Part 21 (1/2)
”Donatus!” shrieked the Count, ”are you in your senses?” He turned to the Abbot, ”If any earthly bond is still sacred in your eyes--tell him what a son owes to his father.”
”Donatus,” said the Abbot, ”you are this man's son--it is to him that you owe your existence in the world! According to all human rights and duties you belong to him--according to the rights and duties of our Order you belong to us.--You are of age and free to choose--Choose.”
All eyes were fixed on Donatus. He felt for the Abbot's hand, ”My father,” he said, ”I can have but one choice; to live or die with you.”
”Son, son!” cried Reichenberg. ”Is all your nature subverted? Can you repel your real father for the sake of a stranger who did not beget you?”
”My Lord,” said Donatus, ”how can you say you are my father, when you have never dealt with me as a father? while these have treated me as you ought to have done. How can you talk to me and chide me for loving them and calling them father, when I have never known any other father?”
Reichenberg's eyes fell; ”You speak the truth,” he replied. ”I have erred and sinned grievously towards you; an evil spirit possessed my senses--but of that G.o.d is the judge and not you. The children may not be their parents' judges, for the ties of blood are sacred and no law can tear them asunder.”
”My lord, I am dedicated to Heaven--I recognise no ties of blood--”
”And is this the doctrine in which you have brought up my child?
Almighty G.o.d! it would have been better for him if the wild beasts had devoured him! The son renounces his father who comes remorsefully to atone for his past crime. Oh! it is hideous, and I turn from you in horror! You are not men, you are stones--stones of that proud edifice under which the whole earth groans, and all wholesome life must perish.--And you, blind shade, out of which they have wrung the very blood and marrow, can you reconcile it to your creed of mercy to plunge a dagger in cold blood into the heart of a father who opens his arms to you with eager longing, and cries for atonement as a hart for the water-brooks,--to renounce him when he would fain lead you home under the roof of your ancestors?”
Donatus drew himself up; his father quailed before him.
”My lord,” said he, ”the winter-night sky was my parental roof; the bare earth was my cradle; the snow-storm sweeping down from the heights gave me the first fatherly kiss. Hunger and cold, exhaustion and death were the nurses that tended your wife in her need. Pitying love came in monk's garb through the night, and snow, and storm, and s.n.a.t.c.hed the deserted woman and child from the cruel earth, and carried them home, and warmed them, and laid them on a soft bed. And when my mother succ.u.mbed to her miseries, again they were monks--these whom you see here--that made me a cradle in the name of Him who is Love. They have carried me in their arms, they have sheltered and tended me, and watched over me all my life; and shall I leave them and follow a stranger only because an accidental tie of blind nature binds me to him? My lord, sooner could I tear all love out of my heart, as I have torn out my eyes, than do such a thing!”
The Count had listened to the words of the son he had lost with apparent composure, but he now said to the Abbot in a sullen tone, and with lips that were white with anger,
”That will do; command him to follow me without resistance, or mischief will come of all this.”
The Abbot drew back a step. ”I cannot,” he said; ”I desired him to choose, I cannot compel him.”
The Count grew paler and colder.
”Then I will compel him,” he answered. ”Send down to the village for a strong horse that may carry me and the boy.”
”My lord,” urged the Abbot, ”you surely will not against his will--”
”Do you think I will entreat him any longer? He must obey, willingly or not; he is my son, and he belongs to me,” and with a rapid movement he s.n.a.t.c.hed the enfeebled boy from the midst of the brethren, and threw his mailed arm round his slight form. ”Sooner would I throw you to the wolves, unnatural child, than leave you here with these monks, and come what may, I will carry you away.”
”Oh, G.o.d, help me!” cried the blind man, and in an instant the brethren had flung themselves on the father, and freed the son; the solitary man was forced to yield to numbers. Donatus clung to the Abbot and Correntian who supported him. The Count drew his sword.
”You will have it!” he cried. ”Then take it,” and he flew like an infuriated wild boar on the unarmed group, so that the foremost recoiled in terror.
”A sword, a sword!” Donatus heard them shout, and he understood what was happening. In an instant he drew a blood-stained weapon from under his robe--the compa.s.ses that he had taken from Eusebius--and he turned the two sharp points against his breast.
”Father!” he shouted above the tumult, ”if indeed you are my father, will you kill your own son? See this steel which has already pierced my eyes; I will this instant plunge it into my heart if you touch a hair of one of my brethren!”
Reichenberg dropped his sword, and for an instant struggled for breath; then he raised his arm again, and the words poured from his lips like a fiery torrent. ”You have conquered! Your strength is so great, so unfathomable that it is vain for man to fight against it. But still you are of flesh and blood, and still you can die! Then hear my solemn oath. In seven days, when the moon changes, I will return with a force, strong enough to destroy you and the whole body of your lansquenets, to rase your convent even with the earth. So bethink yourselves: if by that time you have not turned the heart of the son to his father, if you do not give him up willingly, I will mutilate you as you have mutilated my son; I will rend every tie of humanity as you have rent them by dividing the son from his father; I will trample on your sacred rights as you have trampled on the holy rights of nature. Blood for blood, and struggle for struggle! I will require at your hands the heart and the eyes of my son, and you shall answer to me for them.”
”Count Reichenberg, we do not tremble at your threats,” said the Abbot proudly. ”You may indeed destroy a poor and helpless monastery, and murder a handful of unarmed monks, but you know very well that a whole world would rise up to avenge us, and, even if you conquered that, our holy Father can hurl an anathema at you which will overwhelm you to all eternity, and which you cannot escape from in this world or the next.”
”And do you believe,” cried the Count with a wild laugh, ”do you believe that I quail before curse and ban?--Do you believe that I can fear h.e.l.l when such wrath as mine is boiling in my veins?--Do you believe that I care for Heaven--for Heaven whose revolting indifference has let every earthly evil fall upon me?--for Heaven that did not annihilate you all rather than leave this poor young son of a n.o.ble house to blind himself for your doctrines? Woe upon you! But there is still a power that you know not of--because you have never felt as men feel, and that is a father's vengeance; neither death nor d.a.m.nation can terrify that!”