he cried as the others pressed about him. ‘Are your wits gone, then, that you had no heads to think of it? Get out of my sight, you gibbering fools! Stand back from her! By God, I will send you packing in the morning!’

“He continued in this way for some time, lifting Christine very tenderly in his arms and laying her upon the cushions of the sledge. His wrath was a fearful thing to see, and so fierce were his words that none of his own dare answer him—not even the priest; and they stood together in the road like children rebuked. Nor did I fare any better, for when I would have told him that it was no fault of mine, and that I had led the others to his help, he struck me with his whip and was the more angry.

“‘Hold your tongue,’ said he, ‘or I will cut it out! God deliver me from such a crew—to let a woman walk the woods when the sun is down! Are you all drunk—and you too, master priest? Then slash the traces off that dead horse and close round the sledge. You shall make noise enough in the morning—make some of it now. The devil give me a lash to reach you!’

“These were hard things to hear, signor, and when he gave us, above them, some heavy slashes with his long whip, raising blood upon our hands and shoulders, it seemed to me that our cup indeed was full. But we could stand still no longer, and when we had cut loose the leading horses—which had been horribly torn by the wolves—we closed round the sledge as he had bidden us, and with much noise and clamour we ran by the side of it, going safely through the dark place of the wood, and so ultimately to the gates of the château. We were still at some distance from the park, however, when Christine, who had but swooned, came to her senses, as I could see from my place at the window of the carriage; and finding herself in the arms of the man she loved, she raised her face to his, and was held close to him while he kissed her again and again.

“‘Ho, ho,’ said I to myself as I watched the pretty work, ‘now surely is your day come, Andrea, for she will be his wife within the month.’

“Christine awoke on the following morning without any hurt of her adventure, excellency. Nor did the Count hold to threats made in anger, but having given Hans and the priest a sound drubbing with his tongue, he dismissed them to their business. I, for my part, kept out of his way all that day, fearing, if he saw me, to be sent back to Zlarin. I had made up my mind to dwell at Jajce as long as circumstances would permit, more particularly until Christine’s future was settled; and now that such a settlement seemed probable this intention was the stronger. Whatever fate was in store for the girl, that I wished to share. I said to myself that I had earned the right to such a participation in her fortunes. She owed it to me alone that she had lived to know the comforts of her present state. I had given her bread when she was starving, had heard her read out of the book when no other in Sebenico would open a door to her. She had sat upon my knee like one of my own children, had heard words of wisdom from my lips when others gave her curses. Strange, then, if she should not think of me in the great day of her life; strange if I must be sent away when the supreme moment of her happiness was at hand.

“You may urge that such a thought was an anticipation of her state, that nothing had yet passed to lead me to so triumphant a conclusion. I answer you that I am a judge of men, and that nothing of the Count’s nature was then hidden from me.

“Hour by hour the conviction that he would marry her had grown upon me. I had begun to see that he was a man who had learnt to scorn the opinions of his fellow-men—a man who would let nothing come between him and his pleasures. In the same measure that he could jeer at the religion of the priest, or pour torrents of anger upon his servants, so was he at heart a just man, obeying a fine code of honour which his own inborn chivalry dictated. The longer I remained in the house of the Zaloskis, the more sure was I that no shame would come upon Christine there. The Count had few to pry into the garden of his life. His visits to Vienna were rare and official. His only relation was a sister, whose one interest in him was the principal she had borrowed and could not repay. Should he marry the daughter of a merchant of Zara—and that was how the world would hear of it—there would be a few to express surprise that he had not taken a wife from the salons of the capital, but none who would have the right to remonstrate. Nay, everything pointed to the one end—his loneliness, his care of the child, the anger he had shewn when she was in danger, his tenderness to her when she was in the carriage with him. Look at the matter as I might, I could not alter my view; and so sure was I that Count Paul had already spoken to Christine some words of his wish that I took the first opportunity of talking to her, and of putting the question without disguise.

“‘Christine,’ said I—and we were walking in the cloisters of the house about the hour of sundown when I spoke—‘I have not ceased to thank God for your escape last night. Surely it was fortunate that I heard of your danger and called the others to your help.’

“She laughed rather merrily, and not a little to my hurt, excellency.

“‘Oh,’ cried she, ‘I have heard it said that you had no great mind for the task, Andrea. Was it not your word that they should turn back and go to Jézero? Father Mark declares that your legs trembled all the way to the village!’

“‘A plague upon his lying throat!’ said I; ‘had not it been for my arm, his bones would even now lie in yonder wood. Learn, child, that the noblest courage may wear the poorest coat. Afraid!—I fear nothing in heaven or hell!’

“She laughed again at this, but becoming serious presently, she spoke very frankly to me, telling me of her predicament and of the great events that came out of it.

“‘I never thought that there was any danger in the woods,’ said she, ‘for I have been through them a hundred times on my way to Jajce. Last night, for the first time, the sun had begun to sink when I crossed the thicket, and then I heard a pattering in the bushes beside me, and my heart seemed to stand still when I remembered the stories I had heard about Gozzo, the shepherd, who was killed in that place last year. How I ran, Andrea! It seemed an age before I saw the lights of the village and heard the clatter of Count Paul’s sledge. When at last he saw me and I fell at his feet, and heard the moans of his horses and the shouts of the villagers, I could have cried my heart out to have brought such trouble upon him.’

“‘Think nothing of that,’ said I, ‘for I will venture he found the trouble very pleasant.’

“She blushed at this, turning away from me, yet denying none of my words.

“‘Per Baccho, Christine,’ I continued, ‘this is not news to hide from old Andrea. What said the Count, now, when you came home?’

“This direct question seemed to anger her. She turned a flushed face upon me, stamping with her foot and flashing fire with her pretty eyes.

“‘How dare you ask me that?’ she cried. ‘How dare you speak so? Surely the Count was right when he said that you must be sent about your business!’

“I was much alarmed at this, and determined to approach her otherwise.

“‘My Lord Count said that?’ exclaimed I, ‘then God reward him for his gratitude! Three days have I suffered in the mountains that I might speak for you, and this is my recompense. Nay, say nothing, child, for nothing is to be said. Strike the hand that gave you bread; and when you come to your new estate—when you are the mistress of many servants and of many lands—forget that an old man, whom once you called father, is perishing of his poverty and his want. He will never bend his head to implore your charity. Nay, though you had the blood of queens in your veins, he would neither remember nor rebuke. Enough for him that duty has been his watchword, and love of you his crime.’

“My words brought tears to her eyes, and she came up to me, laying her head upon my shoulder as she used to do.

“‘Andrea,’ said she, ‘do not speak like that. Wherever I am, there will be a home for you. I could never forget the years when I called you father. The Count will remember too. He has promised me. It is for you to choose either a cottage in the woods here or a house in your own city of Sebenico. It was his word to me a week ago. Your kindness will not go unrewarded, old friend—that could never be. Wait only a little while and all will be well.’

“I was much mollified at this, but for the moment any thought of myself gave place to astonishment and delight at her words.

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘Count Paul has spoken to you—then surely you have news for me! Is it not my right to know? Oh, truly, I see that you have great news, and yet not a word of it for old Andrea, who would give years of his life to learn of your happiness.’

“She was silent a moment before she answered me, but taking pity at last upon my curiosity she bent her head and whispered the word I had waited so long to hear.

“‘Andrea,’ she said, ‘God make me worthy—I am to be his wife at Easter.’

“Her confusion when she said this was very pretty to see; and directly she had given me her news she ran away to her own room. But I stood long in the cloisters, not daring to believe such fortune possible. That Count Paul should have declared himself so soon was, indeed, a thing to strike me dumb with wonder. Yet I knew that no false word had ever passed her lips, and her intelligence kept ringing in my head, so that I repeated it again and again, often stopping to clap my hands with joy, or to tell myself that now truly should the future bring me years of content. I foresaw the day when Christine should rule the people of Jajce and they should rejoice at her dominion; I made her in my mind the sweet mistress of the house of the Zaloskis, the controlling influence which should break the anger of the Count. I thought of all that she would do for the old man who had loved her; and I could have danced for my delight. ‘Oh, surely, surely,’ said I, ‘may the day be blessed and may the love of God shine upon her, for she is worthy.’ All the burden of my years seemed to have left me in that hour, excellency. ‘Go, poverty, go, suffering,’ cried I; ‘no more shall your hands be laid upon me. The morrow shall be the morrow of my ease. The new day shall be a day of joy. Oh, blessed hour, blessed God!’

“I walked long in the cloisters of the château, full of such happy thoughts as these. The dark came sweeping down upon the valleys, the beacons of the sun’s fires were gone from the hills, and I was still telling myself that no wonder in the world’s history was like this wonder of my child’s life, this happy fortune which had carried her—and her old friend—to such a home and to such a state. It may be, excellency, that in my surprise and my satisfaction I fell to taking all things as accomplished, to believing Christine already married, to planning a future which was at the best a shadow. And if this be so, my punishment was swift to follow, for even as I was about to retrace my steps to the house and to seek audience of the priest I heard a step upon the stone pavement behind me; and turning swiftly about, I saw an apparition which froze my heart’s blood and held me to the spot like one upon whom a judgment has come. God be my witness—I saw the face and figure of Ugo Klun!

“Signor, it was dark then, with the first darkness of night. The sun had gone from the heights, and there was no light of the moon to make silver of the snow. None the less was I sure that Christine’s husband stood there in the shadow of the cloister, and that his eyes were looking into mine. Though his face was thinned by want, though his clothes were torn and ragged, and one of his hands was bound up in a dirty white cloth, I knew the man from the first—knew him and shrank at the sight of him, and prayed God that it was a vision. All my consolation, all my imaginings, left me in that moment of foreboding. The breath of the frost seemed to breathe upon my life, the cup of all my bitterness to be full. ‘No longer,’ said I, ‘may Andrea look for a home in the house of the Zaloskis, no longer think that the burden of his years is taken from his shoulders. That was the hope of yesterday. To-day he is a beggar again, and the cup is snatched from little Christine’s lips. Oh, cursed hour!’

“These were my lamentations in the first minutes of my sorrow, excellency. That Ugo Klun lived I could doubt no more. The apparition which I saw was the apparition of a second of time, and was gone even while I was starting back in my dread of it; yet its reality I never questioned. And when I ran out a little way into the park and looked for footprints upon the snow, I beheld the path of the man, and it was clear to me that he had made on towards Jézero, there, as I assumed, to lie hidden until he could disclose himself advantageously. When that moment would come, or what profit the man would make of his liberty, I could not then foresee; nor had I any proper plan in my mind. My head was too full of the saying ‘He lives,’ my heart burnt too fiercely with anger and with regret of the present, to permit reflection upon the future. This only was I determined upon—that neither the Count nor Christine should learn of that which I had seen. ‘Perchance,’ I said, ‘fear will keep him to the mountains; perchance he will not find courage to claim what right he has. And if he does, then God help him, for I will strike him down with my own hand!’

“The month which followed upon this dreadful night, excellency, was one that time will never obliterate from my memory. It was difficult to realise in the unchanging life of the great house that so terrible a shadow lay over it. I saw Christine day by day coming to new health and a more fascinating maturity; I saw Count Paul robbed of his old taciturnity, made more gentle under her winning influence. That the man loved her with a fierce, dominating love, all the world about the château knew. Her presence was the midday of his waking hours. He asked for her so soon as he came from his bedroom in the morning; often his last word at night was an order for her comfort. No longer did the hunt in the woods carry him for days from Jajce. His horses waxed fat in the stables; his woodlanders made merry in their huts; his servants blessed the day when Christine had come between them and their master’s wrath. As for the priest, he had bowed his head to a fate he could not control, and, seeming to have abandoned all scruple as to the death of Ugo Klun, he spent his time in educating her who was to be his mistress and in praising her for accomplishments she did not possess. I alone lived with the shadow on my path; I alone cried to Heaven in the bitterness of my heart that the sun might shine again upon my hopes.

“Excellency, you may demand to know, and with reason, what steps I had taken to learn the truth of my fancies in the park. Be assured that I had left no work undone that might bring me to a fuller knowledge of the circumstances under which the man had contrived to present himself at the house of Count Paul. I went to the cottage of his father, who could tell me only that his son was dead. I sent letters to Sebenico, to a friend in the police there, asking for a circumstantial account of Ugo Klun’s arrest, and was told in answer that the man had fired upon the corporal sent to take him, and in turn had been shot dead by a trooper. How to reconcile this testimony with that to which my eyes bore witness I knew not. On the one hand, an official declaration; on the other, the apparition of the cloister. Had I been a witless, unthinking fool like those about me, I should have said at once that I had been the victim of hallucination, the creature of the mind’s dreaming. But never yet did a hag’s legend shake my nerves or the voice of the unseen terrify me. I knew that Ugo Klun lived; I felt his presence hovering like the shadow of disaster about the house. God of my life! scarce day or night could I rest, saying to myself always: ‘He will come to-day—to-day the Count will know—to-day I must set out for Sebenico and remember my poverty once more.’ Yet the days passed and he did not come; the days passed, and we grew in happiness—cospetto, the first breath of spring was upon the land, and we lived yet in our garden of delights.”

CHAPTER XVI
THE SECOND COMING OF UGO KLUN

“I have told you, excellency, how it was that I myself knew of the Count’s wish with regard to Christine. Yet I was careful to keep my counsel, and I found to my content that no one in the château looked for any early surprise. Some there were, indeed, to shake their heads and pray for the conversion of the little one; others said: ‘She amuses the Lord Count, and by-and-bye he will send her to her home again.’ The priest rarely spoke of the matter, but busied himself the more with the education of his pupil. He, too, may have deceived himself with the hope that his master would soon shake off the infatuation. I alone knew how close to the heart of the man the child had crept; how, loving her not from any desire of possession, he had found in her the satisfying sweetness of a gentle womanhood, and had learnt swiftly to lay down the heavy burdens of his life in her company.

“‘Christine,’ he would say, and she herself told me of this, ‘you never think of Zlarin now?’

“‘Madonna mia, I think of it often, dear friend. It is difficult to forget the past when we have suffered. But oh, I will; it cannot hurt me here!’

