Saint Michael

A shiver ran through Raoul's frame. Here it was again,–the strange resemblance. He knew those flashing eyes, that iron tone; he seemed to see his grandfather's self before him pronouncing upon him sentence of death.

"Fulfil your orders, then!" he said, dully; "and then you will know that the dead did not lie."

There was something in this dull submission that had a more powerful effect than could have been produced by the most passionate asseverations. Michael was impressed by it. He knew that Raoul possessed sufficient physical courage to defend to the death what he did not choose to resign, had it been in his possession; and, stepping up close to him, he laid his hand upon his arm.

"Count Raoul Steinrück, in the name of the man from whom we both are sprung I demand of you the truth. The papers upon which the safety of our army depends are not in your possession?"

"No!" said Raoul, firmly; and once more his down cast eyes were lifted to meet his questioner's gaze.

"And Clermont has them?"

"Doubtless they are in his hands."

"Then I am losing time here; he must be pursued and overtaken. The train that brought me here leaves in half an hour. I must go to the station."

He turned to go, but the young Count detained him. "Take me with you! Give me a place in the military train. Our paths are the same–"

"No, they are not!" Michael interrupted him, coldly. "Stay behind, Count Steinrück. I may perhaps be compelled to demand the papers of Herr von Clermont pistol in hand, and at the decisive moment you might possibly remember again that he is your 'nearest friend,' and the brother of the woman whom you 'love to madness.'"

"Rodenberg, I give you my word of honour–"

"Your word of honour?"

The emphasis that Michael gave to these words was so crushing that Raoul stood mute, as the captain went on in the same pitiless tone,–

"If you have not been guilty of the worst of crimes you have permitted it, and even shielded it from discovery. Either act is high treason; the accomplice is as bad as the thief."

He went without a backward glance. As he passed through the hall a door opened, and Valentin appeared, stood for a moment mute with astonishment, and then advanced hastily. "Michael! Is this you?"

"Your reverence!" was the rejoinder, in the same tone of astonishment. "You here?"

"That I ask you. You appointed the day after tomorrow, and if Hertha had not in her anxiety hastened her journey–"

"Hertha here? With you? Where is she?" Michael eagerly interrupted him; and when the priest pointed to the door in the upper story opening upon the staircase, the young officer heard no more, but rushed up the steps, tore open the door, and in another instant clasped Hertha in his arms.

But this interview had to be as brief as it was passionately tender. Rodenberg clasped his betrothed to his heart, but his first word to her was one of farewell.

"I cannot stay. I only wanted to see you, to snatch one moment of bliss. I must go."

"Go?" Hertha repeated, clinging to him, half dazed with sudden joy and dread. "Now, in this first moment of reunion? You cannot."

"I must," he insisted. "Perhaps we may see each other again the day after to-morrow."

"Only perhaps! And if we do not? Can you not spare me a moment for farewell?"

"My darling, you cannot dream what it costs me to leave you now; but duty claims me. I must obey."

Duty! Hertha had heard the word often enough from the general's lips, and she comprehended its significance. Her eyes filled with tears, but she made no further effort to detain her lover. Once more he pressed his lips to hers.

"Farewell! One thing more,–Raoul is here. Possibly he may attempt to see you if he should hear of your presence in the house. Promise me neither to see him nor to speak with him."

A contemptuous expression flitted across the young girl's face. "Her presence would forbid on his part any such attempt as you fear."

"Whose presence? Whom do you mean?" asked Michael, with intense eagerness.

"Héloïse von Nérac!"

"What? here? And Clermont–"

"He is with her."

"Thank God! Where–where are they?"

"Just above us, in the gable-room. But tell me–"

"I cannot! Do not ask me, do not follow me. Everything depends upon my finding them, and then–then I can stay with you."

He hurried from the room, past the priest, who looked after him in dismayed surprise; nor could Hertha in the least understand this scene, although she clung for comfort to Michael's last words,–'Then I can stay with you.'

