Ганс Христиан Андерсен
O. T., A Danish Romance
CHAPTER XXXVI
“Bring’ häusliche Hülfe
Incubus! incubus.
Tritt herhor und mache den Schluss.”
GOETHE’s Faust.
“Es giebt so bange Zeiten,
Es giebt so trüben Muth!”
—NOVALIS.
The next morning Wilhelm related his evening adventure at the breakfast-table; the sisters laughed at it. The mother, on the contrary, was silent, left the room, and after some time returned.
“There have been thieves here!” said she, “and one might almost imagine that they were persons in the household itself. They have been at the press where the table-linen is kept, and have not been sparing in their levies. The beautiful old silver tankard, which I inherited from my grandmother, is also missing. I would much sooner have given the value of the silver than have lost that piece!”
“Will not the lady let it be tried by the sieve?” asked the old servant: “that is a pretty sure way!”
“That is nothing but superstition,” answered she; “in that way the innocent may so easily be suspected.”
“As the lady pleases!” said the servant, and shook his head.
In the mean time a search through the house was instituted. The boxes of the domestics were examined, but nothing was discovered.
“If you would only let the sieve be tried!” said the old servant.
In the afternoon Otto went into the garden; he fell into discourse with the gardener, and they spoke of the theft which had occurred.
“It vexes every one of us,” said he, “because we think much of the lady, and of the whole family. And some one must, nevertheless, be suspected. We believe that it was Sidsel, for she was a good-for-nothing person! We folks tried among ourselves with the sieve, but however, at the mention of her name, if it did not move out of its place. We had set it upon the point of a knife, and mentioned the name of every person about the place, but it stood as if it were nailed quite fast. But there was really something to see, which not one of us would have believed. I’ll say no more about it, although we had every one of us our own thoughts. I would have taken my oath of it.”
Otto pressed him to mention the person who was suspected.
“Yes, to you perhaps, I may mention it,” replied he; “but you will not say anything about it? As we were standing today, at noon, around the sieve, and it did not move at Sidsel’s name, she became angry, because a word bad been let fall which could not be agreeable to her if she were innocent. She drew herself up as if in a passion, and said to us, ‘But there are also in the hall a many people besides us, who may slip and slide! There are strangers here, and the fine Mamsell, and the farmers. Yes, I suspect no one, but every one ought to be named!’
“And so we did it. Yes, we mentioned even your name, Mr. Thostrup, although we knew very well that you were guiltless of the charge; but we would not excuse any one. The sieve stood quite entirely still until we mentioned Eva’s name, and then it moved. Not one of us actually could believe it, and the servant Peter said also that it was because of the draught from the chimney. We mentioned yet once more all the names, and the sieve stood still until we came to Eva’s, and then we perceived very plainly a movement. The servant Peter at the same moment gave a great blow to the sieve, so that it fell to the ground, and he swore that it was a lie, and that he would answer for Eva. I would have done so too; but yet it was very extraordinary with the sieve! Most of the folks, however, have their own thoughts, but no one venture to express them to the gentry who think so much of her. I cannot, however, rightly reconcile it to myself!”
“She is innocent!” said Otto; and it amazed him that any one should cast the slightest suspicion on Eva. He thought of German Heinrich and Sidsel, who alone appeared to him suspicious. There then occurred to him an experiment of which he had heard from Rosalie. It now seemed to him available, and, physiologically considered, much more certain than that with the sieve.
“Probably it may lead to a discovery,” said he, after he had communicated his whole plan to Sophie and the steward.
“Yes, we mast try it!” said she; “it is excellent! I also will be put to the proof, although I am initiated into the mystery.”
“Yes, you, your sister, Wilhelm, Eva, we all of us must,” said Otto. “Only I will not do the speaking: that the steward must do.”
“That is proper, very proper!” replied she: “it shall be tried this evening when it is dark.”
The time came; the steward assembled the people.
“Now I know,” said he, “how we shall find the thief!”
All were to remain in the first room: within a side-room, which was quite dark, there stood in a corner on the right hand a copper kettle; to this every person as they came in, one by one, were to go and lay their hand down on the flat bottom of the kettle. The hand of every one who was innocent would be brought out again white and pure, but the hand of the criminal would be severely burned, and would become black as a coal.