“She was sitting at his feet before the great fire in his room when he said this; and now she crept close to him and laid her head upon his knees, thinking that the haven of her safety was in his embrace. He, in turn, fell to stroking her hair very gently, and presently he bent down and kissed her.

“‘As you say, little one, it cannot hurt you here. It shall be my business that it does not. Has the priest been filling your head with his nonsense again? A pest upon his tongue!’

“‘No,’ she said, looking into the fire thoughtfully, ‘it is not that, signor’—she called him signor often, still fearing him in her own childish way—‘he is too busy teaching me my ignorance of the present to think about my past. He is sure that you will come to the confessional before Easter is done. That is his first word in the morning and his last word at night. “Pray for him always,” he says.’

“She stopped suddenly, conscious that she had spoken all her thoughts, and that he was very serious.

“‘But I cannot do it,’ she added presently, in the hope of correcting the impression; ‘that is to say, I cannot pray to lead you, signor, but only that you may lead me always, and that I may obey and love—oh, God knows how I pray to love and thank you!’

“She raised her pretty face to his, and he took her close in his arms, feeling that her big black eyes looked him through and through. It was the soul of the child that spoke, the soul pulsating with love and gratitude and strange hopes. She had found her city, excellency, but it lay in the heart of the man.

“‘Christine,’ said the Count presently, for her words had set him thinking, ‘it is good for a woman to keep her faith, though that faith is best which can say: “I believe in right and wrong, and in God, since I know this distinction.” These priests do well when they bring Christ down into the homes of men; they waste their time when they have nothing but the hereafter upon their tongues. God of my soul, there is more religion in a crust of bread thrown to a hungry man than in all the sermons that man has preached! And there is more truth in a word of sympathy to him that needs it than in all the catechisms of the Churches. That is my creed, child. I need no other—and no prayers—while I live by it. But you, little one, it is good for you to believe what you do, and you may pray for me always as the priest bids you.’

“She mused some time upon his words, and he, avoiding further talk upon a subject which rarely drew a word from him, turned to other things.

“‘Himmel, pretty one,’ said he, ‘this is no refectory for monkish talk. Let me look into your eyes and see what I can read there.’

“She turned her face to him, and it was alight with laughter.

“‘Oh, surely,’ said he, holding her face between his hands, ‘I read many things here—and first a question. You would ask me when I go to Vienna—am I right, sweetheart?’

“‘There was talk of that in the house to-day, signor, and they said that you went in Passion Week, and that the year would be nearly run before you came back.’

“‘They said that? Heaven, what chatterers! To-morrow I will put plaisters on their tongues. You did not believe the tale?’

“‘I believe nothing but that which you tell me.’

“‘And if I stayed away until the year had run?’

“‘Oh, I would wait and think always, and run every morning to the Jajce road and say: “To-day he will come back to me!”’

“‘You would like to go to Vienna, Christine?’

“‘Oh, I have no thought. When I was a child it seemed to me that they had carried me out of the world, and that somewhere, far off, there was a great city in which all the happiness and all the love of the world lay. Every day I used to say to myself: “God will take me across the mountains, and I shall hear and see the things of which I dream.” I thought that there would be no night then, and that none would starve and none be poor, and that golden clouds would shine down upon us from the sky. Madonna mia, what a silly dream it was! Yet I had none to tell me of my fault. Now I think of it no longer; I have no wish. The past is all a shadow.’

“The Count, watching her keenly as her torrent of words was poured out, did not answer her at once, but holding both her hands in his, he fell to asking himself what the capital would say if he took there as his wife this little barbarian, so simple, in many ways so ignorant, yet so powerful to hold the heart and win the love of men. He could not hide from himself the fact that the whole city would find merriment in the discovery—yet that to him personally was of the smallest concern. It was his joy always to trample upon the conceits and opinions which stood between him and his few pleasures. Had there been any motive for his pride to lead him, he would have been found among the chiefs of Austria long ago. But for twenty years he had looked at life through the glasses of his irony and contempt, and had scorned the ambition of place as the ambition of fools. Now, however, he began to regard things from a new point of view. He remembered the conventions of men, not for his own sake, but for the sake of Christine. There were moments when he could scarce believe that this dark-eyed little Italian had really entered into his life so entirely that the world was empty for him when he did not hear her voice. ‘She shall never be the sport of fools,’ he said, ‘but shall find a home here. Let them laugh themselves hoarse—but I will cut out the tongue of any man that insults her. She has the gentleness of a child and the grace of ten women who prate of birth.’

“This was his reasoning while she sat at his knees in the great vaulted library, and the light of the fire shone red and golden upon her face. But he hid from her much of that which was in his mind.

“‘Some day, Christine,’ he said, ‘we will go and see your great city together—but not yet. To-morrow I leave you; but when I come back, in twenty days’ time, you shall be alone no more. You still wish it, little one?’

“Excellency, he had his answer as a man loves best to have it—sealed upon his lips, without any witness of word or promise.

“The Count left for Vienna on the first day of Passion Week. Though he had made no declaration of his intention, a rumour of things was abroad in the château, and the whole household was alive with expectation. It was wonderful to see the awakening of those who for ten years and more had walked through life under a burden of sleep. Painters came from Jajce to clean the time-stained rooms. Carpets arrived in waggons from Serajevo. A great dressmaker from Pesth was busy with his fine stuffs and embroidery. Dame Theresa stitched all day, or raved at the maids. The grooms dragged out forgotten coaches from the sheds and sent them to the wheelwright. There were ladders and buckets and beaters in every room. You heard the sound of merry singing in the corridors; bright faces met you in the park. Christine became at once the object of a slavish attention. ‘The Lord Count has wished it,’ were the words on every tongue. The priest alone kept his gloomy voice and muttered his gloomy warnings.

“Spring was early to come that year, excellency. The snow sank through the mountains when March was young, and we gathered violets in the bowers of the park while the Church was still telling us to fast. It was good to see Jajce shining white and glorious in her cup of the hills; good to see the little waves lapping in the lake, and to hear the droning thunders of the Plevna. No more was there danger lurking in the pass. We walked as we listed in the woods and on the heights. Bears gambolled on the sward between the thickets; the wolf hid himself in the depths of the glades. For myself, I felt that twenty years of life had been given to me. The mountain air breathed strength into my lungs. The winds of the hills were iron to my veins. I lived in a garden of dreams, and said surely that the good God was mocking me.

“The Count had left us in Passion Week, but we looked for his return at Low Sunday, and worked the harder to have all things in readiness for him. As for Christine herself, no word of mine could convey a sense of her content and her pleasure. It was more and more astonishing to see, as the days went on, how that little vagrant of the hills began to ape the airs and manners of the fine lady, yet with so gentle a grace that none had offence of it. Eight months of the priest’s books and teaching—added to that she had learnt of me and in the school at Zlarin—had done much for one to whom dignity came as an inheritance, and fine bearing as a birthright. I said it always, and I say it now, that my child was willed by God to sit at the feet of princes. For this was her destiny, and to this destiny was carrying her, as I have told.

“They made her fine dresses, excellency, and the great costumiers clapped their hands when they saw her pretty face, declaring that her figure would have touched the heart of Worth himself. She let them work their will, displaying little of a woman’s joy at the silver and the gold and the embroidery, but glad always that so great a gulf now lay between her and her poverty. Strange the fact may be, yet her new state sat more easily upon her than the vagrant life of the island. The instinct of imitation was strong in her. Once she had seen a thing done, she never forgot how to do it herself. Father Mark declared that an apter pupil had never come to him. She could patter in German in three months; she spoke it with some fluency in six. As a musician she had ever great gifts, and she could get music out of a crazy old fiddle which would set a cripple leaping to the dance. The greater opportunities of her new position robbed her neither of her simplicity nor of her pretty ways of thought. She cared nothing for the tinsel of her frocks, but was glad that fine linen covered her limbs. She put no other value upon jewels beyond the message of love they bore her. Every day while the Lord Count was away in the capital she would ride out upon the Jajce road to fetch the letters he had promised her. I know that she prayed for hours in the chapel, asking the Blessed Virgin and the Saints’ intercession for him she loved. Nothing could come between them now, she thought. Diavolo! if she had foreseen!

“She continued in this pleasant occupation until the week in which Count Paul was to come home again. As the great day approached, she would ride out towards the town more frequently, thinking perchance that the master would surprise us. It was upon such an excursion as this, excellency, that she was brought face to face with the great moment of her life. Though there be many years which I must still live, never may I forget that day of bitterness and of woe. Heaven is my witness that the words in which I tell of it burn my lips. Yet you have asked me for the story of Christine, and I will withhold no page of it.

“She had run down to the great white road, and was standing at the summit of the hill whence Jajce and the fall of the waters is clearly to be observed. The hour was the hour of sunset, and the whole gorge below her shone blood-red and glittering. She could see the white track running like the marrow of the pass, now between, now at the foot of, the surpassingly green hills; the river itself was bubbling over with white waves; the smoke of the hamlets made canopies in the sky. But her thoughts were not for such things as these. She had eyes only for the road; ears open only to the sound of bells and the ring of hoofs. A Turk passed her, his lean pony weighed down with a burden of meal and maize, but she did not notice his salutation; a Bashi-Bazouk rode by, his belt full of knives and pistols in his holster, but she was unconscious of his presence. The white road to Jajce—the path by which her master would come—there was her mind and her heart.

“‘To-morrow,’ she said; ‘he will come to-morrow. Holy Virgin, send him to take me in his arms! Oh, surely he will be here at sunset.’

“She had a rosary in her hand, and she began to finger the beads quickly. Long she stood, never moving her eyes from the silver track in the valley; the sun sank behind a peak of the hills, and she watched yet and waited. Only when the gorge began to be hidden by the mists, and dark veiled the distant town, did she turn swiftly to run back to the great house and to the new surprises she expected there.

“Excellency, it was then that she saw her husband.

“He had been hiding in the bushes of the thicket upon her right hand, and had watched her for a space while she counted her beads and muttered prayers for the Count’s return. But now he sprang out, and clutched her by the arm, swinging her round roughly, so that he brought her face to face with him. He wore the same clothes in which he had gone with her to the hut of Orio; but the breeches were black with dirt, the high boots were cracked and rotting, the green jacket was torn and wanted buttons. Though his face was no longer pinched with want, and he had shaved off the stubble of beard, nevertheless he was but a shadow of the Ugo who had loved Christine at Zlarin. She saw that his eyes were bright as the eyes of one who wakes to fever; his left arm was bandaged and hung limp by his side; his right hand gripped her flesh so that she could feel his fingers touching the bone. Yet no word of anger passed his lips; a smile that was half a sneer lighted up his pale features; an exclamation of pleasure escaped him when he saw that all the blood had run from the girl’s face, and that fear and agony of mind had made her dumb.

“‘Cospetto, little Christine,’ he cried, shaking her until he went near to wrenching the bone of her arm from its socket, ‘have you no word of welcome for me?’

“She answered him only with a low moan; she was praying in her heart that God would strike her dead at his feet. But to him her grief was so much for merriment and satisfaction.

“‘Maledetto, carissima,’ he went on, still clutching her arm, ‘is this the way you meet me? Ho, ho! I thought it would be so now that we had diamonds on our neck. Devil! to run to another man’s arms in the hour of my misfortune! But it is my turn now, little Christine. I have the priest’s writing in my pocket, and the writing of witnesses. You are my wife, carina, before God and men. See how I claim you!’

“He dragged her to him roughly, tearing the fine linen of her chemise. He had meant to make his embrace as loathsome to her as possible, for his hate of her waxed strong. There is no middle way for an Italian who loves, excellency—either a fierce consuming passion, burning the stronger in gratification, or a hatred which may never turn to love again. Ugo Klun had loved Christine well when he took her from Zlarin; but the thought that she had been in another man’s arms—for such was his belief—drove him to this madness. He swore that he would compel her to the very depths of suffering. She should work for him, slave for him, bear his embraces—the taste of riches she had known should be a life-long bitterness in her mouth. If she loved Count Paul of Jézero, so much the better. That would bring a speedier vengeance.

“‘See how I claim you,’ he repeated, pressing her against him in spite of her cry of pain and loathing—‘oh, we will have merry days, my Christine. I hurt you, little one? Nay, but I will hurt you the more yet! My face burns you? Diamine, that your fine clothes should have made your skin so soft! Oh, do not draw back, carina—though I have but one arm, see how easily it holds you—and your lips are very sweet. Benissimo, that they should be mine to kiss!’

“The man had the strength of a beast, and for some moments he held her in a grip like iron. When the pressure of his arm was relaxed she almost fell upon the road; but he still had her wrist, and he stood over her, mocking her until at last she found words to answer him.

“‘Ugo—oh, God be merciful—what shall I say to you? They told me you were dead. See how I suffer. Oh, blessed Mother of Christ, help me! Ugo, what harm have I done you?—oh, you tear my flesh! Ugo, let me speak—let me run back to the house that I may tell them—dear God, that I might die—my tears blind me.’

“‘Your tears blind you?’ cried he, savagely. ‘You thought that I was dead! That is well, since I live to tell you otherwise and to see you weep. Oh, surely this is a great day, little one, when you soil your fine clothes in the dust, and kneel to me for mercy. We will have many like it before the year is run! You shall cry every day to the Blessed Virgin, but she will not hear you, carissima. You shall work the flesh off those pretty arms, my wife, and yet shall have more to do. Run back to the house! I would cut your throat first!’

“He accompanied his words with a blow upon her pretty mouth, and as she moaned before him and shook with her sobs he continued:

“‘Aye, weep away, devil that you are, and may your eyes be blinded! That I should let you run back to him! Accidente! I count the hours until I meet him face to face! Do you hear, little one? May the day be soon when my hands shall be wet with his blood! Cospetto—I will tear his heart from his body and lay it on your cheek—your lover’s heart, Christina mia! Oh, we will have merry days, beloved—merry days! And you shall remember Jézero always. I swear it on the holy Cross. There shall be no hour of your life when you shall not think of it. It was good to love you, carissima, but it is better to hate. And I will hate well, the Virgin be my witness.’