The gable-room, in which a single candle was burning, was even more scantily furnished than were the other rooms in the house, but the strangers occupying it, who had arrived by the noonday train, had taken possession of it without complaint, since they needed it for only a few hours. They were each in travelling-dress, apparently waiting impatiently for the signal for departure. Henri Clermont was pacing the room restlessly, whilst Héloïse sat leaning back in an old arm-chair.

"What a delay this is!" she exclaimed, in despair. "It seems as if we never should get away from here. It will be impossible for us to cross the borders tomorrow morning as we hoped."

"And it is entirely your fault," Henri interposed, irritably. "How could you be guilty of such imprudence as to speak French just as we were about to change cars? You might have known that the excited crowd at the station would insult us."

"How could I know that the German mob was so irritable? And after all there were only two or three who were insulting; the better sort took our part. There was no need for the police to interfere as they did."

"True, but while matters were being adjusted the train moved off, and we, hemmed in on every side, could not get to it. We have lost half a day, when every minute is full of peril for us. Moreover, we have attracted attention, and may be glad that we could disappear in this wretched inn. We must not venture to show ourselves again at the station until just before the train starts. They may be even now upon our track."

"Impossible! Even if the discovery has been made, Raoul will be silent."

"Raoul behaved like a madman. In another instant he would have called for help, and betrayed me. Had I not whispered, 'Remember Héloïse. If you betray me she is lost to you!' he would not have let me go."

"And we have left him to bear the brunt of the tempest!"

Héloïse's voice trembled as she spoke the words, but Henri shrugged his shoulders.

"That can't be helped. It was either I or he; there was no other choice when matters had gone so far."

The conversation was carried on of course in French, but in so low a tone that not a word could be heard beyond the walls of the room. Now Henri's voice sank to a whisper as he went close up to his sister.

"It was not easy for you to give him up, I know, but the reward is worth the sacrifice. What I have here assures our entire future. We may ask what we will, and they–"

He broke off suddenly and turned to the door, which was quietly opened. Héloïse started up with an exclamation of terror; the instant she recognized the man standing on the threshold she knew that their schemes and calculations were fruitless. Not in vain had been her dread of those 'cold, hard eyes:' they brought ruin to her brother and herself.

Rodenberg closed the door and approached the pair. "Herr von Clermont, there is no need to tell you why I am here. I trust you will spare me all explanation, and that a few minutes will suffice for the business between us."

Clermont had grown very pale, but he made an effort to maintain his composure.

"What do you mean, Captain Rodenberg? I do not understand you."

"Then I must be more explicit. I demand the papers which have been stolen from General Steinrück's desk. No need to put your hand to your breast; you see I, too, have a pistol here, and I am probably the better shot. Moreover, it might be uncomfortable for you to have shots exchanged here; the station is very near, and is crowded with troops; escape would be impossible. You had better resign yourself to circumstances."

Clermont in fact dropped his hand from his breast and said through his closed teeth, "And if I refuse to do so?"

"Then you must bear the consequences. War is declared, and a spy would have but a short shrift. I leave you to choose. One word from me, and you are lost."

"That word, however, you will not speak," said Clermont, with a sneer; "for then I should have something to say which might not be exactly agreeable to one of your generals in command."

The threat touched a sore spot, but Michael with instant presence of mind deprived it of its point, rejoining, coolly, "You are mistaken; Count Raoul Steinrück is here with me, upon your track. He may well be forgiven the heedlessness of a moment. But enough of this idle talk. Must I use force? My shot will rouse the neighbourhood."

He stood, pistol in hand, gazing steadily at his opponent, who saw clearly that the game was lost. Clermont was no coward in the usual sense of the word, but he knew that strife with this man would be vain, and his weapon, Raoul's share in his treachery, had been wrenched from his hand. In fact, he believed that Raoul himself had revealed the theft. After a moment's delay he slowly drew forth the papers from his breast-pocket and handed them to the captain, who took them without altering his menacing attitude.

"Retire to the window," he said, authoritatively. "I must see that the papers are all here and intact."

Clermont obeyed, going to the window, where Héloïse had already taken refuge. Michael tore open the envelope which bore the general's address, and which had apparently been opened. The superscription of the papers revealed their contents, their seals were unbroken, and, after a brief, keen scrutiny, he was satisfied that none had been abstracted.