“He who now,” said the steward, addressing them, “has a good conscience, may go with this and our Lord into the innermost room, lay his hand upon the bottom of the kettle, and show it to me. Now I go to receive you all!”
The daughters went, the friends, Eva, and all the household. The steward questioned them as they came in: “Answer me, upon thy conscience, did thy hand touch the flat bottom of the kettle?”
All replied, “Yes!”
“Then show me your hand!” said he; and they showed them, and all were black: Sidsel’s alone was white.
“Thou art the thief!” said the steward. “Thy evil conscience has condemned thee. Thou hast not touched the kettle; hast not laid thy hand upon it, or it would have become as black as that of the others. The kettle was blackened inside with turpentine smoke; they who came with a good conscience, knowing that their hands would remain pure like their consciences, touched the kettle fearlessly and their hands became black! Thou hast condemned thyself! Confess, or it will go worse with thee!”
Sidsel, uttered a horrible cry and fell down upon her knees.
“O God, help me!” said she, and confessed that she was the thief.
A chamber high up in the roof was prepared as a prison; here the delinquent was secured until the affair, on the following day, should be announced to the magistrate.
“Thou shalt be sent to Odense, and work upon the treadmill!” said Wilhelm: “to that thou belongest!”
The family assembled at the tea-table. Sophie joked about the day’s adventure.
“Poor Sidsel!” said Eva.
“In England she would be hanged,” said Wilhelm; “that would be a fine thing to see!”
“Horrible!” replied Louise; “they must die of terror in going to the gallows.”
“Nay, it is very merry,” said Wilhelm. “Now you shall hear what glorious music has been set to it by Rossini!” And he played the march from “Gazza Ladra,” where a young girl is led to the gallows.
“Is it not merry?” asked he. “Yes, he is a composer!”
“To me it seems precisely characteristic,” answered Otto. “They are not the feelings of the girl which the composer wished to express; it is the joy of the rude rabble in witnessing an execution—to them a charming spectacle, which is expressed in these joyous tones: it is a tragic opera, and therefore he chose exactly this character of expression!”
“It is difficult to say anything against that,” replied Wilhelm; “yet what you assert I have not heard from any other person.”
“When a soldier is executed they play some lively air,” said Otto; “the contrast in this case brings forth the strongest effect!”
The servant now entered, and said with a smile that Peter Cripple, the “new-married man,” as he called him, was without and wished to speak to the Baron Wilhelm.
“It is about a waltz,” said he, “which the Baron had promised to him!”
“It is late for him to come into the court!” said Sophie “the peasants generally go to bed with the sun.”
In the lobby stood the announced Peter in his stocking-feet, with his hat in one hand and a great stick in the other. He knew, he said, that it was still daytime with the gentlefolks; he was just coming past the hall and thought that he could, perhaps, have that Copenhagen Waltz which the Baron had promised him: he should want it to-morrow night to play at a wedding, and, therefore, he wished to have it now that he might practice it first of all.
Sophie inquired after his young wife, and said something merry. Louise gave him a cup of tea, which he drank in the lobby. Otto looked at him through the open door; he made comical grimaces, and looked almost as if he wished to speak with him. Otto approached him, and Peter thrust a piece of paper into his hand, making at the same time a significant gesture indicative of silence.
Otto stepped aside and examined the dirty piece of paper, which was folded together like a powder and sealed with a lump of wax. On the outside stood, in scarcely legible characters,
“TotH’ WeL-borne,
Mr. Odto Tustraab.”
He endeavored, in the first place, to read it in the moonlight; but that was scarcely possible.
After considerable labor he made out the meaning of this letter, written, as it was in a half-German, half-Danish gibberish, of the orthography of which we have given a specimen in the direction. The letter was from the German Heinrich. He besought Otto to meet him this evening in the wood near Peter Cripple’s house, and he would give to him an explanation which should be worth the trouble of the walk. It would occasion, he said, much trouble and much misery to Mr Thostrup if he did not go.
A strange anxiety penetrated Otto. How could he steal away without being missed? and yet go he both must and should. An extraordinary anxiety drove him forth.
“Yes, the sooner the better!” said he, hastening down the steps and leaping in haste over the low garden-fence lest the gate should, perhaps, make a noise. He was very soon in the wood: he heard the beating of his own heart.
“Eternal Father!” said he, “strengthen my soul! Release me from this anxiety which overpowers me! Let all be for the best!”