“He pulled her to her feet again; but she stood before him now with dry eyes and burning cheeks. Never from the first had she doubted his right to do with her as he would—for a wife in Dalmatia is reckoned but little better than the beasts, and the dominion of the husband is the dominion of the master who commands the slave. She knew that the law of her Church and the law of her country would give her to him; yet even then she would have struggled to the end, would, perchance, have died at his feet, had he not threatened the man for whom she would have given her life so gladly. She said that, whatever suffering had been decreed for her, Count Paul should suffer nothing. She would endure any degradation, submit to all the man desired, if he who had loved her with so gentle a love might thereby be served. She blamed herself now that she had wept. She knew that she had need of all her courage. The Count’s life might depend upon her words.

“‘Ugo,’ she said, and there was decision in her voice, ‘what harm have I done you, or what wrong have you received at the Count’s hands? Such as I am he has made me. You left me in the mountains, and he gave me a home when no other would give me bread. For all that he has given he has asked nothing but my love, and he asked that because they told him you were dead. I know well that I stood with you before the altar at Incoronata. I was a child, and there was no one to tell me what marriage meant. Was it a sin that I wished to be your friend always? If that is so, am I not ready to repay? To-night I will go with you where you will. I will be your servant as you ask—the Holy Mother help me! I will be your wife. Only speak no harm of the Count—think none, or you will live to hate the day. God pity me!—I am a woman and my arm is weak. But I will find a way—and your words shall be bitter on your tongue, I promise it.’

“She had wrenched herself away from him now, and had she willed it, she could have run back to the house again. One thought alone—and this for the life of her master—chained her feet. There could be no safety for him, she said in her childish way, until she had gone out of his existence and submitted to the agony of the yoke she had put upon her neck. She must go away with Ugo Klun, and her tears must freeze in her heart. As for the man, there had been a second of time when the love he bore for her once had rushed back and almost compelled him to cry out to her for love in answer. But the mood passed swiftly. The devil in him whispered that she lied. He remembered that when he had watched her from the park, or had lurked in the gardens of the château at night, he had seen her held in the Count’s embrace. He said that she was the vagrant of the isle of Zlarin, and that such embraces could have but one meaning. He choked the temptation to relent, and turned upon her fiercely again.

“‘Cospetto, my little Christine,’ he cried at last, ‘there is the devil in your eyes! We shall have a merry day, carissima, and you shall repeat your pretty threats in my own house. How! you did not know that I had a house? Oh! but I will lead you there, and you shall tell me your tale again. Are there not some of your friends in the hollow yonder? Per Baccho, it is good to be a dead man when the hunt is out. And I have been dead three months, carina, as the corporal has told them. Oh, surely your eyes shine with love to see me come to life again!’

“It was as he said, excellency. Hans the steward was then coming up the Jajce road, and Christine, when she saw him, had the thought to raise her voice and cry for help. But the man was too quick for her, and of a sudden he gripped her arm again and dragged her into the thicket.

“‘Say one word,’ he snarled, ‘and I will bury my stiletto in your heart!’”

CHAPTER XVII
ANDREA LEAVES JÉZERO

“There is a proverb in our tongue, excellency, which says that he who relies upon another’s table is apt to dine late. The misfortune which fell upon the house of Jézero in the week of Easter brought this saying home to me, to my discomfort.

“The Count had returned on the eve of Low Sunday. We had been then three days in the hills and in the villages seeking for Christine. Maria Santissima! there was no man in the house who did not shake with fear when the news went abroad that the little one was missing. As well might they have told us that our master was dead—aye, and better—for then there would have been none to hold us to the accusation.

“Even the priest trembled at the tidings, though I knew that he had looked for them. ‘Signor Andrea,’ he said—it was the night after she left us—‘I will not hold it from you that this is no surprise to me. Yet even I did not think that she would go away like this, without word or message. Who shall tell him? The Virgin be my help—I would not do it for a kingdom!’

“‘Father,’ said I, ‘your words are wise. This can be no surprise to you.’

“He turned quickly, searching me with his bright black eyes.

“‘How?’ exclaimed he; ‘they say that?’

“‘They do not say it,’ I answered, ‘but they may presently, if I do not hold my tongue. Was it not your word that if the man lived you would find him? Securo, I can remember and I can forget, Father.’

“He was much alarmed at this, and taking my arm he drew me gently to the window of the room.

“‘It is time that you and I understood each other, my friend,’ he said; ‘and for the matter of that, I have desired it all along. Though I know nothing—and God is my witness that I speak truth—of the reasons which have induced the girl to leave us at this time, I have no doubt at all that they are to be learnt in whatever house her husband has now chosen for her——’

“‘Eccoli, Father; then you know that he lives!’

“‘It was known to me three weeks ago, as it has been known to you from the first. We are no children, you and I, and we do not play harlequin for fools to laugh. Why, then, should we not talk to each other as men that have a common desire? You are well aware that Alvise, the father of the man Ugo, bribed a corporal to report the lad as dead. I will not stop to point out to you how grave a crime you contemplated in permitting Christine to go to the altar with one who could never be a husband to her. For the sake of the woman’s soul, and for the eternal good of my master, I have acted as became a priest and a servant of Jesus Christ. It remains for you to do what you can to repair the injury which you have brought upon this house. And firstly, it is for you to hold your tongue and to know nothing, whatever question may be put to you. An explanation would lead only to your undoing and to mine—it might lead also to a sin greater than any we have yet contemplated. As the affair stands, it is easy to say some accident must have overtaken Christine—even to hint that she is dead. If the Count should learn what we know, then we shall be the better for pretending ignorance. We can but act like honest men and the true friends of one whom it is a privilege to serve.’

“‘Per Baccho,’ said I, ‘you speak like a book; yet there are things I cannot forget, Father, and the first of them is that I am an old man and a poor one. Not that poverty is any sore to me! Poca roba poco pensiero, is my word. Yet I doubt not that I must return to my home at Sebenico when your master returns. It is hard that I should go empty-handed after all my pains. Surely, my tongue would be the stiller if there were a little weight of silver upon it.’

“‘I have thought of that, Signor Andrea,’ he answered quickly; ‘I am not one to forget my friends. When you leave the château of Jézero, it shall not be empty-handed. And you may count upon me always——’

“Our discourse was cut short at this point by the return of another of the woodlanders, who had ridden out towards Travnik in the hope of finding Christine. He now came galloping over the grass of the park, and many ran out to meet him, crying for his news.

“‘Hast thou heard of her? Surely I see that thou hast tidings! Saints and angels! who shall tell the Lord Count? You have learnt nothing? May the day be black that she passed the gates!’

“The man rode on, regardless of these cries from the grooms and the women, and drew rein only at the door of the château.

“‘I have been sixteen hours in the saddle,’ he said to the priest, ‘and have learnt nothing. There was a strange woman passed through Jajce this morning, and an Italian with her; but she had rags about her legs. Mehmed Bey, who rode by here at sunset yesterday, saw my lady standing by the thicket at the turn of the path. She had a rosary in her hand, and her eyes were towards the town. She was still there when dark came down and hid her from his sight. Holy God! that I must tell it to my master!’

“There was a little crowd round the man before he had done; and when his message was delivered the women fell to wailing again and the grooms to cursing. All these, excellency, had learnt love for her whose presence had breathed so sweet an influence in the house of the Zaloskis. They mourned for her as one of their own; they trembled when they asked each other what saying must come to the Count’s ears. No sooner did one of them ride into the park than another was upon his horse, galloping swiftly through the bridle-track of the woods, or spurring again to the house of the Prefect. Nor did they rest, night or day, until their master stood again in the great courtyard of the house, and the terrible moment of speaking was at hand.

“He had driven over from the station at Travnik, for there was no railway then to Jajce, and dark was upon the château when we heard the bells of his horses. I can remember well that he wore the blue uniform of his hussar regiment, and that his cloak was open and loose and his cap somewhat over his face when he stepped from the carriage and stood for a minute in the courtyard, where we were drawn up, with torches in our hands, awaiting him. I had hoped that he would have called me from the company and have spoken with me first—for a groom had already whispered that he had heard the tidings—but he did not so much as notice me.

“‘Where is Hans?’ he asked, casting a quick glance over the throng.

“The steward stepped forward and bent low.

“‘My Lord Count,’ he murmured, ‘blame me not——’

“Count Paul stopped him abruptly.

“‘Follow me,’ he said, ‘and let these others go to their work.’

“‘The horses are ready bridled in the stables, Herr Count.’

“‘There is no need of them—let the bridles be taken off.’

“I looked at Father Mark when this was said, and he returned my glance. The others went slowly out of the courtyard, glad to put distance between themselves and their master. The Count led the steward to his study, and lighted the lamps there. We could see him from our place in the quadrangle pacing the length of the apartment, with his sword clattering at his heels; we could watch the gestures of Hans, whose lips moved quickly, and whose emphasis was abundant. It was evident that Count Paul scarce spoke a word. Yet who could measure the sorrow of his silence?

“‘Look,’ whispered the priest, gripping my arm, ‘he is listening to the man’s tale, but he answers nothing. You heard him give the order to unbridle the horses. That means much, my friend.’

“‘Securo, Father,’ replied I, ‘what we know, he knows—that is plain. You spoke well when you said that we should put curbs upon our tongues.’

“‘I spoke as my faith taught me,’ he exclaimed; ‘yet God knows what it cost me to do so. He is not a man to forget; Madonna mia, he will remember always. And she had become very dear to him. I would give half my life if she could be a wife to him.’

“‘Aye, truly,’ said I, ‘that would have been a great day. And it may come yet—who knows? If there be a hunt still for the man she has gone with, is it not easy to lay hands upon him? A company of dragoons would catch him in three days!’

“The suggestion was new to him. He considered it for a moment, and then he said:

“‘As you say, yet who will give the command? Not the Count, certainly, for what service would it be to him if the husband of Christine were sent to a prison, and to his regiment afterwards? The tale that he fired upon his commanding officer is one to be told in a guest-house, and not to a court of soldiers. You know that it is untrue. And more than that, my friend, we are dealing with one to whom honour is a faith. You, of course, might go to the Prefect with the story in your mouth. He would answer you that the man Klun was shot in the hills. You would lose then both the opportunity of serving the woman and the reward which I have promised you. Is that wisdom?’

“‘Nay,’ said I, for he had convinced me, ‘it would be folly beyond words, and for the matter of that——’

“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘the steward is coming out.’

“It was as he said. The Count had now flung himself into a great chair before his fire, and sat there motionless, the red light playing upon his drawn and anxious face. But the steward came out to us, and raising his finger warningly, he led us to the cloister. There, in hurried whispered words, he told us what had passed.

“‘He heard all in Travnik,’ said he, ‘for they had telegraphed there. He asked me if there was any letter left or message, or if the man—whom they say she has gone with—has been seen about the place. I said no, and then he charged me that my lady’s name should never pass our lips again. His anger I could have borne with—but his kindness—my God, that is hard to bear now. And there was no complaint. Had I been a woman, he could not have spoken gentler words. Black be the day that I have seen him so.’

“Excellency, I make no excuse for him, but there were tears in the eyes of Hans when he had done speaking.

“‘Come, Master Hans,’ I exclaimed, ‘neither winter nor summer rests always in the sky, as the proverb goes. Diamine, he will forget in a week, and all will be well again! It must be our business to help him. He made mention of me, did you say?’

“‘Surely he did.’

“‘The Lord bless his charity, then.’

“‘Not so fast, my friend. It is his wish that you return to your home with to-morrow’s sun. “Let the old man be seen here no more,” he said. A hard word, Signor Andrea, but this is not the time to alter it.’

“‘God so do to him as he has done to one that came far to serve him,’ cried I, and would have added more, but the priest put his hand upon my arm.

“‘How,’ said he, ‘is this the time to be brawling like a beggar at a church door? I am ashamed of you! Is there not misfortune enough upon the house that you should add your complaints to it? Truly the Count is right, and it is time you went to your home again.’

“‘Father,’ I replied, ‘no man tells me twice that my company is a burden to him. To-morrow at dawn I will set out.’

“‘You do well,’ said he, ‘nor will your services be forgotten.’

“He spoke with meaning, excellency; and when I rode out of the gates at sunrise next day, a bag of guldens was jingling at my girdle. Nor could I, grieve as I might for the exceeding misfortunes which had come upon the house of the Zaloskis, deem the gift to be unearned.

“‘God will lighten the burden,’ I thought, ‘and my Lord Count will forget. A man has not lived his life at forty. He will love again, and find an object more worthy. It may be even that I shall meet someone who will think it worth his while to deal with Ugo Klun. And if the lad were sent to the frontier, who can tell what would happen? Priests are priests, and have not men’s eyes. We of the world judge more justly. It is unlikely,’ I said, ‘that those at Jézero will think any more of old Andrea now that he has left them. He must be just to himself and watch patiently. Perchance he may yet serve little Christine—and has he not a bag of guldens at his girdle?’

“The latter assurance was my abiding consolation. I cracked my fingers for joy, and my heart beat light at the glory of the morning. The sweet scent of the blossoms, the odours of the pines, the invigorating air of the mountains, the spreading sunshine, sent me singing on my way. I turned round in my saddle and saw the château set as a toy-castle—for so it seemed to be in the distance—in the hollow of the pass below me.

“‘Addio, addio,’ cried I; ‘who knows that the day is not to come when little Christine shall return to rule that house, and old Andrea shall find a haven for his years?’

“And, so thinking, I rode on towards my own city.”

CHAPTER XVIII
“LE MONDE EST LE LIVRE DES FEMMES”

“‘There is your city, little Christine. What? You have no eyes for it? You are tired, you say. Accidente, but that is a misfortune, little one. Who knows where we shall get a night’s lodging—if we get one at all? And we have far to walk, carissima. Oh, surely, it is work and not play here. See what life, what talk, what shops! Is not this your dream come to life? Diamine, you are not very grateful, my beloved! A plague upon your pale face!’

