Danira

"Edith has a headache, and will not make her appearance again until dinner time; she does not wish to be disturbed now."

While Danira carelessly delivered the message she stepped back a little, as if expecting that the young officer would not heed the command but enter in spite of it. He could not help seeing his fiancée in her hiding place, or fail to understand that she was merely making it a little difficult for him to obtain forgiveness. Gerald really did cast a glance in that direction, but instantly drew himself up and with a military salute, and said:

"Then please give my regards to her." And he left the room without even glancing back.

He had scarcely gone when Edith appeared from behind the door. She looked more astonished than indignant, and evidently could not understand the rebuff she had received.

"He is really going!" she angrily exclaimed. "Yet he must have seen that I was in the room, that I expected him–he probably did not wish to find me."

Danira shrugged her shoulders. "I'm afraid it won't be so easy for you to 'cure' this man. He has just showed you that he does not allow himself to be trifled with."

Edith stamped her little foot on the ground like a naughty child.

"I told you he had a horrible leaven of the schoolmaster, but his very defiance pleased me. He really looked like a hero when he drew himself up in that soldierly way and stalked off with his spurs clanking."

She saucily tried to imitate Gerald's gait and bearing, but Danira did not even smile. Her tone was cold and grave as she replied:

"Beware of that obstinacy; it will give you trouble."

II

Nearly three weeks had passed since the arrival of the regiment. The larger part of it had already gone to the scene of the insurrection, but Gerald's division still remained in Cattaro, thereby subjecting his patience to a severe trial. He and his men had been ordered to the citadel overlooking the city, now used only for keeping prisoners. The service was therefore very easy, and the young officer could spend several hours daily with his fiancée, which was regularly done.

It was very early in the morning. A dense fog rested on the bay and mountains, and there was less bustle than usual in the port.

Among the sailors and laborers already on the spot appeared the figure of George Moosbach, walking up and down in full uniform, but evidently much bored.

He had tried to enter into conversation with one of the sailors, but the latter understood nothing but Slavonic, and pantomime was not sufficient to enable them to comprehend each other, so the attempt ceased. George was strolling discontentedly on, muttering something about ignorant people who did not even understand Tyrolese German, when a voice behind him said:

"Surely that's George from the Moosbach Farm."

The young soldier started and turned. Before him stood a priest in the dress of the Franciscan Order, a tall figure with grave, deeply-lined features which, however, expressed no sternness; the eyes, on the contrary, had an unmistakable look of kindness and benevolence, and the same traits were noticeable in his voice as he now added:

"How are you, George, here in this foreign land?"

George had been on the point of jumping for joy in a most disrespectful way, but instead of doing so he stooped and reverently kissed the priest's hand.

"His Reverence, Father Leonhard! I didn't think you would come here to the world's end too. I supposed you were at home in beautiful Tyrol among Christians!"

"Well, I don't seem to have fallen among Pagans, for the first person I have met in Cattaro proves to be one of my own parish," replied the priest, smiling. "I arrived yesterday and was sent to take the place of Father Antonius, who cannot bear the climate. I shall accompany the regiment instead."

The young soldier's face fairly beamed with delight.

"You are going with us, your reverence? God be praised! Then we shall have one blessing in the wilderness–Krivoscia, they call the place! It's such a barbarous name that an honest Tyrolese tongue can't pronounce it. There is nothing except stones, robbers and goats, one can scarcely get anything to eat and still less to drink"–George sighed heavily–"and when a man lies down to sleep at night he may happen to wake with his head split open."

"Those are certainly unpleasant circumstances! But I hear that the regiment left Cattaro long ago. Why are you still in this city?"

"We have stayed here, the lieutenant, I, myself, and fifty men. We are up in yonder old walls–the citadel, they call it–guarding a few of the rascals we've been lucky enough to catch. Herr Gerald, of course, is furious about it, but that does him no good."

"Gerald von Steinach?" asked the priest. "I don't believe he finds it so hard to bear the delay, since Colonel Arlow commands this garrison."

"I believe he would far rather be up among the savages," said George, laconically.