He had now reached Peter Cripple’s house. A figure leaned against the wall; Otto paused, measured it with his eye to ascertain who it was, and recognized German Heinrich.
“What do you want with me?” inquired Otto.
Heinrich raised his hand in token of silence, beckoned him forward, and opened a little gate which led to the back of the house. Otto mechanically followed him.
“It goes on badly at the hall,” said Heinrich. “Sidsel is really put in prison, and will be taken to-morrow to Odense, to the red house by the river.”
“It is what she has deserved!” said Otto. “I did not bring it about.”
“O no!” answered Heinrich; “in a certain way we bring nothing about; but you can put in a good word for her. You must see that this punishment does not befall her.”
“But the punishment is merited!” replied Otto; “and how can I mix myself up in the affair? What is it that you have to say to me?”
“Yet, the good gentleman must not get angry!” began Heinrich again; “but I am grieved about the girl. I can very well believe that he does not know her, and therefore it gives him no trouble; but if I were now to whisper a little word in his ear? She is your own sister, Mr. Thostrup!”
All grew dark before Otto’s eyes; a chill as of death went through his blood; his hands held firmly by the cold wall, or he must have sunk to the earth; not a sound escaped his lips.
German Heinrich laid his hand in a confidential manner upon his shoulder, and continued in a jeering, agitated tone, “Yes, it is hard for you to hear! I also struggled a long time with myself before I could make up my mind to tell you. But a little trouble is preferable to a great one. I had some talk with her yesterday, but I did not mention you, although it seemed queer to me at my heart that the brother should sit at the first table with the young ladies, and the sister be farm swine-maiden. Now they have put her in prison! I am very sorry for her and you too, Mr. Thostrup, for it is disagreeable! If the magistrate come to-morrow morning, and she fall into the claws of the red angel, it will not be so easy to set her at liberty again! But yet you could, perhaps, help her; as, for instance, to-night! I could make an opportunity—I would be in the great avenue beyond the hall. If she could get thus far she would be safe; I would then conduct her out of this part of the country. I may as well tell you that we were yesterday half-betrothed! She goes with me; and you can persuade the gracious lady at the hall to let the bird fly!”
“But how can I? how can I?” exclaimed Otto.
“She is, however, always your sister!” said Heinrich, and they both remained silent for a moment. “Then I will,” said Heinrich, “if all be still at the hall, wait in the avenue as the bell goes twelve.”
“I must!” exclaimed Otto; “I must! God help me!”
“Jesu, Maria, help!” said Heinrich, and Otto left him.
“She is my sister! she, the most horrible of all!” sighed he; his knees trembled, and he leaned against a tree for support: his countenance was like that of the dead; cold sweat-drops stood upon his brow. All around him lay the dark night-like wood; only to the left glimmered, between the bushes, the moonlight reflected from the lake.
“Within its depths,” sighed he, “all would be forgotten—my grief would be over! Yet, what is my sin? Had I an existence before I was born upon this globe? Must I here be punished for sins which I then committed?”
His dark eye stared lifelessly out of his pale countenance. Thus sit the dead upon their graves in the silent night; thus gazes the somnambulist upon the living world around him.
“I have felt this moment before—this moment which now is here; it was the well-spring whence poison was poured over my youthful days! She is my sister! She? unhappy one that I am!”
Tears streamed from his eyes, it was a convulsive weeping; he cried aloud, it was impossible to him to suppress his voice; he sank half down by the tree and wept, for it was night in his soul: silent, bitter tears flowed, as the blood flows when the heart is transpierced. Who could breathe to him consolation? There lay no balsam in the gentle airs of the clear summer night, in the fragrance of the wood, in the holy, silent spirit of nature. Poor Otto!
“Weep, only weep! it gives repose,
A world is every tear that flows,—
A world of anguish and unrest,
That rolleth from the troubled breast.
“And hast thou wept whilst tears can flow,
A tranquil peace thy heart will know;
For sorrow, trivial or severe,
Hath had its seat in every tear.
“Think’st thou that He, whose love beholds
The worm the smallest leaf enfolds,—
That He, whose power sustains the whole
Forgets a world—thy human soul?”
CHAPTER XXXVII
“Mourir! c’est un instant de supplice: mais vivre?”
—FRÉDÉRIC SOULIE.