Meanwhile, Henri had whispered a few words to his sister, who now timidly approached the captain. "Captain Rodenberg–we are in your power."

The words sounded imploring and distressed, but as she confronted the captain and raised her eyes to his, he encountered that strange gleam which many men had found so perilous, and which had wrought Raoul's ruin; it was harmless here.

"The way to the station lies open for your brother and yourself, madame," said Michael, coldly. "I shall place no further obstacle in your path; but allow me to hope that in future you will choose some other country–not Germany–for the scene of your operations."

Héloïse recoiled; his tone of utter contempt was worse than a blow.

As Rodenberg went down the stairs his old teacher came to meet him. "Michael, what in heaven's name has been going on up there? Countess Hertha has been in mortal terror, and so have I; but we did not venture to follow you."

"Reassure Hertha, I pray your reverence, and tell her I shall be with her in five minutes."

He spoke the words hurriedly as he passed the priest and went through the inn-parlour to the little room where he had left Raoul.

The young Count was sitting at the table, his head leaning upon his hands, in an attitude of despair. He looked up as the captain entered, but his eyes were dull and lifeless.

"The peril is past," said Michael. "By chance Clermont and his sister were in this very house. I forced him to relinquish his booty, and I think I can answer for his silence, since no plotter is anxious to tell of disgraceful schemes frustrated. For the sake of the honour of the Steinrück name, we too must hold our tongues. The name is saved from disgrace, and there is nothing to prevent your return to your home, Count Raoul; no one will ever know that the papers have been in hands other than those for which they were intended. I shall instantly telegraph to my grandfather, and early to-morrow I shall leave here to carry to him the missing packet. This is what I wished to tell you."

Raoul sat as if stunned, listening to the words that lifted such a terrible burden from his soul; the strange rigidity of his features did not relax. He seemed to wish to speak, perhaps a word of gratitude, but the scorn in his cousin's look and bearing closed his lips. 'My grandfather,'–the words sounded so natural, so exultant. Count Michael had indeed found a grandson who was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. They belonged together, and after this exploit of Michael's the old Count's' arms would be opened wide to receive him.

When Rodenberg had gone, Raoul arose and slowly left the room and the house. Outside, he paused as if reflecting, and then retreated into the shadow as two figures emerged from the door-way. He recognized them as they glided past him on their way to the station, but he betrayed his presence by no sign, no sound. The proximity of the woman who but a short time before had possessed such power over him scarcely made any impression upon him. He knew that she was vanishing from him forever, but the knowledge gave him no pain. All within him seemed empty and dead, incapable of sensation.

From the open window just above him came the same voice that he had heard a few moments before, but how different was its tone!

"Hertha, my darling, forgive me for leaving you as I did. I had to fight for one hour of farewell. Now there is no duty to keep me from you. But we will have no tears,–we are still together."

Then another voice spoke,–a voice which the listener also knew well, and which sounded strange to him in its tenderness and sweetness.

"No, Michael, you shall not see a tear. I will think of nothing save the joy of having you here."

Was that really Hertha? Ah, she had learned to love indeed, and he who had once been her betrothed knew now what he had sacrificed. It drove him far from the lovers; he walked on aimlessly in the darkness, beside the rushing river, until a wall barred his way. It was one of the supports of the bridge, above the arches of which the railway crossed the river; below the current ran strong, and an old willow dipped its boughs deep into the water.

The air was close and sultry, but a storm was at hand, and the lightning flashed sharply and incessantly. Raoul leaned against the trunk of the willow and gazed down into the dark whirling water; it cost him an effort to think clearly.

What should he do now? Go home? He could be there on the morrow, and some pretext for his absence could easily be invented.

No one knew what had happened, with the exception of the two who would keep silence for the sake of the honour of the Steinrücks, but the last of the name felt utterly unable to confront his grandfather again. The stern old man had pronounced sentence upon the traitor to his country,–the look of cool contempt beneath which Raoul had winced half an hour ago would fall upon him day after day from his grandfather's eyes,–death were indeed preferable to such a fate!