“It was the hour when the great folk of Vienna were going to their homes, excellency; that pleasant hour when the work of the day is forgotten and the play of the night comes welcomely. Bright lights shone already in the shops; a thousand budding lamps were scattering flowers of colour over the rich grasses of the Prater. A soft wind stirred the great trees, heavy in blossom; the deep blue waters of the Danube foamed and sported beneath the bridges, their little waves tipped with silver. So great was the press of carriages in the streets that all Austria seemed to be keeping carnival there. Pretty women, whose gowns were a garden of tints; officers of the guards and the hussars, on horseback, lolling in broughams, loitering by the shops; courtesans flaunting their bravade; priests returning from the churches; Englishmen open-mouthed and wondering; Frenchmen chattering; Americans hurrying from sight to sight—these are the children of our capital whom Christine saw as her husband brought her from the Northern station, and they stood together, deafened by the clamour of her city, and half-blinded by its lights.

“‘You are tired, my Christine, and you are ashamed of your rags. Cospetto, what gratitude to see! You think that if you were still at Jézero there would be good food to eat and diamonds for your neck. Managgia, we shall get food here yet, and when you work all day, and play your fiddle in the cafés, you shall bring the money to me. Do you hear that, little one—work all day, and work again for me at night? Are you not my wife? Heaven! That I was fooled by thy talk, and thought that I loved thee!’

“He took her by the hand, excellency, and dragging her roughly from the station, he set out upon his walk to the market-place, where, although he had hid it from her, there was a lodging awaiting him. It is strange to think that this man, once so gentle towards the child of Zlarin, pursued her now with so constant a hatred. Rarely, since he had found her upon the Jajce road, and had carried her from her new life, had pity mitigated his anger or curbed his purpose. He saw that it lay in his power to make her suffer as he had suffered. She had won the love of a man—she had now won his hate. He believed nothing of her account of Count Paul and his home. His mind had been trained in cunning and in doubt of men. Christine had found a lover—that was the lie which steeled his will, and shut his eyes to the anguish of the woman who followed him uncomplainingly. He made it his business to see that every hour brought some new humiliation upon her. He mocked at her new knowledge, at her acquired refinement. Almost his first act was to sell the good clothes from her back and to force upon her rags which he had bought in the bazaar at Serajevo. The diamond ring—which was Count Paul’s first present to her—had served to pay their fare to the capital. He feared pursuit no longer; in his own way he felt himself the equal of his rival. His puny soul was filled with delight because this woman was his own to do with as he would.

“As for Christine, she walked like one from whom all life and hope had been snatched as by a sudden visitation of God. They speak in fables, excellency, of the difficulty we have to realise misfortune. Rather should they say that it is difficult to believe in the good things which come to us. The child had never satisfied herself that her life at the château of Jézero was not a cheat of her fancy. She said that she would wake up some day to find herself in the woods of her island, and to hear the cackle of the old women who had cried upon her. But she had looked for no such awakening as this. The very months of content and of education at the house of the Zaloskis sharpened her mind to a greater dread of the brutalities the man put upon her. The touch of the dirty rags made her flesh creep. The foul words whispered into her ear set her shuddering with fear. She looked back upon her short months of life at Jézero as one looks upon a fair garden from which one is for ever shut. Fifteen days of hardship and of degradation had cut her off for ever from her girlhood. She had become a woman—silent and broken-hearted.

“Only once during those fifteen days had there been a moment when this spirit of docility had been shaken off, and something of her old courage had come back to her. It was upon the second night after she had left the château, a night when the man had carried her to a dirty cottage in the mountains above the Verbas, and there had given her the rags in exchange for her good clothes. Moved to some passing tenderness, he had thrown his arms round her neck, and would have kissed her as he had kissed her in the hut of Orio. But she, snatching his knife from its sheath as he bent over her, sprang to her feet and struck at him; and he drew back cowering.

“‘Devil!’ he cried; ‘would you kill me?’

“‘Listen!’ she said, facing him with anger in her eyes; ‘what I have done I do because it is your right to ask it. I will work for you and follow you and obey you—God help me—I must do this; but if you touch me with your hands again, I will never sleep day or night until I have paid the debt!’

“She flung the knife away from her, and sank back upon the bed of straw. If she regretted then that she had not turned the blade upon her own breast, who shall blame her? Yet even in the first hours of her loss, the one thought—she must save Count Paul—was her salvation. While she lived she could in some way watch over the man who loved her. To that end she would submit to all but the kisses which Ugo sought to force upon her. He—a boaster at the best—was yet cunning enough to read her mind and to know how far he could go with her. And he played upon her fears always.

“‘Madonna mia,’ he exclaimed, ‘that thou shouldst turn spit-fire! Some day we will settle this, and you shall ask yourself if you have paid the debt or no. Securo, Christine, I have a good memory. I could tell you every line upon your lover’s face now. What—you do not wish to hear? Benissimo, we begin to understand one another. When he is dead, we shall come to love one another as wife and husband should. Do you think that I shall forget him, anima mia? That would be a strange day. Surely God will let me kill him, little one?’

“This was his threat often while he took her north to the capital, remembering her talent, and telling himself that she should make money of it.

“‘Corpo di Baccho, Christine,’ he would say, ‘your face will be bread to us in Vienna, and you shall scrape your fiddle, carina, while fools dance, and there are guldens in my pocket. Did I not promise, when I came to you at Zlarin, and you would have starved but for my bread, to take you to the city? Did I not tell you always that you did well to dream, for no dreams were like the wonders across the mountains? Wait a little while, and you shall see. Thirty hours in the train take us from Serajevo. We will go to Serajevo, and the money for the diamonds which your lover gave you shall help you on the road. That was a lucky day which took you to Jézero, my wife! Oh, we shall be rich yet.’

“It was thus, excellency, that they came to Vienna—the man that he might profit of the woman’s talent; the woman that she might save her one friend and benefactor. Although the wonders of the new life would, under other circumstances, have dazzled her eyes and made her brain reel, they were now powerless to impress her. She saw a railway for the first time, and no exclamation escaped her. She sat in a stinking carriage, provided by the State for paupers and cattle, and as the wheels droned the song of their ceaseless rolling she said—but this in accompaniment to the rhythm of their song—I love, I love! The boundless plains of Hungary, wearying the eye with their unmarked horizon, told her the more that she was utterly alone. The great city of Pesth, with its clatter of horses and its hum of men, dinned always in her ears a word of new foreboding. ‘For ever, for ever,’ she heard this alone of all the whirl of the city’s life. The very magnificence of building and of street terrified her. She cried in her heart for the woods of Zlarin and the desolation of her childish life. She answered nothing to the questions of the man—ready, perhaps, to forget his anger that his pride might be gratified in shewing her these wonders.

“‘Managgia,’ he would say, ‘that you should look upon all these things, and yet keep your lips shut! Body of my soul! but you must have dreamt well—that all this is nothing to you! Look yonder; that is the great opera house. Some day you shall hear the music there, and it shall set your brain on fire. Such music is not to be heard in sleep; it rises up like a great wave of the sea, my Christine; it makes your blood boil; and then it tickles you so that you would run and jump. And when it falls away, little one—oh, there is nothing but an echo in your ears, and you think that you could lie down and dream upon a bank of flowers. What! you do not listen to me?’

“He spoke well, excellency, for his words were wasted upon her. Nor was it otherwise when at last they came to the capital, and she followed him to the dreary lodging he had taken in the garret of a house whose back windows looked out upon the cathedral church of St. Stephen. The blaze of light did but blind her; the ringing of church bells was like a dirge in her heart; the great throngs passing told her that here was the beginning of her punishment. One gentle word—one whisper of love—would have brought her sobbing upon her knees; but there was none to speak it. Wearied with the travel, sick for want of bread, she climbed with the man to the dark of the attic, and the door closed upon her as upon a prisoner.

“And so the dreamer awoke at last from the dreams of long ago.”

CHAPTER XIX
ANDREA GOES AN ERRAND

“Christine had left Jézero exactly eighteen months before it was given to me to see her again, excellency. Think not that I had put her from my mind. Far from it. She was to me then, as ever, a daughter to be beloved. Could my hand have helped her, it had been raised to her assistance every hour of my life. But God had willed it otherwise. I knew not even in what city she had made her home. I was welcome no longer at the house of Count Paul. The priest did not answer my letter when I reminded him of the services I had rendered. Strange tales came to me upon the lips of gossipers. I heard that the château at Jézero was now like a tomb of the living. They told me that the Lord Count himself went to Vienna no more. They spoke of decay and desolation, of solitude and silence; of a master who shewed his trouble to none, and yet was troubled that he must hide it. They said that the shadow of a great solitude had come upon the house—and all for lack of a child’s pretty face.

“I heard these things, but it was many months before I saw them for myself. Two summers had passed when the message came—a letter from Father Mark bidding me go to Jézero. So quick was I to answer that I rode up to the great house three days after the summons reached me, and found myself immediately in the presence of the priest. He told me that the Count had been called to the autumn manœuvres at Brod; and the opportunity being welcome to him, he had sent for me at once to discuss a matter of much moment to us both.

“‘Few things have happened here, Signor Andrea,’ he said, ‘since the day you left us. I wish it were otherwise. You see for yourself what a state we are in—the rooms half-painted, as they were on the day the child left us; the gardens running to weed; half the servants sent about their business. He will do nothing and have nothing done. He sees no one. He is never out of his study except when his work calls him——’

“‘And he never asks for news of her?’

“‘Her name has never passed his lips but once since she left him. That was six months ago, when I told myself that he was beginning to forget. He said it quite suddenly when we were talking of his sister at Vienna. “She will send to me when she has need of me,” he said. I thought at first that he spoke of my lady; but he was thinking of the little one. And he will think always. The majority of men have never loved a woman. Affection for them is a little spark of sympathy and admiration and desire, which burns itself out in the first summer of its gratification. We, in our own little way, tried to stand against the love which was born of nature in the hearts of these two. We might as well have tried to drain the Plevna with our buckets. Time has taught me to look back upon those days with lasting regret. It is a reproach to me that I sought to break in upon that sacred confidence—a confidence which none should share. I would give half my years if the shadow might pass from this house.’

“‘Father,’ said I, ‘there is one way, and one only, by which such a thing might come to pass. It would be the death of Christine’s husband.’

“‘Exactly—but how if he be dead already?’

“‘Holy Virgin!’ said I, ‘you think that?’

“‘I know not what to think. Three months ago I heard that the girl was singing in Vienna at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. They told me other stories as well—of men that danced attendance at her heels and fools who made much of her.’

“‘It is a lie!’ cried I, so loudly that he started back from me, ‘a lie, I call my God to witness! There is no purer woman in Austria. Show me the man that told the tale and I will strike him on the mouth!’

“‘Come,’ said he, ‘this is no time for the display of such boasts as these. Had you been so very anxious, my friend, necessity would have found some way of bringing you to Vienna before this.’

“‘Nay,’ said I; ‘the Lord be my judge if I have had the money. Was it to hear this that you sent for me to Sebenico? Oh, surely, I did well to leave my business!’

“‘Not so fast, Signor Andrea. I am not the man to summon you here upon a fool’s errand. And I make sure that you will be very content when you have heard me out.’

“I bowed my head at this, and was the more pleased, excellency, since my affairs at Sebenico had gone ill with me for some time past. ‘This priest,’ I said, ‘does not forget that I am an old man, and that poverty is a good friend of mine. If he has need of me, surely he will remember my right to a poor man’s wage.’

“‘Father,’ said I, ‘what service I can give shall be given from my heart for love of little Christine. It will fall heavily upon me to leave my business now, at this busy time, when——’

“‘I have thought of that,’ said he, ‘and have made provision against it. Here are notes for five hundred guldens. With this sum you will set out at once for Vienna, and there you will learn all that is to be known of Christine. Good or ill, you will keep nothing from me. They tell me that her husband was with her daily until this last month, but that he has now disappeared from the city, and there is no news of him. Go, then, and learn what you can of this. You will lose nothing by the journey. And if you can bring me intelligence of the man’s death, I promise you that you shall return to Sebenico no more.’

“‘Gladly will I go,’ cried I, ‘and the saints be my witness that no thought of myself shall find me loitering on the way. Blessed be God that I am to see my child again!’

“The same night, excellency, I set out for Travnik. In two days I was in Vienna.”

CHAPTER XX
LA PROVA

“I found Christine neither at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires nor at that address in the Singer Strasse which the priest had given me. The very question, put to Albert Dietz, the proprietor of the café, moved him to great mirth.

“‘It is very easy to see that you are a countryman,’ he said; ‘and I advise you to button up your pockets while you are in this city. It is three months since Mademoiselle Zlarin sang on our stage. You will find her at the Opera House, as all Vienna could have told you this month past.’

“‘Oh,’ cried I, ‘so she has become Mademoiselle Zlarin since we parted? And at the Opera! Per Baccho, you must want singers badly if you can find place for such as her. Was her husband with her, do you know?’

“He shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“‘Old man,’ said he, ‘if I ran about Vienna looking after the husbands of all the ladies who sing on my stage, there would not be shoemakers enough in the city to sole my boots.’

“‘True,’ said I; ‘yet she is not as the others. I would stake my life on that.’

“‘Stake it on nothing so risky,’ cried he; ‘when you have seen as much of women as I have, you will not be so ready.’

“‘Accidente,’ exclaimed I, ‘this is no place for an honest man to cry his wares. One word more, Herr Dietz. You would tell me, I doubt not, that Mademoiselle Zlarin sings in the chorus of the opera?’

“‘I could tell you no such thing,’ he replied; ‘she has been given the part of Joseph in Mascagni’s “L’Amico Fritz.” She is no great singer, I admit. But there is the devil in the music she makes with her violin; and she acts a part with verve enough for six women. I could have filled this garden twenty times when she was playing. The men went mad about her. God knows, we had all the fine folks in the city here. Donnerwetter, it was a bad day for me when she received the offer to go to the Opernring, but I could not refuse. They said that the Emperor wished it. He heard her at Esterhazy’s house. And now she lives like a little Princess. Well, I am not the one to bear her ill-will. It is something to see a smile upon her pretty face.’

“I thanked him in my heart for this, and went away to seek Christine, as bewildered as man ever was.