The physician from Nyborg, who had been on a visit to a sick person in the neighborhood, took this opportunity of calling on the family and inquiring after Eva’s health. They had prayed him to stay over the night there, and rather to drive hone in the early morning than so late in the evening. He allowed himself to be persuaded. Otto, on his return, found him and the family in deep conversation. They were talking of the “Letters of a Wandering Ghost.”
“Where have you been?” asked Sophie, as Otto entered.
“You look so pale!” said Louise; “are you ill?”
“I do not feel well!” replied Otto; “I went therefore down into the garden a little. Now I am perfectly recovered.” And he took part in the conversation.
The overwhelming sorrow had dissolved itself in tears. His mind had raised itself up again from its stupefaction, and sought for a point of light on which to attach itself. They were talking of the immense caves of Maastricht, how they stretch themselves out into deep passages and vast squares, in which sound is lost, and where the light, which cannot reach the nearest object, only glimmers like a point of fire. In order to comprehend this vacuity and this darkness, the travellers let the guide extinguish his torch, and all is night; they are penetrated, as it were, with darkness; the hand feels after a wall, in order to have some restraint, some thought on which to repose itself: the eye sees nothing; the ear hears nothing. Horror seizes on the strongest mind: the same darkness, the same desolate emotion, had Heinrich’s words breathed into Otto’s soul; therefore he sank like the traveller to the earth: but as the traveller’s whole soul rivets itself by the eye upon the first spark which glimmers, to kindle again the torch which is to lead him forth from this grave, so did Otto attach himself to the first awakening thought of help. “Wilhelm? his soul is noble and good, him will I initiate into my painful secret, which chance had once almost revealed to him.”
But this was again extinguished, as the first spark is extinguished which the steel gives birth to. He could not confide himself to Wilhelm; the understanding which this very confidence would give birth to between them, must separate them from each other. It was humiliating, it was annihilating. But for Sophie? No, how could he, after that, declare the love of his heart? how far below her should he be placed, as the child of poverty and shame! But the mother of the family? Yes, she was gentle and kind; with a maternal sentiment she extended to him her hand, and looked upon him as on a near relation. His thoughts raised themselves on high, his hands folded themselves to prayer; “The will of the Lord alone be done!” trembled involuntarily from his lips. Courage returned refreshingly to his heart. The help of man was like the spark which was soon extinguished; God was an eternal torch, which illumined the darkness and could guide him through it.
“Almighty God! thou alone canst and willest!” said he; “to thou who knowest the heart, do thou alone help and lead me!”
This determination was firmly taken; to no human being would he confide himself; alone would he release the prisoner, and give her up to Heinrich. He thought upon the future, and yet darker and heavier than hitherto it stood before him. But he who confides in God can never despair the only thing that was now to be done was to obtain the key of the chamber where Sidsel was confined, and then when all in the house were asleep he would dare that which must be done.
Courage and tranquillity return into every powerful soul when it once sees the possibility of accomplishing its work. With a constrained vivacity Otto mingled in the conversation, no one imagining what a struggle his soul had passed through.
The disputation continued. Wilhelm was in one of his eloquent moods. The doctor regarded the “Letters of the Wandering Ghost” as one of the most perfect books in the Danish literature. Once Sophie had been of the same opinion, now she preferred Cooper’s novels to this and all other books.