"Why? Isn't his future wife in the city?"

"Yes. And he's a betrothed husband, too, that's certain, but–I don't like the business."

Father Leonhard looked surprised. "What is it you don't like? Herr von Steinach's future wife?"

"The young lady!" cried George enthusiastically. "With all due respect, she's a splendid girl! She looks like the sunshine itself, and she can laugh and play pranks like an elf. I'm high in her favor, and am constantly obliged to tell her about our Tyrol, where she was born. No, I like her very much, your reverence."

"Then what did you mean by your remark?"

The young soldier, much embarrassed, thrust his hand through his curly black hair.

"I don't know–Herr Gerald always kisses her hand and brings her flowers, and rides and drives with her–but I should treat my sweetheart differently."

"I believe so," said the priest, with a furtive smile. "But in Baron von Steinach's circle people conduct courtships in another fashion from the wooing at the Moosbach Farm."

"Very true. I know that the manners of the nobility are entirely different from ours, but when a man is in love it's all the same whether he's a count or a peasant, and Herr Gerald isn't in love a bit. In short–there's a hitch in the affair, and some reverend priest must interfere and set it to rights again."

He looked at Father Leonhard with such honest, beseeching eyes, that it was evident he firmly believed that a priest could set to rights anything he undertook. But Father Leonhard replied:

"No, George, the young couple must arrange such things themselves; there can be no interference. They will learn to know and love each other better. Gerald von Steinach is a man of excellent character."

"Yes, unluckily, rather too excellent!" George exclaimed. "I believe he never committed a folly in his life, and people must do foolish things, your reverence, otherwise men wouldn't be men; it can't be helped."

"You have certainly given sufficient proof of that. Your father and mother are anxious about how their reckless and somewhat quarrelsome son may fare in a foreign land. I promised to have an eye on you, but I think you have kept the promise you made me when you left. Where did you get that bump on your forehead?"

George hastily raised his hand to his head and drew down his cap so that the suspicious spot was covered.

"It isn't worth mentioning. It was only in sport, that we might not get entirely out of practice. Besides Bartel began; he gave me one blow, but only one, and I dealt him six in return. He won't come near me again very soon."

"George, you are incorrigible!" said the priest, gravely, but this time the sinner was to escape the punishment he deserved. Just at that moment Gerald appeared on his way from the citadel, and, with much surprise and pleasure, greeted Father Leonhard, of whose arrival he had also been ignorant.

Again messages and questions about home were exchanged, and when Father Leonhard said that he was going to call on the commandant, the young officer offered to accompany him. But he turned back to ask the question:

"Are the mules ordered, George?"

"Yes, Herr Lieutenant, they'll be at the colonel's house in half an hour."

"Very well, I think the ladies will be ready by that time. Let me know when the animals are there."

He walked on, conversing with the priest, and George followed, greatly delighted that a reverend ecclesiastic was going with the regiment into the "wilderness," as he persisted in calling Krivoscia.

Spite of the early hour the inmates of the colonel's household were awake and ready for the excursion, which had been planned the day before, except Edith, who, at the last moment, had taken a dislike to the expedition. She thought the weather too uncertain, the road too long, the ride too fatiguing–she wanted to stay at home, and her father, instead of opposing this capriciousness by a word of authority, was trying remonstrances.

"Why, child, do listen to reason," he said. "What will Gerald think if you stay at home? How can he help believing that his society has no attraction for you?"

"Perhaps it has as much as mine for him," was the defiant retort. "Well, then, we shall be quits."

"You had a little dispute yesterday. I saw it by your faces when I entered the room, and now the poor fellow is to suffer for it. Take care, Edith, don't strain the cord too tight, he is not over-yielding."

"Papa, you love me, don't you?" The young girl's voice had an unusually bitter tone. "You would even sacrifice a favorite plan for my sake, you would never force me into a marriage which–"

"For heaven's sake, what does this mean?" cried the colonel, now really alarmed. "What has occurred between you?"

Instead of answering, Edith began to weep so bitterly that her father became seriously troubled.