“‘Dio mio,’ I said to myself, ‘that things should be thus with her—she who was a beggar reared in beggary! Well it was that I came to seek her in Vienna. She will not forget old Andrea who gave her bread. And he can snap his fingers at the priest to-day. If she be rich, what is the friendship of those at Jézero to her now? A plague upon them all—who turned an old man from their door.’

“For a truth, this was the way the thing appeared to me, excellency. I reflected that if Christine had married the Lord Count, it would have been a dreary business at the best. She would have been immured in the great house like a nun in her cell. She would have been cut off like one in a tomb from the companionship of her true friends. I made sure that she would be compelled to turn her face even from me, who gave her bread. But with Christine earning money for herself—Bon Dieu, what should she care for the gloomy man whose love had brought so many misfortunes upon her! I would be her protector always. Cost me what it might, I would be near her to help her when she had need of me. There was her husband, of course: but him, I judged, it would be easy to deal with. He would not forget that I had held my tongue when a word of mine might have delivered him to the Count. I would see that he learnt to respect me. I would not neglect to remind him that it was yet possible to make a hussar of him. Luck seemed to be mine at every turn. I walked through the crowded streets of the great city and cracked my fingers for joy as I went. The burden of years seemed to be gone from my shoulders.

“It was midday when I arrived at the Opera House. I had been saying to myself as I went along that after all I should not be surprised that such a strange gift of fortune had come to my child. Her sweet face alone was enough to win her that. And there had always been a devil in the music she had made from her crazy fiddle. I had seen this very opera, ‘L’Amico Fritz,’ played in my own city of Sebenico, and I had always said that an impresario would be lucky who could find a singer not only able to sing the part of Joseph, but also to play the violin while she sang. How it came about that little Christine had found a voice I knew not, for although she took a part in the Mass as a child she had received no schooling in this art. But that her mastery of the violin would be a fortune to her I felt sure. And this made me the readier to believe the story which Herr Dietz had told me.

“You know the new Opera at Vienna, signor? Yes! then you can assent when I maintain that there is no house like it in the world. Holy Virgin, what a sight to see! What painting—what gold—what splendour! I have been in that house but twice as a spectator, and I can never forget the things I saw—the lamps, hundreds, thousands; the pictures, oh! the colours of them; the great folk, what dresses! what splendid women; the scenery, the palaces, the green gardens—greener than any in my own Italy! And the music! Body of my soul, it is the choir of heaven come down to us while yet we live; it is the chanting of the spirits of joy and of laughter and of dreams.

“I remembered all these things as I sought for little Christine that day; and my heart was very light to think that she—the vagrant of Zlarin—was to take her place in this house of splendour and of magnificence. Nor did I fail to be amused when I stood for a moment in the sunshine of the Opernring, and read upon a great bill that Mademoiselle Zlarin would on the following Monday evening play the part of Joseph in Mascagni’s opera. I made sure that she had chosen to remember her island home in this pretty fancy, and had posed as a Frenchwoman for memory of the mother she had never seen. Two minutes later I stood at the stage-door of the theatre asking for her.

“There was that which we call la prova being held at the moment of my arrival; but a commanding word to the door-keeper, and a gulden thrust into his hand, secured me his favour quickly.

“‘She is singing now, as you may hear for yourself,’ said he. ‘I have authority to admit no one, as a rule; but if you are a kinsman and have come from Jézero, as you say, it is another affair. Slip down that passage there, and you will catch her as she returns to her room.’

“I obeyed his suggestion quickly, and going down the passage, whose walls were encumbered with vast piles of paint-besmeared canvas, I found myself presently out upon the great stage. For some minutes I could see nothing, so dark was the scene—so little corresponding to that which I had imagined it to be when I sat in my humble place in the piccionaja. By-and-bye my eyes accustomed themselves to the dim light. I began to make out the boxes and the galleries, now veiled in white cloth. I could see the lumiera high up, as it were, at the summit of a great dome; the countless stalls below me ranged themselves like cushions of satin upon an amphitheatre of snow. When at length I could occupy myself with that which was passing at my hand, so to speak, I was aware that forty or fifty others, shadowy forms, hovered over the boards which I trod—here a woman talking earnestly to a man behind the shelter of a wing; there a ballet-master rating a dozen pale-faced girls; here, again, a carpenter busy with hammer and nails; there, again, a suggeritore, scrip in hand, and tongue well oiled. As the scene became more clear to me, I began to understand that the rehearsal was nearly over. Indeed, the main business was done, and the musician, seated before a piano on the right-hand side of the stage, was playing his notes for one singer alone. Excellency, a flare of gas cast an aureole of light about that singer, and I recognised her—but not until I had looked at her for the third time. She was little Christine!

“She had her fiddle in her hand, and there was a pretty laugh upon her face when the conductor thumped merrily with his right hand and beat time with his left. I observed with satisfaction that she was well dressed, and that her figure had matured since last I saw her. Presently she began to sing, and this was my greatest surprise of all, for though there was no great volume of voice, it was singularly sweet and pure; and my ear told me that her execution was very exact. I said to myself that she must have studied hard to arrive at so pleasing a result; and when, a few moments later, she snatched up her violin and played the music of her part, I wondered no more that she had come to the opera. Scarce another woman in Europe could have given such a display in arts so different.

“The music being finished, and the conductor having risen from his desk, I thought it time to make myself known. Advancing quickly across the stage, and holding my arms out as a father should to a child, I said:

“‘Christine, do you not know me—old Andrea of Sebenico? Oh, blessed be the day!’

“Her response to my cordiality was not such as I had looked for, excellency. She did not even offer me her cheek to kiss, but started back, a flush upon her face.

“‘Surely,’ she cried, ‘it is Andrea—and what does he do here?’

“‘Per Baccho,’ said I, ‘but this is a winter’s welcome for one who gave you——’

“She silenced me with a stamp of her pretty foot.

“‘Why did you not go to my house,’ she exclaimed; ‘do you wish to act your message here in the theatre? Oh, for a truth, this old man would play the father to all the lost children in Vienna!’

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘God forgive you for that saying. I have come far to bring a message to you; but I can go back as I have come if you have no wish to hear me.’

“I knew that this would play upon her curiosity, and I was right.

“‘You have come from Jézero?’ she asked quickly.

“‘Certainly,’ said I; ‘and to Jézero I will go again at a word from you.’

“It was astonishing, excellency, to observe the effect of these few words upon her. All the colour left her face; I could see that she had begun to tremble.

“‘Come,’ she said presently, ‘we will go to my house, and you shall tell me your message as we ride.’

“A few moments later I was in her carriage with her—the first time in my life I had ever set foot in a carriage. I saw that those upon the pavements stopped to watch us as we passed, and that few men did not turn to look again at the little singer whose name was upon everyone’s lips.

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘this is indeed the day of my life. That I should come to Vienna to hear such things, and to ride with you in your own carriage!’

“She laughed merrily; but becoming serious at once, she asked:

“‘Who sent you to me from Jézero?’

“‘My love for you, little one, and a word which the priest dropped to me. You are not forgotten there, Christine, though I make sure you have long forgotten them.’

“This surmise of mine, made at a venture, was a thing I had better have left unsaid. She turned upon me, her eyes flashing:

“‘How dare you say that—how dare you think it?’ she exclaimed; ‘have I not suffered enough because to forget is the one thing denied to me?’

“‘Christine,’ said I, ‘is it possible that a woman can suffer who has such opportunities as fortune has given to you?’

“She laughed again—a rippling laugh of irony.

“‘You speak of opportunities,’ cried she; ‘what are they but the fruits of our own work? Such opportunities as are mine have been earned by nights and days of ceaseless slavery. They are my sleep, my food, my heart. I have lived twenty years of my life in a month, that I might forget, and yet must remember more every day. Oh, I love, I love—I shall love always, Andrea. I would give all the years of my success for one hour of love in the gardens at Jézero.’

“I had not looked to find her in this mood, and it pleased me but ill. Before I could reason with her, we drove up at a house in the Wallner Strasse, where she had an apartment on the first floor, and I followed her to her rooms. They were small, but furnished with exceeding taste, and the déjeûner which was spread upon the table of her dining-room was a repast to set appetite running.

“‘Eccoli, little one,’ cried I, surveying the fruit and the flowers, and the rich red wine in the cut-glass decanters, ‘of a truth fortune has done well to you. That your talent should have brought you such a reward! Did I not say always——’

“She silenced me sharply, and it was plain to me that my style of speaking was such as she did not care her servants to hear.

“‘Come,’ she said, ‘we will talk of this another time. I must be at the theatre again in an hour, and I have much to say to you. It was well with them at Jézero when you left?’

“‘Certainly, it was well with them—as well as it may be in that gloomy place. Dio mio, who would live in such a barn when he might come to this city? I tell you that the very paper hangs in strips upon the walls. You remember what was being done when you went away? Per Baccho, they made a pretty job of it, for the Count came home next day and sent the lot of them about their business. Certainly, that man is fortunate who has no need to live at Jézero!’

“My object in saying this was, if possible, to take her thoughts from that which I saw still troubled her so deeply. But the more I talked, the readier was she to listen, and the questions she put to me were not to be numbered. ‘It may be as you say,’ she said, ‘but Jézero will always be very dear to me, Andrea. I could willingly have lived my life there; yet that was not to be. Tell me, does Count Paul ever speak of coming to Vienna?’

“‘I have heard nothing of it,’ said I.

“‘I am glad of that,’ she answered, though there were tears in her eyes when she said it. ‘My husband would kill him if he came here!’

“‘Your husband!’ cried I; ‘Santa Maria, I had forgotten him. Yet what talk! He has not the courage to lift his hand against a dog. Is he in Vienna now?’

“‘He is at Buda,’ she said, turning from the subject.

“‘Christine,’ said I, understanding much from her silence, ‘you have suffered at his hands?’

“‘If I had done so,’ she replied, ‘should I speak of it to you?’

“She rose from the table at this, and went to the window to look down wistfully upon the crowded street below. It was hard to think that success meant so little to one who had climbed so steep a road and whose feet had been so often cut by the way. Before, however, I could say anything to comfort her, the door of the room opened, and the servant announced a visitor.

“‘Lieutenant Gerold,’ she said.

“I stood up to make my bow, and found myself in the presence of a boy who wore the uniform of a hussar regiment—a mere stripling, who carried a great basket of flowers upon his arm, and had a shamefaced smile which spoke of his confusion.

“‘Christine——’ he said, coming forward, but stopping abruptly when he saw me.

“She turned to meet him with a face lit up by the gladness of her welcome.

“‘Zol,’ she cried, ‘I told you to bring me no more flowers.’

“‘But,’ said he—and it was a boy’s excuse—‘they were very cheap.’

“‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘that is what you always say. Don’t mind old Andrea here. You have heard me speak of him often. I used to sit upon his knee once.’

“‘Lucky old rascal!’ replied the lad, playfully.

“‘But that was long ago,’ she added immediately; and then she held out her hands to the lad for his flowers. I saw that he pinned one to her breast with trembling fingers.

“‘I am coming to the theatre to-day,’ he said, but in a very low voice.

“‘Have I not forbidden it?’ she exclaimed.

“‘The greater reason that I should come. I love you the most when you forbid things. And I have a week’s leave. It will be a week in the theatre. You will not make me unhappy, Christine?’

“He bent down and kissed her hand, and I saw that she did not draw it back when his lips touched it.

“That night, excellency, my letter went to the priest at Jézero.

“‘Trouble yourself not at all about Christine,’ I wrote, ‘for fortune has been very kind to her here, where, if my old eyes do not deceive me, she has both a husband and a lover.’

“‘It was a lie!’ you say. Aye, surely; yet for the child’s sake I lied then, as I would lie to-day, to-morrow, and to the end of time. For what service would it have been to her to have snatched her from her triumphs in the city and to have immured her in the gloomy house of the Zaloskis? Nay, I knew that it would be none, and I could have danced for joy when I put my letter into the box.

“‘Now indeed,’ cried I, ‘will they have cause to remember old Andrea, whom they turned from their door in the day of his necessity.’”

CHAPTER XXI
“ZOL”

“The boy soldier, Lieutenant Gerold, was, I found, known everywhere in Vienna by the name of ‘Zol.’ It had begun by his brother officers calling him ‘Sol,’ from the blaze of gold which his father, Albert Gerold, the banker, was supposed to possess. The softer sound of the sibilant, however, had soon given way to the buzz of the ‘z’; and there was no pretty girl in the Prater who could not tell you his nickname. For the matter of that, the lad was one of those affectionate, big-hearted boys who make friends with all the world; he had followed little Christine like a dog since the day he first set eyes upon her at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. He thought her the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Her pictures were everywhere in his rooms. He used to dress with one at the right hand of his mirror. His first waking act was to touch with his lips a little photograph of her hung above his bed. In his boyish way, he used to think how glorious a thing it would be to die with Christine’s arms about his neck. He hated the prospect of her triumph, because that, he feared, would carry her into a new world, where she would find new friends.

“For five months now this boy and girl friendship had been a pretty fact. During four of the months, at any rate, Zol had been aware that some great trouble hung about the girl, and was the shadow upon her life.

“‘Christine,’ he had once said, ‘why must not I tell you that I love you? Do not I say it every hour of my life? I must speak—you shall hear me——’

“‘Hush, Zol!’ she had answered him; ‘you know why I cannot hear you.’

“‘I know they say in the theatre that you have a husband who is a brute——’ he blurted out; but she stopped him instantly.

“‘Never say that again,’ she had cried with a shudder; ‘never speak to me of him, Zol. Oh, you make me remember!’

“She ran away from him to hide her tears; and he, seeing how he had blundered, heaped new kindnesses upon her.

“‘I will love you always—always!’ he protested; ‘I care not if I may only look into your eyes and be your friend. I will wait—wait patiently—to hear some day a word of love from your lips.’