Loud hurrahs resounded from the railway-station, where the crowd were cheering the troops who were about to take their departure, and behind those dimly-lighted windows a young soldier was bidding farewell to his betrothed whom he might never see again. But here, beneath this willow, stood one for whom all was lost,–betrothed, honour, even a country.

The military train came rushing along, and just as it reached the bridge there was a flash of lightning. For an instant everything stood revealed in the dazzling light, the heavy threatening clouds, the dim distant mountains, and the whirling river, but the spot beneath the willow was vacant, and there was a plash in the foaming waters. In a moment the night swallowed all up again, the train thundered across the bridge, and in the west there was a zigzag gleam,–Saint Michael's sword of flame.

Two days later at General Steinrück's head-quarters various officers were assembled waiting for orders, but with unusually grave faces, and conversing in undertones. They had learned the sad misfortune that had befallen their chief. His grandson, the handsome, gallant, and gay Count Raoul, was dead; he had been walking at night on the river-bank, a false step had precipitated him from it into the river at a spot where the current was unusually strong, and he had been drowned.

It was terrible for the old man thus in the evening of his days to see the last of his name and race vanish in the bloom of youth, while he could not even stand beside his coffin or follow it to his ancestral tomb. Duty detained him at the head of his corps; indeed, in the two days that had elapsed since he had heard the sad news no duty of his position had been neglected; he was now giving audience to Captain Rodenberg, a bearer of important despatches. Not one of the officers suspected the nature of the scene–the closing scene of a family drama–that was enacting behind those closed doors. Michael was standing there beside the general, saying,–

"They found him at daybreak, quite near the house where we were staying. I had time to make the necessary arrangements, and then I was obliged to leave, intrusting everything else to the care of my dear old teacher, who also undertook the sad duty of carrying the news to Countess Hortense of her son's death and of having the body taken to Steinrück."

The general had listened in silence; now he asked, "And does no one know–?"

"No one save ourselves. Clermont and his sister will be silent,–must be silent for their own sakes. Were anything known of what has occurred, existence would be impossible for them anywhere. Here are the papers. I deliver them into the hands of my general, and the honour of the Steinrück name is intact."

Steinrück received the papers, and held out his hand to his grandson: "I thank you, Michael."

The young officer looked at him anxiously, not deceived by the rigid composure of his manner; he knew what lay behind it.

"Grandfather," he said, gently, "now you can mourn for him."

The general shook his head. "I have no time for tears, and they belong only to the beloved dead. That he could so wound me– But enough; let him rest in peace."

He turned away and went into the antechamber, where the officers were assembled, and where he was received with the silent respect accorded to affliction. One of the group then stepped forward, and, in the name of all present, expressed to their leader the sympathy felt for him in the heavy loss which he had sustained. Steinrück listened calmly, apparently unmoved; he merely bowed in acknowledgment.

"I thank you, gentlemen. The blow which soon must strike thousands has fallen first upon me, but heaven has already sent me consolation, for here,"–and with the words a flash of his former energy broke through his forced composure, and the old soldier stood erect and vigorous,–"here beside me stands the son of my dead daughter, my grandson, Michael Rodenberg!"

A year had passed, a year full of terrible conflict and of tremendous results, full of shouts of victory and of wailing for the dead, and when summer again greeted the earth it greeted a newly-arisen kingdom.

Upon the mountain road leading from Tannberg to Castle Steinrück was rolling an open carriage in which were two officers. The captain, who sat on the right, would easily have been recognized as a soldier, even in civilian's dress; but his companion, who wore the uniform of a lieutenant of reserves, had an artistic rather than a military air, in spite of being tanned very brown by exposure to the sun and wind.

"The luck is all yours, Michael," he said, with all his old gayety. "You are returning crowned with laurels to your betrothed, while I still have a hard battle to fight. My little Dornröschen has indeed been faithful and brave, but the tall thorny hedge still confronts me in all the toughness of the tenth century. This uniform of mine is very uncomfortable in travelling, but I hope to impress my father-in-law with it. Perhaps it may move him to be confronted by the nineteenth century in all its warlike pomp."