“People so easily forget the good for the new,” said Wilhelm; “if the new is only somewhat astonishing, the many regard the author as the first of writers. The nation is, aesthetically considered, now in its period of development. Every really cultivated person, who stands among the best spirits of his age, obtains, whilst he observes his own advance in the intellectual kingdom, clearness with regard to the development of his nation. This has, like himself, its distinct periods; in him some important event in life, in it some agitating world convulsion, may advance them suddenly a great leap forward. The public favor is unsteady; to-day it strews palm-branches, to-morrow it cries, ‘Crucify him!’ But I regard that as a moment of development. You will permit me to make use of an image to elucidate my idea. The botanist goes wandering through field and wood, he collects flowers and plants; every one of these had, while he gathered it, his entire interest, his whole thought—but the impression which it made faded before that of its successor: nor is it till after a longer time that he is able to enjoy the whole of his treasures, and arrange them according to their worth and their rareness. The public seizes alike upon flowers and herbs; we hear its assiduous occupation with the object of the moment, but it is not yet come into possession of the whole. At one time, that which was sentimental was the foremost in favor, and that poet was called the greatest who best knew how to touch this string; then it passed over to the peppered style of writing, and nothing pleased but histories of knights and robbers. Now people find pleasure in prosaic life, and Schröder and Iffland are the acknowledged idols. For us the strength of the North opened heroes and gods, a new and significant scene. Then tragedy stood uppermost with us. Latterly we have begun to feel that this is not the flesh and blood of the present times. Then the fluttering little bird, the vaudeville, came out to us from the dark wood, and enticed us into our own chambers, where all is warm and comfortable, where one has leave to laugh, and to laugh is now a necessity for the Danes. One must not, like the crowd, inconsiderately place that as foremost which swims upon the waters, but treasure the good of every time, and arrange them side by side, as the botanist arranges his plants. Every people must, under the poetical sunshine, have their sentimental period, their berserker rage, their enjoyment of domestic life, and their giddy flights beyond it; it must merge itself in individuality before it can embrace the beauty of the whole. It is unfortunate for the poet who believes himself to be the wheel of his age; and yet he, with his whole crowd of admirers, is, as Menzel says, only a single wheel in the great machine—a little link in the infinite chain of beauty.”
“You speak like a Plato!” said Sophie.
“If we could accord as well in music as we do in poetry,” said Otto, “then we should be entirely united in our estimation of the arts. I love that music best which goes through the ear to the heart, and carries me away with it; on the contrary, if it is to be admired by the understanding, it is foreign to me.”
“Yes, that is your false estimation of the subject, dear friend!” said Wilhelm: “in aesthetics you come at once to the pure and true; but in music you are far away in the outer court, where the crowd is dancing, with cymbals and trumpets, around the musical golden calf!”
And now the aesthetic unity brought them into a musical disunity. On such occasions, Otto was not one to be driven back from his position; he very well knew how to bear down his assailant by striking and original observations: but Otto, this evening, although he was animated enough—excited, one might almost say—did not exhibit the calmness, the decision in his thoughts and words, which otherwise would have given him the victory.
It was a long hour, and one yet longer and more full of anxiety, which commenced with supper. The conversation turned to the events of the day. Otto mingled in it, and endeavored therefrom to derive advantage; it was a martyrdom of the soul. Sophie praised highly his discovery.
“If Mr. Thostrup had not been here,” said she, “then we should hardly have discovered the thief. We must thank Mr. Thostrup for it, and really for a merry, amusing spectacle.”
They joked about it alai laughed, and Otto was obliged to laugh also.
“And now she sits up there, like a captive, in the roof!” said he; “it must be an uncomfortable night to her!”
“Oh, she sleeps, perhaps, better than some of us others!” said Wilhelm: “that will not annoy her!”
“She is confined in the gable chamber, out in the court, is she not?” inquired Otto: “there she has not any moonlight.”
“Yes, surely she has!” answered Sophie; “it is in the gable to the right, hooking toward the wood, that she is confined. We have placed her as near to the moon as we could. The gable on the uppermost floor is our keep.”
“But is it securely locked?” inquired Otto.
“There is a padlock and a great bar outside the door; those she cannot force, and no one about the place will do such a piece of service for her. They dislike her, every one of them.”
They rose up from the table; the bell was just on the stroke of eleven.
“But the Baron must play us a little piece!” said the physician.
“Then Mr. Thostrup will sing us the pretty Jutlandish song by Steen-Blicher!” exclaimed Louise.
“O yes!” said the mother, and clapped Otto on the shoulder.
Wilhelm played.
“Do sing!” said Wilhelm; all besought him to do so, and Otto sang the Jutlandish song for them.
“See, you sang that with the proper humor,” said Sophie, and clapped her hands in applause. With that all arose, offered to him their hands, and Wilhelm whispered to him, yet so that the sisters heard it, “This evening you have been right amiable!”
Otto and Wilhelm went to their sleeping-room.
“But, my good friend,” said Wilhelm, “what did you really go into the garden for? Be so good as to confess to me: you were not unwell! You did not go only into the garden! you went into the wood, and you remained a long time there! I saw it! You made a little visit to the handsome woman while the fiddler was here, did you not? I do not trust you so entirely!”
“You are joking!” answered Otto.
“Yes, yes,” continued Wilhelm, “she is a pretty little woman. Do you not remember how, last year at the mowing-feast, I threw roses at her? Now she is Peter Cripple’s wife. When she comes with her husband then we have, bodily, ‘Beauty and the Beast.’”