"But, my child, what is your objection to Gerald? Is he not an attentive, gallant lover? Doesn't he gratify all your wishes? I don't understand you."

"Oh! yes, he's attentive and gallant, and–so icy, that I sometimes feel as if a cold wind was blowing upon me. Danira was right when, looking at his picture, she told me that he could not love and would never learn. I have never yet heard one warm, tender word from his lips, but, on the contrary, he plays the tutor on every occasion, and, if I don't submit patiently, shrugs his shoulders and smiles compassionately, as we smile at a child–I'll bear it no longer."

The colonel took the excited girl's hand and drew her toward him.

"Edith, you know how much Gerald's mother and I desire this marriage, but you also know that I will never force you into it. Be frank, does no voice in your heart plead for your old playfellow?"

A traitorous blush crimsoned Edith's face and, nestling in her father's arms, she laid her head on his breast.

"He doesn't love me!" she sobbed. "He thinks of nothing but the campaign. He is impatient to get away, fairly longs to go, the sooner the better; he doesn't care in the least that I am to remain behind."

"You are mistaken," replied Colonel Arlow gravely, but with perfect sincerity. "Gerald might be a little less of a soldier and more of a lover, I admit, but you ought not to doubt his affection. Passionate impetuosity is not one of his traits of character, but the better I know his character, the more security it affords for your future happiness. Have you ever really tried to win him? I do not think so."

Edith raised her head–she was evidently very willing to be persuaded–and asked in a low tone:

"You mean, papa?"

"I mean that Gerald has hitherto known much more of your caprices than of your attractions. Can not my little Edith succeed in striking a spark from the flint if she tries the other method? She always knows how to get her own way. Now go, my child, and dress for the ride; meantime I'll have a word to say to the lieutenant; he has no suspicion of your interpretation of his military zeal."

This time the young lady found it advisable to obey the request. A smile was already breaking through her tears, for Gerald's voice was heard in the ante-room.

"There he is," she whispered. "Don't tell him I've been crying, papa," and without waiting for a reply she glided out of the room.

The colonel smilingly shook his head; his mind was now relieved concerning his daughter's aversion to her proposed bridegroom, but he could find no opportunity to "say his word" to the latter, for Gerald entered with Father Leonhard, whom he introduced to the commandant.

The fog was beginning to scatter when the little party of riders left the city. They passed the fortification walls and the citadel frowning on its cliff, and entered the open country. The object of the day's excursion was a visit to a fort situated on a steep mountain several hours' journey away, whose commanding position afforded a wide and magnificent view. They intended to avail themselves of the opportunity to pay the commanding officer a short call, for the order excluding strangers, of course, did not apply to Colonel Arlow's prospective son-in-law. The colonel himself was detained in the city by his military duties, so Gerald accompanied the two ladies.

The mountain road, used principally for military purposes, and therefore extremely well kept, began just outside of the city. At first trees and bushes appeared on both sides, but soon everything green vanished, and the road led upward in countless windings through desolate, rocky heights.

The dense, heavy curtain of clouds, which at dawn had concealed the whole landscape, began to grow thinner and thinner till it became a transparent veil, and finally melted away in blue vapor. The bay and its shores sank lower and lower, and the mountains seemed higher and more rugged, the nearer the party approached them. Edith's moods that day perfectly justified the term "April weather." The shower of the morning was followed by bright sunshine. No one would have supposed that the sparkling, laughing eyes had shed tears an hour before. The dainty figure in the dark-blue riding habit sat the mule lightly and gracefully, and looked as fresh and sunny as the day struggling victoriously through the mists.

Edith had either taken her father's admonition to heart or actually determined to strike fire from the flint, for she was so bewitchingly engaging that even Gerald's cool composure was not proof against it. He must indeed have been stone to remain unmoved by such a sparkling flow of jests and witticisms. The smile that so well suited his grave features, yet so rarely visited them, became more and more frequent, and, contrary to his usual custom, he allowed himself to be completely enthralled by the gay spirits of his fiancée.

