Part 4 (1/2)

”What is the matter with it?” I said, ”it does not smell like pure coffee.”

The brothers exchanged a rapid glance.

”It is the Kirschenwa.s.ser,” said Karl. ”We always put it in our black coffee.”

I tasted it, but the flavour of the coffee was quite drowned in that of the coa.r.s.e, fiery spirit.

”Do you not like it?” asked the younger brother.

”It is very strong,” I said.

”But it is very good,” replied he; ”real Black Forest Kirsch--the best thing in the world, if one is tired after a journey. Drink it off, mein Herr; it is of no use to sip it. It will make you sleep.”

This was the longest speech either of them had yet made.

”Thanks,” I said, pulling out my cigar-case, ”but this stuff is too powerful to be drunk at a draught. I shall make it last out a cigar or two.”

”And your friend?”

”He is better without the Kirsch, and may sleep till I am ready to go to bed.”

Again they looked at each other.

”You need not sit up,” I said impatiently; for it annoyed me, somehow, to have them standing there, one at each side of the table, alternately looking at me and at each other. ”I will call the Madchen to show us to our rooms when we are ready.”

”Good,” said the elder brother, after a moment's hesitation. ”Come, Friedrich.”

Friedrich turned at once to follow him, and they both left the room.

I listened. I heard them for awhile moving to and fro in the inner kitchen; then the sound of their double footsteps going up the stairs; then the murmur of their voices somewhere above, yet not exactly overhead; then silence.

I felt more comfortable, now that they were fairly gone, and not likely to return. I breathed more freely. I had disliked the brothers from the first. I had felt uneasy from the moment I crossed their threshold.

Nothing, I told myself, should induce me at any time, or under any circ.u.mstances, to put up under their roof again.

Pondering thus, I smoked on, and took another sip of the coffee. It was not so hot now, and some of the strength of the spirit had gone off; but under the flavour of the Kirschenwa.s.ser I could (or fancied I could) detect another flavour, pungent and bitter--a flavour, in short, just corresponding to the smell that I had at first noticed.

This startled me. I scarcely knew why, but it did startle me, and somewhat unpleasantly. At the same instant I observed that Bergheim, in the heaviness and helplessness of sleep, had swayed over on one side, and was hanging very uncomfortably across one arm of his chair.

”Come, come,” I said, ”wake up, Herr fellow-traveller. This sort of dozing will do you no good. Wake up, and come to bed.”

And with this I took him by the arm, and tried to rouse him. Then for the first time I observed that his face was deadly white--that his teeth were fast clenched--that his breathing was unnatural and laboured.

I sprang to my feet. I dragged him into an upright posture; I tore open his neckcloth; I was on the point of rus.h.i.+ng to the door to call for help, when a suspicion--one of those terrible suspicions which are suspicion and conviction in one--flashed suddenly upon me.

The rejected gla.s.s of wine was still standing on the table. I smelt it--tasted it. My dread was confirmed. It had the same pungent odour, the same bitter flavour as the coffee.

In a moment I measured all the horror of my position; alone--unarmed--my unconscious fellow-traveller drugged and helpless on my hands--the murderers overhead, biding their time--the silence and darkness of night--the unfrequented road--the solitary house--the improbability of help from without--the imminence of the danger from within.... I saw it all! What could I do? Was there any way, any chance, any hope?

I turned cold and dizzy. I leaned against the table for support. Was I also drugged, and was my turn coming? I looked round for water, but there was none upon the table. I did not dare to touch the beer, lest it also should be doctored.