Landolin

"May I not say a kind word to you?"

"Kind? To me? You? Go away or-"

She pulled out a pocket-knife, opened it, and cried: "I too, can murder! You are his child; and he was mine. Go!"

As Thoma turned tremblingly away, the open knife, which the old woman had thrown at her, fell at her side. She hurried down the hill; and, until she reached the forest, she could hear loud moans and screams behind her.

Cushion-Kate had been in the beginning a gay-hearted little woman enough. A patch-work tailor's daughter, a patch-work tailor's wife, one could almost say that her life was a patch-work of little gay-colored scraps like her cushions. She was one of those placid, grateful people who are thankful for the smallest gift of Providence, and who never wonder why they too cannot live in abundance, like the rich farmers. After she had drunk her chicory coffee, she went about her work, singing like a thrush. And who knows but she put the same ease with which she carried the burden of life into her cushions; for it was acknowledged that they were the softest in all the country side. She seemed to have entirely forgotten her sad birth. Now, a heavy affliction had come upon her. Her last and only treasure was taken away; and suddenly fear, bitterness and hate, and all the spirits of evil took possession of her. Suddenly, as though she had awakened from a sleep in a paradise of innocence, she perceived how miserable her life was; and she hated every one who lived in prosperity, and had children to rejoice in. Above all others, she hated the murderer of her child, and his family. Her only thought and wish were that he and they should suffer and be brought to ruin.

The poor old woman carried a heavy burden of sorrow and hate. Her life had been darkened, and she only wished to stay until she had avenged herself on Landolin. This was why she had been so sullen and morose since her son's death.

Hate, anger and misery grew within her, and transformed her happy, kind heart into a sad and wicked one.

CHAPTER XXVI

In the summer garden of the Sword Inn, the linden trees were in full bloom. The bees came, sipped, and flew away without asking for the reckoning. But to make up for this, the finches sang without pay; and the swallows circled round, as though dancing a figure in the air, and sometimes shot after a honey-laden bee.

Everything rejoiced in its own way. It was a morning so full of freshness, so full of enjoyment and exuberant life, one could hardly believe that misery still existed in the world.

A horseman trotted up to the garden fence, stopped, dismounted, and gave his horse to the servant, telling him to take it home and say to his wife that if any one asked for him she might send him here; that he would, however, soon be at home.

"Good morning, doctor," called the hostess, from the veranda. "You have come just at the right time. We have this moment tapped a keg of beer."

The physician had already heard that refreshing, enticing sound, that deep thud when the spigot is driven into the keg, and that clear sound when the bung is drawn.

The hostess brought him the first glass. He held it up to let the sun shine through the clear amber liquid, and then drank it with evident enjoyment.

"I had to go out before day this morning, all the way to Hochenbraud," said the doctor, as he drained the glass; then said, "Give me another, for my twins." As he drank the second glass, he told the hostess that he had that morning assisted at the advent of a pair of twins into the world; two fine, healthy boys.

"It is curious that something very extraordinary is always happening to Walderjörgli. His first great grandchildren are twins. It is a blessing that this strong, upright race should go on growing. They are honest-hearted men of the old primitive German type."

"They are shrewd, too," interposed the hostess. The physician went on to say that the primitive Germans must have been crafty rascals, for savages are always cunning.

"But where is our host?"

"Of course he has gone to the trial. There is an actual pilgrimage to-day. As early as half-past three this morning we had sold a whole keg of beer. The witnesses went on the express-train. There were men and women from Berstingen, from Bieringen, from Zusmarsleiten, from everywhere, who had nothing to do with the trial, but went from curiosity. They wanted to see Landolin brought before the court. The station-master says that when a man is on trial for his life the people throng to see his distress. He thinks that people will spare neither pains nor money to gratify their desire to see the misfortunes of others. But the district-forester says that the people go more because they long for something new to break in upon the monotony of every-day life."

The cautious hostess gave this as a report, and not as an opinion of her own.