While the young couple rode forward on the best terms with each other, Danira followed more slowly. As if by accident, she kept her mule a few steps behind, and the distance between her and the two others imperceptibly increased. The rear of the little cavalcade was closed by George, who trotted comfortably along, thinking how foolish his lieutenant was to long to be in the midst of the campaign, where they would be obliged to march in the dust and heat, instead of riding at their ease on mules.

They had gone about half way when they met a solitary horseman. He wore the picturesque dress of the mountain tribes of the country, a costume admirably suited to the vigorous frame and dark complexion of a man already past his youth. His rich garments and the small but spirited mountain horse, with its shining brown coat and gay trappings, showed that he was a rich and distinguished person in his tribe, and moreover he was attended by a servant or subaltern, who also wore the costume of the country, but was on foot.

The two men had come down a steep path which met the mountain road at this point, and in a narrow curve of the latter encountered Gerald and Edith. The stranger stopped his horse to let them pass, and made a haughty, dignified bow, though his eyes rested with a hostile gaze on the young officer. Gerald returned it with a military salute, and Edith, pleased with the stately mountaineer, bent her head courteously.

They were some distance in advance when Danira passed the spot. The stranger still sat motionless on his horse, but the young girl's mule suddenly stumbled, then reared and made a spring toward the cliffs. It was a perilous moment, but the horseman seized the animal's bridle with a firm grasp. While doing so he murmured a few words in the Slavonic tongue. Danira answered in the same language, probably an expression of thanks for the service rendered. The animals remained side by side a short time, while the stranger continued talking–not until George came up did he release the bridle with a brief farewell, and Danira then rode on.

Gerald and Edith had turned and watched the scene. There was no occasion for anxiety, as the rider kept a firm seat in the saddle, yet they waited.

"See, Danira has found a cavalier on the high-road!" said Edith, laughing. "Her countrymen are not usually ready to pay polite attentions to ladies; this seems to be an exceptional case."

"It is unusual, too, for a quiet, steady mule to stumble on a smooth road," replied Gerald, without averting his eyes from the group. "I don't understand how it could have occurred. The animal must have been irritated."

"Here you are! What has happened?" Edith called to her foster sister, who had remained perfectly undisturbed by the little incident, and now answered quietly:

"I don't know; something must have frightened the beast."

"Did you know that man, Fräulein Danira?" asked Gerald.

"No; I was merely thanking him for his assistance."

The answered sound positive and repellant, as though she wished to prevent any more questions. The young officer remained silent, but cast a keen glance at the spot where the stranger was just disappearing around a curve in the road. Edith, however, asked with curiosity:

"Did you know him, Gerald?"

"Certainly. It was Joan Obrevic, the chief of one of the principal mountain tribes, who, though he has not yet openly declared war against us, is only waiting for the signal to join the insurrection. He has been in Cattaro several days, ostensibly to make negotiations, and, unfortunately, has not been sent off without ceremony."

"Unfortunately?" Danira repeated. "You seem to regret it, Baron von Steinach."

"Certainly, for I believe the whole affair is merely a pretext to gain time or conceal efforts in another direction. Joan Obrevic has reason to remain passive for the present–his son is a prisoner in our hands. This son was one of the first to resist the attempt to force him into the military service, and unceremoniously shot the officer who commanded the detachment. This was the beginning of the bloody scenes which have since been so frequently repeated, but we at last succeeded in securing the assassin."

"The assassin–because he defended his liberty?"

"Because he treacherously shot the officer who stood quietly talking with him, expecting no attack–in civilized nations that is called assassination, Fräulein!"

Question and answer were equally sharp in tone, but Edith, who had been listening impatiently, now interposed.

"Dear me, do stop these political and military discussions! I'll make George my cavalier; he will at least try to entertain me, and not bore me with accounts of the insurrection."

The threat was probably not seriously meant, but Gerald seemed to understand it so, for he answered coldly:

"If you prefer George's company to mine I must of course submit."

Again that shrug of the shoulders and compassionate smile, which always enraged her. They did not fail to produce their effect to-day. She hastily drew bridle, turned, and called loudly:

"George, come here! We'll ride on before."

