Landolin

The carriage rolled away. The barking of the dog, and the rumbling of the wheels over the plateau could long be heard. At last it died away, and all was still.

CHAPTER XIX

All was still in the yard. The moonbeams shone upon the house and barns, and glistened on the spring, the splashing of which could still be heard.

Under the broad eaves sat the head-servant and Peter. Tobias, in delight, clapped his hands together, and rubbed his knees. He had not only testified so as to help his master, but what, if possible, pleased him more, he had succeeded in cheating the judge, and making a laughing-stock of him. It was rare fun for him. He whispered to Peter:

"Only be sharp! You're smarter, slyer, than anybody guesses. You mustn't go after Fidelis hammer and tongs; that will only make the matter worse. He's a stiff-backed soldier of the new Prussian pattern. Just keep your head on your shoulders. By degrees, we'll teach him what he saw. If you turn him off now, then-Hold on! I've got it! Now listen to me."

He stopped a moment; put his hands together, as though he had a bird caged in them; chuckled to himself; and not until Peter questioned him did he say:

"Listen! Before taking the oath, they ask, 'Are you in the employ of the accused?' And if one answers 'Yes,' his testimony doesn't amount to much, good or bad. So we must keep Fidelis, do you understand! Hush! Who's knocking?"

Tobias opened the gate and greeted the pastor, whom he told that Landolin had already been taken away, and that his wife was in the house. The pastor went to the living-room, where he found the farmer's wife with an open prayer-book in her hand. He commended her for this, and said that he would have been there earlier, but had returned from the fair only an hour before, and had gone to "Cushion Kate's" first. He strove to comfort her, reminding her that man must bow to the will of Heaven.

The clergyman, a tall, hard-featured man, was the youngest son of a rich farmer. He was brusque in his intercourse with his people, but mingled little with them-election-time excepted-for he knew this conduct pleased the farmers best. In summertime the pastor was all day long by the brook in the valley, fishing. In the winter-time he stayed at home, and no one knew what he did.

"Oh, sir!" said the farmer's wife, mournfully, "people don't know how much they love each other until something like this happens." She blushed like a young girl, and continued: "Children live for themselves; but married people-it seems to me that I have done wrong in not letting my husband see how much-"

Her emotion would not allow her to continue. The pastor consoled her by saying that she had always been an honest woman, and a good wife; that God would ward off this evil from her; and that this misfortune would redound to her lasting welfare. He was astonished that this woman, whom people generally considered shallow, could show such deep affection.

"How does Thoma bear it?" he asked.

"I will call her," she answered.

She went out and soon returned with Thoma, who looked so careworn, that for a moment the pastor could say nothing. He soon, however, endeavored to comfort her.

"Herr Pastor," began Thoma, "what do you think about it? I don't know. I think I must go to Cushion-Kate's."

"Wait till to-morrow morning," interrupted her mother.

"No, I think I must go to-day."

"Yes! do so," said the pastor approvingly, "I have just come from her house. She did not show by word or sign that she heard what I said. She sits motionless on the floor beside her dead boy. Come, you can go a part of the way with me."

Thoma and the pastor walked side by side. The pastor could not speak of Anton, for this was no time for congratulations.

The moon had disappeared, and dark clouds covered the sky.

"It will rain to-morrow, thank God. It is much needed," was all that the pastor said during the walk. At the meadow-path which leads to Cushion-Kate's house, he asked if he should go there with her, but she declined and went alone. She had to pass the house of the "Galloping Cooper," and there, in the shadow of a pile of barrel staves, she heard old Jochen say to the people who sat with him on the bench before the house,

"Oh yes! It's Landolin! They've got him now, and he won't get away. He'll have to pay for it, but not as his father used to pay for his tricks. Here, on my right thumb is still the scar where Landolin bit me in a fight we had. His father paid smart money for it. Yes; in old times the common people only had bones that the farmers' sons might break them. When Landolin stepped into the dancing-room, the floor trembled, and so did the heart of everybody there. Now, he's getting paid back."

"Will his head be cut off?" asked a child's voice.

"He deserves it; but they don't behead people any more."

All this fell on Thoma like a thunderbolt. She stood as though on fire. Her fresh life seemed all burned away and turned to ashes. She pressed her cold hands to her burning face, and fled homeward, unseen.

When she had almost reached the house, she started back in terror, as though a ghost had waylaid her; but it was only the dog who rubbed himself affectionately against her. Thoma was angry with herself for being so easily frightened. "That must not be, and certainly not now." The dog leaped before her, barking. He had evidently been driven home.

When she came in, her mother resting her hand on her open prayer-book, asked how Cushion-Kate was doing.

Thoma acknowledged that she had not been to see her, but did not tell the reason.

Her mother begged Thoma to stay with her during the night. Thoma sat by the bed until she had gone to sleep, and then went to her own room, for she knew that she would disturb her mother's rest.

CHAPTER XX

It was late at night, when Thoma threw open the window of the room in which she should have been asleep. Her cheeks glowed; but her lover, who on this mild spring night, should have been talking with and caressing her, came not. From the forest came the song of a nightingale, and from the hill behind another answered, in rivalry. Thoma did not hear them. She was struggling with a demon that night.

Thoma was a well-bred farmer's daughter. To be sure she had not had much training. She had been one of the best scholars in the public school, and at home she was taught to be diligent and honest; and this she was. She was proud and imperious like her father, who had indulged her from her childhood, and, as her mother cared nothing for the outside world, had been her companion on all sorts of pleasure excursions. He delighted in her decision of character, and above all else had encouraged her pride.

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