As soon as the physician said: "Both are true," she cried:

"I am glad to hear you say so. It is pleasant when one gives medicine to have the doctor come and say: 'that was right. I should have prescribed that myself.' But I should like to ask you-"

"What is it?"

"Do you think it possible for Landolin to be acquitted?"

"With God and a jury all things are possible."

"Yes; but then, who killed Vetturi? For he is dead!"

"That question is not on the list."

The hostess went on to tell how Landolin's head-servant, Tobias, had been talking that morning with every one, and cunningly instructing them what to say. How he had said, with a laugh, that the life of such a person as Vetturi was not of enough value to have a man like the ex-bailiff imprisoned an hour for it. Tobias wanted to pay for what they all drank; but-and as she told the story, the hostess' face became a flaming red-she had declared that each person must order her to take pay from Tobias for him; then it would be known what was to be thought of him and what might follow later. Some of them seemed to be frightened at this hint.

The doctor laughed and replied that the rich farmer thought money would do everything; and his son Peter, instigated by his father of course, had offered to sell him their fine horse at a third of its value. They wanted him to testify that Vetturi, who had suffered from severe illness ever since his childhood, was weak and easily injured; so that a fall on level ground might have killed him.

"I am sorry for Thoma," began the hostess. "She was such a stately, fresh-hearted girl; and how well she and the miller, Anton, were suited to one another. He, too, was here this morning. He is one of the witnesses, but he staid in the garden, and kept looking at the medal of honor on his breast. Do you think the trial will be finished in one day?"

The physician could give no opinion, and the hostess continued:

"Our dear good Madame Pfann was going to Landolin's house to spend this sad day with his wife and Thoma. I advised her not to go now. They will need her soon enough.

"I don't believe there is another pure soul like hers in the world. Why, she finds something pure hidden even in a man like Landolin. Our Madame Pfann is a woman such as they had in the time of the Apostles."

"Bravo!" cried the doctor, "I have seen a rare wonder: one woman unreservedly praising another."

"Yes; who can know the judge's wife and not praise her? But she seeks neither praise nor thanks from anybody."

"She needs none. He to whom nature has given the blessing of such a good heart is the possessor of all human good."

The telegraph messenger came into the garden, and handed the physician a dispatch.

"I've got it now," cried the physician, when he had read it. "When does the next express train leave?"

"In seven minutes."

The physician explained to her that the defendant had called for his oral opinion. He left word for his wife that he was called away, and hastened to the station, where he met Thoma, just coming in.

"Are you going too?" asked he.

"No; I just want to send word to my brother to telegraph me the decision as soon as it is announced."

"I will attend to that for you."

The train sped away. Thoma asked the telegraph messenger, who was a brother of the "Galloping Cooper," to wait all night and bring her the dispatch as soon as received.

Thoma walked homeward. From the hill she could see the train in the distance. It sped by hamlets and villages, through newly-mown meadows, past fields where potatoes were being gathered in little heaps. The passengers talked together about the flood which had done such great damage in Switzerland; of the political questions of the day; of the conflict with Rome. The physician heard it all as in a dream. It troubled him that he had after all to testify in Landolin's case. How could the defence hope for any advantage from his testimony?

The train stopped at the county-town. One of the court officers was waiting for him with a carriage, and took him to the court-house. The air within was damp and sultry.

CHAPTER XXVII

Long before day the bell from Landolin's prison cell rang violently. The keeper heard it, but did not hurry in the least.

"You can wait," he said to himself, and dressed leisurely. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, of dignified and imposing appearance. He had been appointed to his excellent position as a reward for bravery in the war, and felt that he carried in his own person the whole dignity of the court. He was gruff, but could, when he chose, be polite and condescending; and he had a reason for being polite to Landolin. Softening his powerful voice as much as he could, he asked what Landolin wanted so early. It was scarcely day. Landolin gave him a bewildered look; then he said,

"I heard the early train whistle. The people from my village have come in it. Go to the Ritter inn and bring my head-servant, Tobias, here. It shall not be to your disadvantage."