With these words she turned into a steep path that saved a long bend of the mountain road.

George did not wait to be asked twice. He quickly put his mule into a trot and overtook her the next instant.

A very familiar relation had already been formed between him and the young lady. Edith liked the somewhat rough but comical and zealous fellow, saw in him her lover's former play-fellow rather than his subaltern, and had instantly granted his entreaty that she would address him with the "Du" used in his native Tyrol. George, on his side, was not a little proud of this confidential position, and felt an even more enthusiastic admiration for his lieutenant's fiancée than for the lieutenant himself.

They rode up the mountain for about ten minutes, then reached the main road again, and were now far ahead of the others. Edith stopped her mule, and George did the same.

"I suppose we are to wait here for the lieutenant?" he asked.

The young lady cast a glance backward. Her anger had already vanished, but she wanted to punish Gerald for his lack of gallantry by compelling him to ride with Danira.

She knew that he had a positive aversion to her foster sister and that the feeling was mutual, for he and Danira avoided each other whenever they could. So Edith found much amusement in the idea of the vexation of both, if they were condemned to a longer tête-à-tête.

"No, George," she said. "As we are in advance, we'll get to the fort first–that is, if you'll go with me."

"I, Fräulein–to Krivoscia, if you order me!" exclaimed George, whose tongue always seemed to have an attack of cramp whenever he uttered the ominous word.

"Well, we won't go quite so far to-day, but I know how to appreciate this proof of your devotion. In your eyes, Krivoscia is the incarnation of everything horrible. So much the better. You won't run the risk of carrying home one of the Krivoscian girls and making her the future mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

The young Tyrolese, in his horror, dropped the mule's bridle and crossed himself.

"St. George forbid! I should first have to lose my senses and my head to boot. I believe my father would leave the whole farm to the monastery if I should bring home such a savage, and he would do right."

"Your father of course expects you to bring him one of the Tyrolese girls for a daughter-in-law?"

"No one else would ever suit!" replied George solemnly, "No other girls can compare with those in the Tyrol. They are better than all the rest in the world put together."

"I'm quite of your opinion, especially as I'm a Tyrolese lass myself, and who knows–if I were not already betrothed, I might have a chance of being mistress of the Moosbach Farm."

"Yes, that might do!" said George, honestly. "I should have no objection, I'd take you on the spot, Fräulein–but it can't be."

Edith burst into a merry laugh. "No, it certainly can't be, but your offer is very flattering to me, and I will consider it seriously. Now let us ride on, the animals have rested long enough." She urged her mule forward and George followed. He respectfully remained a few paces behind the young lady, but could not help feeling a little regret that "it couldn't be."

Meantime Gerald and Danira pursued their way alone. The latter, it is true, had paused a moment and asked: "Shall not we follow?"

"I think not," replied Gerald, so coolly that it was evident he did not feel at all inclined to submit to his fiancée's whim. "The path is steep and stony. I at least prefer to ride along the comfortable road."

"And give Edith a lesson," Danira added in a low tone.

"Edith must learn to take more interest in my profession; that is essential in a soldier's wife."

"Certainly. I only fear that, with this mode of teaching, you will accomplish nothing."

"Why not? Edith Is still half a child, and children must be taught. Yet, if you desire to give me any advice on this point, I shall be grateful." There was unconcealed mockery in this appeal for counsel to the girl of seventeen, but the cold, sullen glance that answered the scoff showed that it had failed to reach its mark. The young Slav was no longer a child; the dark shadow on her brow betrayed how far she had already advanced into womanhood.

"Edith can be influenced in only one way," she replied. "Then she can be swayed completely–but the appeal must be made to her heart."

"And you think I have not understood that?"

"You have apparently not desired to do so. The tutor will gain nothing from this spoiled child–the lover everything."

Gerald bit his lips; he felt the justice of this reproach, but he also felt a touch of Edith's irritability when she was reproved. Now it was his turn, and he could not even find a fitting answer.