Volume I Part 8 (1/2)
”But I entreated you for the poor man!--and you, too, promised.”
”I did to the utmost of my power whatever could be done, and as far as it could be done without your injury: your father, too, the same.
Thrice did the council apply to the emperor in Goldmann's behalf, and the last time was dismissed ignominiously for their pains, and forbidden farther interference. Defendant was not to be saved. Some one must have killed Bieler: Goldmann confessed upon the rack that he had struck at the young man's head; about you he was honestly silent, and thus, therefore, devoted himself for an atonement.”
”Horrible!” cried Francis, and paced about the room, wringing his hands. On a sudden the clang of the funeral bells vibrated hollowly and slowly from the tower of the guildhall; when, in obedience to the signal, from every turret throughout the city, the metal heralds lifted up their solemn voices, producing a singularly sad and awful echo in the silence of the morning twilight.
”What means this tolling of the bells so early?” asked Francis, with a fearful foreboding.
”It is the funeral toll of the poor Goldmann,” replied Heidenreich, leaning himself against the window. ”To show publicly that the council deems the imperial sentence too severe, it has allowed this last honour to the condemned; the body, too, will be followed by the whole college to the burial-ground of our Lady _im Walde_.”
”A melancholy kindness!” exclaimed Francis, shuddering; and after awhile he added, ”first the hand, then the rack, and at last the head.
Oh, it is horrible!”
”See, there comes the procession!” cried Heidenreich from the window; and in spite of the horror that seized him at the news, Francis yet felt himself irresistibly attracted to look on that which he dreaded.
Just then the old Onophrius was pa.s.sing before the window. Free and unfettered, he walked with calm confidence between the city soldiers who accompanied him, while no marks of the fear of death were to be seen upon his venerable, pale, cheerful countenance; and a garland of white roses adorned his silver locks, which were fluttered by the morning breeze.
Loud weeping was heard from the a.s.sembled people; even the iron Francis sobbed bitterly. At this moment the old man lifted up his eyes and maimed arm to him, and cried out with a strong voice, ”I have forgiven you all! Only make good as much as you are yet able, and you shall not find me amongst your accusers before the judgment-seat of G.o.d.” With this he went on cheerfully to the place of execution, while Francis howled and pressed his face against the iron grating of the window.
The sufferer's head had fallen. The noise of the people returning from the burial, and the sudden silence of the bells, awoke Francis from his mental lethargy. He looked up, and found himself alone.
”It was an evil hour!” he cried, rousing himself; ”G.o.d be praised that it is over.--How! not yet torture enough?” he added the instant after, seeing Agatha, who just then closed the prison door behind her.
In deep mourning, with hollow eyes staring out of a pale, meagre face;--in her hand the garland of white roses which her father had worn on his last travel, she stood for a long time at the door, a threatening Nemesis. She then glided nearer with a light step, and planted herself close before the terrified Francis, whose hair began to stand on end.
”My father is no more,” she murmured in the tones of death. ”I have even now seen him to his final place of rest, and am come hither to execute his last commission. He has been silent: he has died to save you; and he has saved you that you may restore to his only child the honour of which you robbed her by crafty seduction. In his last farewell he said, 'I will believe that, with the best inclination, Francis had it not in his power to rescue me; but let him take you home as his wedded wife, which is his duty, and which he has promised me with deep oaths: thus he will at least have made good as much as he was able, and my shadow is reconciled.' Now, then, I am here to remind you of your oath.”
With infinite confusion Francis stammered out, ”Yes,--that,--dearest Agatha--for the present, at least, that cannot be done. I do not depend upon myself alone.”
”You are a widower, and childless,” said Agatha, with great composure.
”But my proud stern father will never consent to such an alliance,”
objected Francis.
”You have long been of age and wealthy, and therefore independent,”
said Agatha, in the former unimpa.s.sioned tone; ”give me better reasons for your perjury.”
”I suppose I can't be married to you in the Hildebrand!” cried Francis, with the angry impatience of mental agony.
”Oh father! what you have asked of me is hard,” sighed Agatha, struggling with her feelings; ”but I must obey.” And, as in that dreadful night, she flung herself before Francis, and embracing his knees, besought him--”Give me your hand, and with it give me back my honour.”
”Let go of me, woman!” he cried, tearing himself with violence from the kneeling Agatha. ”By heavens, I cannot do what you desire!”
”You cannot?” she returned in a terrible tone, and rose up; ”You swear by Heaven that you cannot?--You are right. What does a perjury, more or less, signify to you? It is quite well so, perhaps better than if I had softened you for the moment. Now then I may confess it to you: it was only obedience to the martyr that compelled me to this measure. I had other intentions with you; but my father's command tied up my hands, which your utter unworthiness has again unfettered. Think of what I told you in the night of torture. My father has now really died for you--you have rejected the atonement which he offered you through me, and vengeance can now take her course, softly, slowly, and securely.
May this thought scare sleep from your bed and drop wormwood into the cup of your joy, till you one day see me again adorned with this blood-besprinkled garland, as your bride for the life yonder in the torments that have no end.”
She glided out of the room; Francis stood there for a long time as if petrified, when, collecting himself, he called out for the guard.
”Goldmann's daughter,” he said to the city servitor, who then entered, ”has been uttering dangerous threats out of rage for the execution of her father. Every thing is to be feared from her malice,--fire and murder, poison and uproar! for who knows what abettors she may have already gained by her strumpet artifices? Arrest her, therefore, immediately, and announce it to the council. I take upon myself all responsibility with my father.”