“The promise made of affection was of affection fulfilled. As a little stream of water falling upon a rock will find a way to the heart of it, so will friendship long continued break down all barriers of circumstance and of difficulty, and cut a way to the heart of a friend. As the months went on, Christine found herself talking to Zol as she would have talked to a brother. Day by day they spent hours in each other’s company. He ransacked the shops of Vienna diligently to give her new pleasures. He asked nothing but a word spoken with the eyes for his reward. He became necessary to her—how necessary she had yet to learn. Though she said often that she had left all hope of life in the mountains of Jézero, she was unconsciously finding new hopes in the pure ties of this unselfish service. And to this friendship she added her ceaseless, ardent toil, working with a persistency—nay, almost a fury—of application in that art which alone was powerful to efface the past.

“During all these months, when the lad Zol had been waiting so patiently, Ugo Klun, the husband of Christine, had not neglected to take advantage of her new situation. One by one he had struck the gamut of the lusts—desire of the woman, desire of revenge, desire of the money she earned. He had begun by putting unspeakable insults upon her; he ended by spending what he could extort from her in debauchery and in pleasure. And this was the baser side of the man’s nature—that the friendship which his wife had made in the city was rather pleasing to him.

“‘Your little hussar amuses me,’ he had said to her; ‘you are a fool if you do not profit by it. Men like that are born with their boots full of gold pieces. It is a pity if they do not drop some of them where they walk. Hang him on your chatelaine like you would hang a purse. That is my advice to you.’

“She heard him rather with contempt than with scorn. The compact between them was quite simple now—he came to her when he had need of her.

“‘Is that another way of asking me for money?’ she said, going to her cabinet and taking a roll of notes from it.

“‘Exactly, Christina mia. You know how much it costs to live here. And the husband of Mademoiselle Zlarin must not have holes in his boots. What would your little hussar say to that?’

“She gave no heed to the insult, but began to count the notes—an operation which he watched with greedy eyes.

“‘Diavolo, Christine,’ continued he, ‘you have your freedom cheaply: fifty guldens a week to keep me from Vienna! My price will be higher by-and-bye, when you sing at the Opera. And I shall go away only for a month this time. What! there are tears in your eyes that I leave you? How we love each other, anima mia!’

“Again she was silent; and when he had put the money into a scented pocket-book, and had helped himself to the wine which stood upon her sideboard, he took his leave again.

“‘Addio, little one,’ cried he; ‘do not forget that your hussar is the son of a banker. Look into his eyes well, carina, for you will see the colour of his gold there. It is good to have friends like that—but the other—your devil of the mountains—God steady my hand when I draw my knife to him.’

“He did not wait for her answer, but went singing from the place, leaving her with hate and shame rushing to her cheeks. Coward that he was, she believed that this was a threat which he would have the courage to make good. Concentration upon a single hate is often the strength of little minds. In all his debaucheries, in all his new pleasures begotten of his wife’s earnings, the remembrance of the Count of Jézero was ever with him.

“‘I will kill him if he comes here; I swear it on the Sacrament,’ he said; and that word he meant.

“Excellency, the Count of Jézero came to Vienna six weeks after my arrival there. It was upon the day that Christine was to play Joseph at the Opera.”

CHAPTER XXII
THE MORNING OF THE DAY

“I had found a lodging during my six weeks’ sojourn in the capital, at a little Italian hotel in the Kohl Market. These six weeks had brought winter to us, and the snow lay white and heavy upon the Prater. You heard the tinkle of sleigh-bells everywhere; pretty women were the prettier for their sables; the men went hurriedly to their work or play, their steps quickened by the music of the frost. At the Palaces there were great assemblages every night. The whole city seemed full of the intoxication of dancing and of feasting. I, old man that I was, and a stranger to the unresting pleasures of Vienna, found myself carried away by them like a boy of twenty. Herr Strauss set my feet leaping always. I discovered many a pretty face ready to laugh at my words. I stood before the gorgeous shops and dreamt that some good genius had dowered me with riches. There was money in my pocket always, for little Christine saw to that.

“Such a novelty of pleasure caused the weeks to pass quickly, and the first night of Christine’s appearance at the Opera in the part of Joseph was upon me before I had learnt to realise the whole truth of her altered situation. Not that the city neglected to talk of an event so important. The fresh melodies of Mascagni were then making madmen of us. We had carried my clever young countryman shoulder high to his hotel; we had taken the horses from his carriage, and had cheered like children upon a holiday when first we had heard the beauties of ‘Cavalleria.’ The promise of ‘L’Amico Fritz’ was upon all our tongues. The boulevardiers said that a prettier Joseph would not be seen upon any stage; musicians cried out that the notes from Christine’s violin were golden threads of harmony drawn from a skein of fire. She had made a great reputation already at the Café des Trois Mousquetaires. People pointed to her in the street, and said that the première of the new opera must be a triumph for her. I listened to all the talk, and my pride grew strong when I repeated their praise. ‘Securo,’ said I, ‘is she not my daughter, and will not there be a place for me in whatever house of fame may be prepared for her? Glory be to God that she did not marry the gloomy man of Jézero!’

“On the morning of that long-looked-for day, excellency, I rose betimes and went to the great church of St. Stephen to the early Mass, that I might pray for Christine’s success. I have always been a religious man, and surely, even to one who doubts that his prayers will be heard, the chance is worth the taking. ‘Little help indeed can I give her, but such as I have shall not be held back,’ I said. And there was no man in all the church who prayed more fervently than I that the little one might reap a rich harvest, and leave a gleaning for those who had loved her.

“I heard the Mass, and then returned to my home. To my surprise, I found the young hussar waiting in my rooms for me. It was my thought that hitherto he had treated me with some coldness, but now he shewed a great readiness to be civil to me.

“‘I want a word with you, old Andrea,’ said he; ‘we will go and breakfast at Daum’s, and you can talk while you eat.’

“‘Body of Paul,’ cried I, ‘you may count upon me for that! I know nothing which puts hunger into a man like the droning of the priests—God forgive me for the words. It is an honour to be your servant, Lieutenant, though I would that my coat was more worthy of the office. Accidente, it is as full of holes as a cheese out of France.’

“‘Blitzen,’ cried he, surveying me critically, ‘you speak truth! We will go to the Graben, old Andrea, where there is plenty of shadow.’

“I followed him out, and when an admirable breakfast was served, and he had filled his glass the second time—for he ate very little—he began to question me.

“‘You were at Mademoiselle’s house last night?’ he asked.

“‘Surely,’ said I, ‘did we not meet there?’

“‘Ah, I remember that we did. Then you know nothing of the ill news she has received?’

“‘Diavolo,’ cried I, ‘ill news—and whence comes that?’

“‘That is what I want to ask you. The devil take me if I can make head or tail of it. I left her after the rehearsal just as merry as a girl could be—and here to-day she has the face of a nun. It cannot be that her cut-throat of a husband is troubling her, for he is not in Vienna. It is something else, old Andrea, and you must help me to find it out.’

“He filled my glass as he spoke, and lighting a cigarette he threw himself back in his chair, a picture of boyish concern which amused me to see.

“‘Nom du diable,’ said I, ‘it is easy to talk of finding it out, but he who runs after a woman’s whims must wear thick boots. She had no letter that you know of?’

“‘If she had she kept it from me. And that’s what I complain of. She tells me nothing. I hear hints all day, but devil of a word which would let me help her. If she would only talk to me, everything would be right in five minutes. But she won’t. That’s her obstinacy, my friend.’

“He began to drum upon the table with his hands, and to put on an air of ferocity, as much as to say: ‘Oh, I will deal with it—and then!’ I, on my part, while his tragedy air tickled me, fell to wondering what news Christine had heard; and suddenly I divined the truth: the Count of Jézero was in Vienna!

“‘Lieutenant,’ said I presently, ‘Christine has told you nothing of her friends at Jézero?’

“He looked up quickly.

“‘What friends?’ he asked.

“‘Oh,’ cried I, as though it were a matter of no importance, ‘Count Paul Zaloski, the Governor of the Province, took much interest in the child two years ago. She looked up to him as to a father. He in turn regarded her as his daughter. It may be that Christine has heard some ill news about her benefactor. Possibly that benefactor has come to Vienna, and in that case——’

“I stopped abruptly, aping the air of one who has some great mystery to unfold. It had occurred to me on the instant, excellency, that I had found the means to deal once and for all with Ugo Klun. So deep was the thought of that moment that my hand trembled when I set down my glass, and my brain burnt with excitement. As for the lieutenant, his face had flushed suddenly like the face of a schoolgirl.

“‘Blitzen,’ cried he, ‘I heard something of a Count Paul, but what is that you are saying—her benefactor? Name of the devil, who is he?’

“I drew my chair closer to the table.

“‘Herr Gerold,’ said I—for the intent was now strong upon me—‘if the cause of Christine’s trouble is that which I think it, she may well wear the face of a nun. How and why this comes to be you will hear presently. I am going to tell you a plain story. It is a story which you may be glad to hear—yet which may ultimately rob me of a friend. I am a poor man, and my friends are very dear to me. You see how many holes there are in my coat. Should I be able to help you in an object which is very dear to you, I doubt not that you will remember my claims when the day comes.’

“The thing was wisely said. I could see that my little lieutenant was burning with the fever of impatience.

“‘God be my witness, old Andrea,’ cried he, ‘if you can put me in the way of helping little Christine, I will fill your hat with gold!’

“‘Far be it from me,’ exclaimed I, ‘to seek a reward because I do my duty. Nevertheless, I am old and growing feeble, and ill would it become me to shew ingratitude to my benefactors. I thank you for your promises, Lieutenant. May the day be soon when you shall redeem them! And now to speak of Christine’s relations with Count Paul. I have told you that she regards him as a father. She has reason to. He saved her life when she was perishing of hunger in the mountains. She thinks of him as a friend—it would be impossible for her to think of him otherwise, for he is twice her age—a gloomy man, living like a hermit in a house of gloom. It may be that she would have remained always at Jézero, but for the cruelty of the scoundrel Klun, who dragged her from her happiness that she might be his slave in this city. She was never a wife to him. When she stood before the altar with him, she knew not what the meaning of marriage was. He has no more claim to her love than the first stranger you may meet in yonder street; yet this is the one who threatens her always, saying, “When Count Paul comes to Vienna I will do this and that.” You know well what insults, what cruelties, this man has put upon her. Is not the day near when we should take it upon ourselves to save her from him?’

“I put the question to him, but he had scarce the patience to hear me out.

“‘Thousand devils!’ said he, ‘I knew nothing of all this.’

“‘Exactly,’ I replied. ‘Christine is not the one to cry her troubles in the street. Yet few of her age have suffered as she has suffered. Had I not made up my mind to speak to you, you would have heard no complaint from her. Now, however, you will know what to do, and you will not forget old Andrea, who wished you well in the work.’

“He was the more excited at this, bending over the table so that I spoke almost into his ear while I told him that Ugo Klun had deserted at Jajce, and that a corporal had lied to shield him from the service.

“‘It is written in the reports,’ said I, ‘that Master Ugo is dead. But what of that? A word spoken by one in authority will set everything right. It may even be that the village gossips tell a true tale when they say that the lad fired on the corporal sent to take him. Should that account be the true one, Lieutenant, little Christine’s husband will be shot, and she will be free to give her love where she pleases. Eccoli, there is a thing for you to dream of! Body of my soul, if I had your little burden of years upon my shoulders, and my lips were cold for want of the warmth of a little girl’s kisses, I would settle the thing in an hour. What! you do not understand me?’

“He had jumped up from his seat as my plan unfolded itself; and now he strode up and down the little room, while the waiter gaped with astonishment and the glasses rattled upon the table.

“Far from misunderstanding me, excellency, he had rushed to my suggestion like a drunkard to the wine; and the intoxication of it was upon him already.

“‘Blitzen, old Andrea,’ said he, stopping by my table presently, ‘but this shall be worth money to you! You are telling me the truth?’

“‘Telling you the truth! Holy Virgin, would I come to you with a lie upon my lips? Ask any at Jajce whether or no Ugo Klun, the son of the woodlander, was not drawn for service in that town.’

“‘I believe you,’ he cried, ‘I believe you, by G—! Come along with me now—come instantly, for my feet dance with impatience. Thousand devils! she shall have a pale face no more. I will never leave her side again. Oh! there shall be money in your purse for this, old Andrea.’

“‘One moment,’ said I, though my hand twitched and the pockets of my mind hungered when he spoke of money; ‘no fool’s haste will help you in an undertaking like this. Why, the man Ugo is not even in Vienna!’

“‘He comes to-night,’ cried he, laughing almost hysterically; ‘it shall be his last night as a free man—the night that Christine plays Joseph, too! Was there ever anything so good?’

“‘He comes to-night, you say,’ I replied; ‘then indeed must your work be quick, for if he meets the Count of Jézero, God help little Christine and Joseph that is to be!’

“‘Pshaw!’ said he, ‘to the devil with the opera!—let us go, old Andrea.’

“The news that Count Paul was in Vienna had come to Christine from her husband, Ugo. He had read it in a paper at Buda, and had chuckled over the news.

“‘Cospetto,’ said he to himself, ‘I will frighten her again, and she will be the readier to untie her purse-strings. She plays Joseph to-morrow, and after that she will be rich. Certainly, I must return to Vienna at once.’

“He posted the paper that night—it was the eve of the great day—and on the following morning at seven o’clock he took train for the capital. When he arrived at the Northern Station, he told the driver of his drosky to go straight to the Opera House; and there he sent in a little note to Mademoiselle Zlarin.

“‘Carissima,’ he wrote, ‘I have kept my promise. If you would save the man of Jézero, be sure to speak with me before to-night. I am at the Hotel Rákóczi.’

“He left the letter, pluming himself upon his cleverness, and began to think by what means he could turn to his profit a circumstance so fortunate. That Christine would take him at his word he never doubted. Nor was he wrong in this. The news of the Count’s coming was like oil upon the fire of her affections. The strength of the old passion filled her veins and made her brain burn. She went through the rehearsal of the morning hearing nothing, seeing nothing, giving no heed to the scene about her. ‘He has come for love of me’ was the entrancing thought which conquered all other thoughts, of prudence or of fear. She longed to run to her lover’s arms, to kneel by his side as she used to kneel, to know that here was her haven from the storm of life. The remonstrances of the conductor, the anger of the stage manager, fell lightly upon her ears. She whispered: ‘I love, I love.’ She was ignorant that the supreme moment of her life was upon her.