That which Otto desired was, that Wilhelm should now soon go to sleep, and, therefore, he would not contradict him; he confessed even that the young wife was handsome, but added that she, as Peter Cripple’s wife, was to him like a beautiful flower upon which a toad had set itself,—it would be disgusting to him to press the flower to his lips.
The friends were soon in bed. They bade each other good night, and seemed both of them to sleep; and with Wilhelm this was the case.
Otto lay awake; his pulse throbbed violently.
Now the great hall clock struck twelve. All was still, quite still; but Otto did not yet dare to raise himself. It struck a quarter past the hour. He raised himself slowly, and glanced toward the bed where Wilhelm lay. Otto arose and dressed himself, suppressing the while his very breathing. A hunting-knife which hung upon the wall, and which belonged to Wilhelm, he put in his pocket; and lifted up, to take with him, the fire-tongs, with which he intended to break the iron staple that held the padlock. Yet once more he looked toward Wilhelm, who slept soundly. He opened the door, and went out without his shoes.
He looked out from the passage-windows to see if lights were visible from any part of the building. All was still; all was in repose. That which he now feared most was, that one of the dogs might be lying in the lobby, and should begin to bark. But there was not one. He mounted up the steps, and went into the upper story.
Only once before had he been there; now all was in darkness. He felt with his hands before him as he went.
At length he found a narrow flight of stairs which led into a yet higher story. The opening at the top was closed, and he was obliged to use his whole strength to open it. At length it gave way with a loud noise. This was not the proper entrance; that lay on the opposite side of the story, and had he gone there he would have found it open, whereas this one had not been opened for a long time.
The violent efforts which he had made caused him great pain, both in his neck and shoulders; but he was now at the very top of the building, close before the door he sought, and the moonlight shone in through the opening in the roof.
By the help of the hunting-knife and the fire-tongs he succeeded in forcing the door, and that without any very considerable noise. He looked into a small, low room, upon the floor of which some dirty coverlets were thrown.
Sidsel slept deeply and soundly with open mouth. A thick mass of hair escaped from beneath her cap, upon her brow; the moonlight fell, through the window-pane in the roof, upon her face. Otto bowed himself over her and examined the coarse, unpleasing features. The thick, black eyebrows appeared only like one irregular streak.
“She is my sister!” was the thought which penetrated him. “She lay upon the same bosom that I did! The blood in these limbs has kinship with that in mine! She was the repelled one, the rejected one!”
He trembled with pain and anguish; but it was only for a short time.
“Stand up!” cried he, and touched the sleeper.
“Ih, jane dou!28 what is it?” cried she, half terrified, and fixed her unpleasant eyes wildly upon him.
“Come with me!” said Otto, and his voice trembled as he spoke. “German Heinrich waits in the avenue! I will help you out! Hence; to-morrow it will be too late!”
“What do you say?” asked she, and still looked at him with a bewildered mien.
Otto repeated his words.
“Do you think that I can get away?” asked she, and seized him by the arm, as she hastily sprang up.
“Only silently and circumspectly!” said Otto.
“I should not have expected theft from you!” said she. “But tell me why you do it?”
Otto trembled; it was impossible for him to tell her his reasons, or to express the word,—“Thou art my sister!”
His lips were silent.
“To many a fellow,” said she, “have I been kinder than I ought to have been, but see whether any of them think about Sidsel! And you do it! You who are so fine and so genteel!”
Otto pressed together his eyelids; he heard her speak; an animal coarseness mingled itself with a sort of confidential manner which was annihilating to him.
“She is my sister!” resounded in his soul.
“Come now! come now!” and, descending the steps, she followed after him.
“I know a better way!” said she, as they came to the lowest story. She seized his arm and they again descended a flight of steps.
Suddenly a door opened itself, and Louise, still dressed, stepped forth with a light. She uttered a faint cry, and her eye riveted itself upon the two forms before her.
But still more terribly and more powerfully did this encounter operate upon Otto. His feet seemed to fail him, and, for a moment, every object moved before his eyes in bright colors. It was the moment of his severest suffering. He sprang forth toward Louise, seized her hand, and, pale as death, with lifeless, staring eyes, half kneeling, besought of her, with an agitated voice:—