"As usual, you regard the matter in its ludicrous aspect," rejoined Michael; "but indeed you ought to reflect that not only the old Freiherr, but your father also, refuses his consent."

"Yes, fathers are undoubtedly very difficult to deal with," Hans assented. "By dint of reading Gerlinda's letters to my father I have at last convinced him that she is sane, but he obstinately insists that lunacy is hereditary in the Eberstein family, and admonishes me to have regard for future generations. The Freiherr, on the other hand, maintains that godless irreverence is hereditary. Moreover, he must have an inkling that since the troops are dismissed I shall shortly come to the surface, for he has forbidden Gerlinda to drive to Steinrück. As if there were any use in that! I shall as the Knight of Forschungstein attack the Ebersburg, and as a preliminary climb the castle wall, and find my Dornröschen waiting for me on the terrace."

Michael listened rather absently, gazing the while towards Castle Steinrück, which had been visible for some time and was now close at hand. He remarked, casually, "You seem to be in constant correspondence with her,–was not an interchange of letters forbidden?"

"Of course it was, by both fathers. That is why we wrote so constantly to each other during the war. The archives of the family will be wonderfully enriched by the letters recounting the story of our love and misfortunes. But these last have gone on long enough, and if the old Freiherr will not listen to reason he must be clapped into the castle dungeon, and be kept there, as was Balduin of blessed memory six hundred years ago, until he consented to the marriage of Kunrad von Eberstein and Hildegard von Ortenau. Oh, I am well up now in the family chronicles. I make no more mistakes in the names."

Michael made no answer; as the carriage was driving up the hill he gazed eagerly towards the castle windows. Hans followed the direction of his eyes.

"And your grandfather is there too?"

"Yes, he came a week ago, and he has been obliged to ask for a long leave; the fatigue he has undergone has told terribly upon his health. But I hope everything from this mountain air."

The young artist shook his head, and said with sudden seriousness, "The general is very much altered. I was shocked when I saw him again. True, a campaign at his age, and then the sudden death of his grandson,–it is but natural. I think, however, that he is much fonder of you than he ever was of Count Raoul."

"Perhaps so. But at his time of life the effect of such shocks is never quite overcome," said Michael, evasively. He knew well what his grandfather could not overcome, but it was a secret between them.

Hans talked on, receiving ever briefer and more absent replies; his friend seemed scarcely to hear him, as he sat gazing towards the castle. Suddenly he drew forth his handkerchief and waved it in the air.

"What are you about?" asked Hans. "Ah, I see; there waves another handkerchief, and–yes, there stands the Countess Hertha on the balcony. She is beautiful indeed, your golden-haired fairy princess up there in the brilliant sunshine! My Dornröschen cannot vie with her, and my betrothed, instead of millions by way of dowry, has only an obstinate old papa. But then her family is full two hundred years older than the Steinrücks. Don't forget that, Michael! In the Middle Ages my future wife would decidedly have taken precedence of yours."

At last the carriage drove into the court-yard, far too slowly for the impatience of the young officer, who tore open the door, alighted, and ran up the steps to the hall, and, in spite of the servants there assembled, clasped in his arms Hertha, who had come to meet him. It was the first public acknowledgment of their betrothal.

"And I must look on, and cannot do likewise, just because I have a foolish papa and papa-in-law," grumbled Hans. "But only wait, my gentlemen, hardhearted parents as you are, and I will bring you to your knees."

In the wainscoted room with the large bow-window, where the ancestral portraits looked down from the walls, and the escutcheon of the Steinrücks was carved above the fireplace, Count Michael now sat with his grandson, whom he had seen for the first time in this very room, where the boy had suffered under so false an accusation. Fate had devised a terrible requital, and the general evidently suffered severely from it.

In fact, he was greatly altered, and in twelve months had grown older by as many years. While the campaign lasted, the responsibilities of his position, his military duties, nerved his arm, and his will forced mind and body to do his bidding. But his strength failed him when his duties were ended. The features of the handsome old face looked pinched and hollow, the eyes had lost their fire, even the carriage was bowed and weary. At this moment, however, his eyes rested with intense satisfaction upon his grandson, whose hand he held in his own.