“This mood of joy remained with her during the morning, to the detriment of her performance, and to the annoyance of those playing with her. But when the note from her husband was delivered to her, the dream of pleasure passed swiftly, giving place to fear and a great sense of helplessness. She had not thought that Ugo would return to Vienna for some weeks at any rate. His sudden coming filled her with terror and foreboding. She remembered the childish threats the man had uttered. They were very real to her. She said that it lay upon her at least to warn Count Paul. She shunned the suggestion that she must seek him out and speak to him. ‘A letter will do,’ she said; and then again she began to doubt, telling herself that he would laugh at such a warning. No, she must see him; she must hear a word from his lips; she must hide nothing from him.

“Once she had come to this conclusion—and it was the strong child of her wish—her impatience to execute it was almost uncontrollable. They say in the theatre that never was a stranger thing seen than the varying tempers she displayed during the course of that long rehearsal. Now seeming to forget her part, now acting like a little fury, there were moments when she rose to such supreme heights of talent that the hearts of those listening were almost stilled in their beating; other moments when the conductor threw down his bâton, and the musicians of the band tittered audibly.

“‘Good God, mademoiselle,’ the director said, ‘are you ill—are you forgetting—do you not know that the opera is played to-night? Donnerwetter, they will hiss you off the stage if you sing like that!—they will.—Thousand devils! cannot you strike the key?’

“Sharply rebuked thus, she would remember herself, and play as only Christine of Zlarin could play. Then the conductor would beam upon her again.

“‘Equal that,’ he would say, ‘and you shall have all Vienna at your feet. Take courage, mademoiselle; fear nothing; you have the gift which conquers. When you come upon the stage to-night, do not think of yourself at all. Think only of your victory. Say to yourself: “I am alone, and I will triumph.” Do you know what success is? Himmel, it is to be in all the newspapers, to be the angel of the critics, my dear. That should be the dream of your life. When you take your violin in your hand to-night you will say: “To-morrow I shall be in the newspapers—that is fame—that is the end of all my work.”’

“Christine heard him and yet did not hear. She was saying to herself: ‘I shall see my lover in an hour; in an hour I shall touch his hands.’ She was wondering how he would greet her—whether he would take her into his arms as he used to do, or stop to chide her because she had left him. When at last the weary prova came to an end, and she found herself out in the Opernring, she was quivering with excitement. The warning word she meant to speak was almost forgotten as she drove rapidly towards the Hôtel Métropole. There, the paper said, the Count would stay while he was in Vienna. There she would seek him and confess: ‘I have come to you because my husband has promised this and that. Beware of him—he will kill you.’

“It was full dark when she arrived at the hotel, and the great hall hummed with life. There had been at the Palace a levée for the officers in the Bosnian service, and many of these now clattered up and down the stairs, or chatted over the tables, or served tea to pretty women. A group of Americans standing in the porch were discussing all things nasally; and one of their number, recognising Christine, pointed her out to his fellows. Many a head turned when at length she entered the hall and waited while a page ran up to the Count’s room. In all Vienna there was no face more fair, no figure more supple and sinuous, no eyes more eloquent, than those of the child. Even the women cried: ‘Is she not beautiful?’ And the tribute of the woman is the ultimate possibility of a woman’s victory.”

CHAPTER XXIII
THE BEGINNING OF THE NIGHT

“Christine was quite blind to the admiration which moved about her path. Now that she had taken the bolder step, and knew that another moment would bring her face to face with Count Paul, her heart beat warningly, its pulsations shaking her hands so that she pressed them against her side to still them. She saw the hall of the hotel only as a blaze of waving lights; the people were black and swaying forms. When she was summoned upstairs to a small apartment upon the first floor, she went with trembling steps, scarce feeling the touch of her feet upon the carpet. She entered the room and the Count stood before her, but no charity of preparation helped her tongue. She was with her lover again, but she was dumb.

“The Count was wearing the uniform in which he had presented himself to the Emperor. He had been in the act of writing a letter when the child came in; but now he rose from the table and held out his hand to her. He would have offered the same greeting to any stranger that might have come to him. Six weeks ago his heart beat the faster at the mention of little Christine’s name. But the priest had whispered in his ear the slander, ‘she has a lover in Vienna.’ He wrote to the capital to verify the report, and the answer came that the boy Zol was ever at her heels. It was then that the cord of his love had snapped sharply, like a cord long strained and worn to weakness. Suddenly, and by a supreme effort of his will, he had dried up the fount of his affections. Twice had passion come so near to him that her wings had burnt his brain while she passed. He said to himself that no woman should so hurt him again. He would forget that Christine of Zlarin had lived. A will of iron helped him to success in the resolution. He had come to Vienna when he found that it was no longer of moment to him whether the news which the priest told were true or false. He had thrown off the fetters; and no human hand might rivet them again.

“Many men have taken such a resolution as this; few have persevered in it. A whisper of the voice, a touch of the hand, a tear upon a pretty face, and the tide of affection surges up to sweep calculation from its bed, to foster the seeds of forgiveness and of forgetfulness. The last of the Zaloskis had asked himself, when they told him that Mademoiselle Zlarin would speak with him, if there might not be some power of her presence which would work a spell upon him. When Christine entered his room he knew that there was not. Pretty she was—he said that to himself—and the prettier for the fine furs wrapped about her little neck and ears. He thought that her maturing figure helped her to more commanding beauty. But the very fact that she was dressed as any other of the many women he met in the salons and at the Palace helped to destroy that illusion which had been so powerful to promote love at Jézero. Besides, was not she the wife of a woodlander’s son?

“Such reasoning confirmed him in his assumption of indifference. He held out his hand to Christine as to a friend. The warmth of his greeting was no more than the cordiality of a pleasant recognition.

“‘It is Christine herself,’ he said, unconscious of her agitation—‘Christine herself, who never looked so well. Donnerwetter, little one, I thought that you would come to see me. And what tales to tell! I hear them everywhere I go—“Mademoiselle Zlarin, whose playing fascinated the Emperor; Mademoiselle Zlarin, who was the star of the Prater; Mademoiselle Zlarin, who is to appear as Joseph”—himmel, it is a triumph you have to speak of. All the city talks of it. Oh, for a truth I am proud of my little girl of Jézero!’

“Cordial as his greeting was, the note of it was like the chill of iron to the heart of the woman who had been telling herself that his words would be so different. Hot blood filled her veins while she listened; the whole of the truth was instantly made clear to her. ‘He has forgotten,’ she said to herself; and at that her own love seemed to rush back into the prison of her mind. Yet God alone knew what the effort cost her.

“‘Herr Count,’ she said, speaking very slowly, ‘I came to you—to thank you for your kindness to me when I was at Jézero. Whatever I may do in Vienna, I shall never forget those days. It is good to remember them, and to hear of my friends——’

“He stopped her abruptly, raising his hand and placing a chair for her.

“‘The obligation was upon our side,’ he said; ‘did we not entertain Mademoiselle Zlarin, whose name is on everyone’s tongue? Do not speak of it, little one, but tell me about yourself. I shall have fine news to write to Father Mark; and the old dame—himmel, what airs she will put on! So you are to play Joseph to-night, and to be the star to-morrow at Esterhazy’s house. That I should come to Vienna to hear such things!’

“He spoke with great energy and show of friendship, feeling already that a gesture or a word might bring the past back upon him swiftly. She, on her part, scarce able to believe that this man had held her in his arms and professed love for her, stung to bitterness that he should forget so readily, resolved that no act or speech of hers should impose the memory of that past upon him.

“‘It is true that I am to play Joseph to-night,’ she said coldly; ‘but the part is small, and I am afraid that I shall never be a singer. Still, it leads to other things, and will help me in my violin playing. You shall tell me what you think of that after the concert to-morrow, for you are going to the Prince’s, I hear. You will applaud me a little, Count?’

“‘A little—the devil! Did you not once tell me that I had great hands? Well, you shall hear them in claps of thunder to-morrow; and to-night I have a box, and am taking Baron Philiporic, who has a voice like a cannon. We shall make a useful pair—rely upon it.’

“She laughed now in spite of herself, but remembering suddenly the purpose of her visit, she refused the tea which he offered her.

“‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘I must be at the theatre again directly, and I have much to do before that. Music is a hard mistress, Count, as I discovered years ago. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you more of my troubles; but to-day they must wait. I came here to speak to you of something which is very difficult to speak about—and yet for both our sakes I must speak.’

“It was his turn to become serious now, and to show her by his manner that he was in no mood for confidences.

“‘Really,’ said he, ‘it is difficult to believe that Mademoiselle Zlarin has any troubles!’

“She laughed—a laugh rather of defiance than of merriment.

“‘Perhaps I have none, Count,’ she exclaimed; ‘it may be that I imagine them. If each of us could be as happy as he thinks his friend, what a pleasant world it would be! But I am not here to weary you with my own history. I came rather to save you from my troubles and from those who make them. You will know of whom I speak. If you still wish to do me a kindness, avoid my husband while you are in Vienna. I say no more—you will understand.’

“The Count leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. He had thought that she was about to invite discussion of those things which it was his object not to discuss. When she spoke of Ugo Klun the relief was great.

“‘Ho, ho, Christine, so I am to avoid your husband? You came to tell me that! He has threatened me, eh? Certainly, I must send for the police, or buy a shirt of mail, little one. Donnerwetter, that the rogue should have the impertinence!’

“Christine rose from her chair and wrapped her furs about her neck. She was trembling—but not with cold. The indifference of the man—his mocking tone—cut her to the quick. She seemed to live years during the few minutes she was in the room with him.

“‘Herr Count,’ she said, ‘I thought it my duty to speak, and I have spoken; the rest I leave to you. Remember the words—even if you forget the speaker.’

“She held out her hand to him, and he saw that she was about to leave him. His raillery ceased instantly as his fingers closed upon hers, and for the first time during the interview an overwhelming desire came upon him to remind her of the days at Jézero when they had lived together in the gardens of life. He knew it not, but Destiny had led him then to the well of love, and he had but to stoop and drink. A word—a look from the eyes—and he would have held her in his arms and have gathered the firstfruits of her abiding passion. The fatal instant during which he paused to reckon with himself was one the opportunity of which would never be his again. Even as he put the silent question: ‘What of my determination?’ the girl had turned from him and left the room. His hand was still hot with the touch of hers when she stepped into her carriage and drove to her home.

“‘Oh, my God, my God! I have lived my life,’ she sobbed, while she buried her burning face in her furs, and the hum of the city’s life rang deafeningly in her ears.”

CHAPTER XXIV
“JOSEPH”

“The curtain fell at the great Opera House, and the audience sprang to its feet to summon the performers. Noble and merchant, prince and peasant, grande dame and grisette, raised their voices together in one resounding note of acclamation, which was sustained and carried to the throngs waiting in the Ring without. Women bejewelled and begowned to the limits of splendour, pretty girls in the galleries, courtesans flaunting in the circles, cast their flowers to the stage. The glitter of the gems, the flash of the countless lights, the clamour of the people, the changing lustre of colour—these, excellency, blinded my eyes and deafened my ears. For two hours had I sat in my little box trembling as one with the palsy for the success of Christine. I had seen her come running in to play the part of the gipsy boy; I had heard the thunder of the welcome accorded to one loved long for her work in the Prater, spoken of as a violinist whose fame should soon spread beyond the city. And now these cheers should tell me what the final verdict was.

“The uproar arose, excellency, and one by one the names were called. God of my life! I listened with bursting ears, and when, strong and clear above other cries I heard the people shout for ‘Joseph,’ then, the saints be my witness, my courage left me and my face was wet with my tears. Was she not my daughter? Had she not run to me for bread when she was still a little child? Nay, her triumph was my triumph; and there was no prouder man in Vienna that night than old Andrea of Sebenico. I saw that success like this assured a future for her and a future for me. She would go on from victory to victory; I should follow humbly in her path. She would be rich beyond my dreams; I should be content with the comforts she would provide for me. As for her husband—the scoundrel who would live upon her earnings—was not the little hussar to deal with him? It was even possible that the word was spoken while the people in the theatre were deafening Christine with their plaudits? Oh, surely I did well to shed tears of joy, to dream that the cloak of sorrow had slipped for ever from my shoulders, that the day of my springtime had come back to me!

“I have told you, excellency, that mingled with all my pride in Christine’s triumph was that anxiety to know what steps the boy lover whom they called ‘Zol’ would take to fulfil his threat of the morning. I had seen him sitting in his stall by the orchestra during the first act of the play; yet the success of my little girl was no good news to him, who foresaw in it nothing but a barrier against his love. Gloomily and silently he watched the bewitching gipsy, while the devil’s music filled her fiddle; but towards the end of the opera he left his seat, and I saw him no more. It was not until the following morning that I heard how curiously he had passed his time, for they told me the whole of the terrible story then. As it was told to me, so will I give it to you.

“‘Zol’ went out of the theatre telling himself that, do what he would, Christine would never speak a word of love to him now. Success is often the key-note of change; it can open the heart to kindness or close it to remembrance. When it is a woman’s success, and its handmaidens are the glare of the limelight and the applause of a city, then it may be the enemy both of friendship and of affection. Zol declared that Christine would have a hundred lovers soon, and would be able to laugh at the cruelties of the man Klun. It was a desperate thought to him to remember that others would seek to share the scanty favours which she had bestowed upon him. He resented the suggestion that she should have any other friend. He told himself that it would be good to carry her away from Vienna, and to hide her in some secure place where he might garner her love and her beauty. And in this spirit of complaint he paced the snow-clad streets, heedless of the cold or of the cutting wind, hot with the fever of his impatience.

“Long he walked, returning to the Opernring twice; twice standing upon the river bridge and telling himself how easy it would be to die for Christine. At the last he found himself in the Wallner Strasse, beneath the windows of the child’s apartments; and there the idea came to him to wait for her return from the theatre, and then to repeat that story he had whispered so often. So pleasing was this suggestion that he was in her house almost with the thought, and when the old maidservant had opened to his knock, he passed through at once to Christine’s boudoir.

“‘I have come to congratulate mademoiselle,’ said he; ‘she will be here in a few minutes.’

“‘Ah,’ said the woman, ‘it has been a great night for her, surely! God send that she will have many like it! You were there, sir?’

“‘Certainly; I have just come away.’

“‘You saw her with your own eyes—what good fortune! And she played——’

“‘Divinely,’ said the Lieutenant, anxious to escape the questioning; ‘no prettier woman has ever trodden the boards of the Opera.’ And then he asked: ‘Is anyone in her room now?’

“The old dame raised her finger to her lips warningly.

“‘Stille,’ she whispered, ‘he is there; he came an hour ago; he is waiting for her—you understand? It is good that you are here. He is a devil to-night, and will strike her—see to it.’

“‘You mean her husband?’ asked Zol.

“‘Who should I mean if not him?—yet, husband you call him! Pish, if I were such as you I would know who was husband to her!’

“She leered and grinned meaningly—Zol had given her many a gold piece that winter—and opened the door of the boudoir to him. He went in at once, saying to himself that he would remain as she had asked him to do. And so he found himself face to face with Ugo Klun.

“The Italian was sitting in a low chair by the stove. He was of thin blood, and the cold of Vienna had chilled him to his bones. He had half a bottle of cognac at his side, and a cheroot between his lips. It was plain that the drink had warmed him up to garrulity, and that he had been waiting for Christine in the hope of profiting by her triumph at the full tide of its consummation. When the door of the room opened, he had looked to see her enter, and had half-risen from his chair; but the coming of the little hussar was like a blow to him, and he sank back snarling upon the cushions.

“‘Christé,’ cried he, ‘so it is you, little boy! What the devil are you doing here?’

“Zol ignored the insult, and drew a chair up to the stove, warming his hands in the bright glow of the spreading heat.

“‘Blitzen,’ said he, ‘what a night to be abroad! You were not at the Opera, sir?’

“Klun leant back in his chair and laughed—a drunken laugh, full of self-conceit and impudence.

“‘I—at the Opera—to hear my wife squeal? Diavolo, I have something better to do! But you——’

“‘I—oh, I was there.’

“‘Of course you would be. Where the devil else should I look for you? She did well, you say?’

“‘She did more than well. It is a small part, of course, and her future is not in the theatre. But it was good for her to have the prestige of it; and she promises to become the first violinist in Austria. Few have her dash. Her reception to-night was tremendous.’

“‘Bah!’ said the other, ‘that was her pretty face. It is hard not to applaud a woman when her eyes are bright and her skin is clear, little boy. There is yourself, now, maledetto—your hands were busy, I’ll be bound. And now you come running back to her house at this time of night. But I shall have something to say to that. Do you hear? You have to reckon with me, my little master.’

“He raised himself upon his elbows, and his attempt to assume the possession of heroic virtues which had been outraged was so ridiculous to see that Zol laughed in spite of himself.

“‘Sit still, and don’t be a fool!’ said he; ‘You know well that I come here often at this time. I shall come just when I please. If you have anything to say about it, say it to my groom.’

“Klun sank back upon his cushions again, and helped himself to more brandy.

“‘Macché, Lieutenant,’ said he, ‘I am not the one to quarrel with you about little Christine. All said and done, you have been a good friend to her. What if people talk—is it anything to me? I am a poor man, and come here to serve her interests. She does not love me. I know that. But she has a duty to perform towards me. It is right that I should have money. I do not ask much. You will admit that I cannot starve?’

“Zol regarded him with unutterable contempt.

“‘I admit nothing of the sort,’ said he; ‘a little fasting would do you good. Begin with the brandy, for instance.’

“The Italian swore a heavy oath.

“‘Accidente!’ cried he, ‘say that again——’

“‘A hundred times if you wish it—begin with the brandy.’

“‘Cospetto, you have courage! It is lucky for you that I keep my temper.’

“For a moment he appeared ready to strike the boy, who never moved from his seat nor withdrew his hands from their place before the stove. Presently, however, he remembered that the Lieutenant was the son of Gerold, the banker.

“‘Why should we quarrel?’ he asked, swaying drunkenly in his chair; ‘why should we not understand one another? You are the friend of my wife; very well, be my friend too. You think that I have eyes? Very well. Do not forget at the same time that I can close them. I liked you from the first. I said always, she will come to no harm with him. This was my regard for you. There is no other man in Vienna I would so trust. But I cannot forget that she is a wife to me; I cannot go naked, Herr Lieutenant, because you put fine notions into her head. You understand that. You will not ask me to sleep in the attic when she is supping on the first floor? Oh, no; you are too wise for that. You know well what things are. When a pretty woman laughs, as we say in Italian, a purse complains. I want to see Christine laugh all day. Do you hear that? She shall laugh and my purse shall not complain—hein! Oh, I am an honest man. Per Baccho, Herr Gerold, I look forward to the day when I shall have a nice little store to bank with your father. You will help me to that? I may count upon you?’

“He bent forward with an effort, trying to assume the air of one who has asked a question and means to be answered.

“‘I may count upon you, Herr Lieutenant?’

“Zol for the first time lost his temper.

“‘Oh!’ exclaimed he, ‘you may go to the devil as far as I am concerned. If you would begin your journey now, I should be obliged to you. Your wife will be here in a minute or two. It is a pity that you should see her in that state. Go home now and sleep, and return here to-morrow, if the police will let you.’

“At the word ‘police’ the Italian started up, sobered in a moment.

“‘Maledetto, little lieutenant, what should the police have to do with me?’

“‘You can answer that question best yourself—you and the corporal of Jajce. Should I tell you your own history, as I shall tell it presently—unless you behave yourself—at the War Office here? That would be a waste of time, Herr Klun.’

“Zol spoke without much thought. So little did he fear the Italian that he did not even turn in his seat to watch him. But the sweat of terror was upon the brow of the other, and the devil was at his heart. Springing from his chair, with anger hissing upon his lips, he drew his dagger from his girdle, and gripped the boy.

“‘Come, Herr Lieutenant, you shall tell nothing!’ he cried.

“Zol was up now, for the firelight had shown him the flash of the steel. Turning deftly, he caught the Italian’s arm as it descended, but the blade of the dagger ripped his coat at the shoulder, and he could feel the point of the weapon running like a burning wire over his flesh. In another moment the two men were reeling round the room together, the one fighting with the strength of a madman to release the arm which held his stiletto; the other hugging the Italian to him with all the strong grip of young muscles.

“Zol has told me often, excellency, that his only thought in all the fierce minutes of that terrible struggle was one of little Christine. ‘She will return to find my body here,’ he thought. Quick as he was, sure-footed, and with nerves of steel, he knew that he was no match for the woodlander’s son. Ugo had muscles like ropes of iron; a life lived in the mountains had broadened his chest and trained his limbs so that few even in his own village could stand against him. Had it not been for the months of debauchery which Christine’s money had permitted to him, he would have killed the lad as we should crush a nut beneath our feet. And the drink he had taken robbed his feet of their sureness; there was a mist before his eyes when Zol gripped him; he had a buzz of sounds in his ears and a tightness at the throat as of one suffocating. Twice by a supreme effort he drew back his arm, the knife passing through the lieutenant’s hand and cutting the flesh to the bone; twice that arm was gripped again, and the two men, bound together as by ropes of wire, rolled round the room, knocking the vases from the cabinets, the glasses from the table—even the lamps from their pedestals. Sweat was thick upon the brows of both. They gasped for breath like runners; cries escaped them—the cries of men upon the threshold of death. Round they went, round yet again; now pausing for very truce of weakness; now closing so firmly that their muscles cracked and their bones were almost bending. And then the supreme moment came. God! what a moment to live!

“Convinced that he could not strike the Lieutenant while he was locked in his arms, the Italian bethought him of another plan. Suddenly, and very dexterously, he relaxed his grip. Permitting his muscles to go limp, he slipped to the floor, hacking at the other’s legs as he did so. So surprising and so clever was the movement, that Zol sprang away to avoid the cut of the blade, and in that moment Klun was free. Determined that no false stroke should put him in the clutch of his antagonist again, he stepped back, a great oath upon his lips, and gathered himself together like a beast about to spring.

“‘Holy Virgin, my lieutenant,’ he cried, ‘I am going to slit your throat! You shall tell your tale then, if you have breath. What! you have no fancy for it? Devil’s cub that you are——’

“He sprang forward with the words, and Zol, who had reeled backward against the wall, thought, indeed, that then was the moment when he was about to die. One instant, he said, and the mystery of life would be a mystery to him no more. No longer had he the strength to parry or to grip; he could but wait for the blow and wonder if the agony of death were an agony hard to bear. But that blow never fell, excellency. The Hand of God was over the boy. The holy angels watched him. Even while he told himself—for so were his nerves wrought upon—that Klun had struck him, the Italian lay dead at his feet. A miracle, you say; aye, surely—yet what a miracle!

“For thus it befell: The men in their struggle had pulled up the great mat in that corner of the room where the end came. As Klun sprang upon the boy, he caught his foot in the edge of this mat, and lurched forward heavily upon his face. The upturned knife—upturned because his arm bent under him—was driven by the weight of his body into his own throat. During one long minute the dying man clutched frantically at the floor beneath him. Then, rising upon his knees, and plucking at the dagger he, of a sudden, gave a gurgling cry, and fell stone dead.

“In the same moment Christine stepped from her carriage and ran up the stairs of the house to her room.”

CHAPTER XXV
THE END OF THE STORY

“She had come out of the theatre with her victory fresh upon her. The change from the glare of lights and the clamour of voices to the darkness of the streets and her own solitude reminded her how little that triumph meant to her. ‘He has forgotten,’ she said to herself always. The purpose of her work, that she might be worthy of her lover; the purpose of her suffering, that he might not suffer, guided her no longer. She seemed to sink back to a world of misery and of hopeless effort. The silence of the night reminded her that she was without a friend in all the city. She had ever hungered for love; the loveless childhood she had known had fed that hunger. Jézero had been to her a garden of delight because love had built there arbours for her, and she had rested in them. But now these were shut to her. She recalled every word that Count Paul had spoken; his callousness, his raillery, his restraint in avoiding any word of affection for her. She knew instinctively that never more would she hear his voice or touch his hand. She remembered that she must go back to a home which was not a home; she thought of the man Klun, of his brutalities and his persecutions. She asked herself to what end she had succeeded in the theatre, had realised the visions of her childhood. Life could give her nothing, since it did not give her love.

“These thoughts—the children of her melancholy—were hers until the carriage set her down in the Wallner Strasse, and she ran up the stairs to her apartments. She was a little surprised that Zol opened to her knock; but surprise became fear when she saw his face and the blood upon his hands. She had long looked upon the young hussar as a real friend, though she was often ignorant of her own feeling in the matter. But now when he stood before her, pale and bloody and trembling with excitement, a great flood of affection for him rushed upon her, and she seized both his hands.

“‘Zol,’ she cried, ‘tell me—what is it, Zol? You have hurt yourself! Oh, my God! don’t look at me like that! Speak to me!’

“She said this, but her instinct—as the instinct of woman will in moments of peril—told her something of the truth. She endeavoured to pass into the boudoir, but he held her back, the blood from his hands soiling her cloak.

“‘Christine,’ he exclaimed, ‘for God’s sake don’t—you must not go—I will tell you——’

“But she had brushed past him, and a moment later her terrible cry told him that she stood over the body of her husband. Excellency, who may write of a moment like that?

“‘Zol,’ she said—ten minutes had been numbered then, and he had given her the story—‘take me away from Vienna; oh, I can bear it no longer! Zol, take me to Zlarin.’

“She said the words, and then lay almost inanimate in his arms, while his lips were glued to hers and his limbs trembled against her own.

“Excellency, this is the story of Christine of the Hills. You have seen the pavilion which Zol has built for her upon the island she has learnt to love. They say that he has married her, and has no thought but for her happiness. For myself, Christine is very good to me. Eccoli, am I not her father? Did I not give her bread when all the world cried upon her? Surely it is right that she should remember me now when she has money beyond her wishes, and is the mistress of houses and of servants.

“And she has forgotten, you ask—ah, who shall tell us that? Who shall read the whole heart of a woman who has loved one man and has given herself to another? Let us remember only that affection is about her path; that she has come back from her dreaming to the island home where the visions were given to her.

“And from the new dream of content, excellency, it is my prayer that she will never wake.”

THE END.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

The title of Chapter XIX, ANDREA GOES AN ERRAND, appears to be missing a word, but has been transcribed as printed.

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Table of Contents

- CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS
- CONTENTS
- PROLOGUE THE PAVILION OF THE ISLAND
- CHAPTER I CHRISTINE THE CHILD
- CHAPTER II THE QUEST OF THE WOMAN
- CHAPTER III ANDREA FINDS CHRISTINE
- CHAPTER IV THE WORD IS SPOKEN
- CHAPTER V A WEDDING JOURNEY
- CHAPTER VI IN THE HUT OF ORIO
- CHAPTER VII CHRISTINE AWAKES
- CHAPTER VIII A MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS
- CHAPTER IX THE WHITE ROOM
- CHAPTER X COUNT PAUL AT HOME
- CHAPTER XI ANDREA BEARS WITNESS
- CHAPTER XII ANDREA PUTS THE QUESTION
- CHAPTER XIII “IF THE MAN LIVES”
- CHAPTER XIV THE WHIRLING FIRE
- CHAPTER XV THE APPARITION IN THE CLOISTERS
- CHAPTER XVI THE SECOND COMING OF UGO KLUN
- CHAPTER XVII ANDREA LEAVES JÉZERO

- CHAPTER XVIII “LE MONDE EST LE LIVRE DES FEMMES”

- CHAPTER XIX ANDREA GOES AN ERRAND
- CHAPTER XX LA PROVA
- CHAPTER XXI “ZOL”
- CHAPTER XXII THE MORNING OF THE DAY
- CHAPTER XXIII THE BEGINNING OF THE NIGHT
- CHAPTER XXIV “JOSEPH”
- CHAPTER XXV THE END OF THE STORY
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE