Part 493 (1/2)

My gracious lady, soft and meek, Through pity, doubtless, feared to speak; That it has 'scaped me, sore I rue; What, lord, canst thou to help it do?”

Into the neighboring wood then rode The Count, inflamed with wrath, Where, in his iron foundry, glowed The ore, and bubbled forth.

The workmen here, with busy hand, The fire both late and early fanned.

The sparks fly out, the bellows ply, As if the rock to liquefy.

The fire and water's might twofold Are here united found; The mill-wheel, by the flood seized hold, Is whirling round and round; The works are clattering night and day, With measured stroke the hammers play, And, yielding to the mighty blows, The very iron plastic grows.

Then to two workmen beckons he, And speaks thus in his ire; ”The first who's. .h.i.ther sent by me Thus of ye to inquire 'Have ye obeyed my lord's word well?'

Him cast ye into yonder h.e.l.l, That into ashes he may fly, And ne'er again torment mine eye!”

The inhuman pair were overjoyed, With devilish glee possessed For as the iron, feeling void, Their heart was in their breast, And brisker with the bellows' blast, The foundry's womb now heat they fast, And with a murderous mind prepare To offer up the victim there.

Then Robert to his comrade spake, With false hypocrisy: ”Up, comrade, up! no tarrying make!

Our lord has need of thee.”

The lord to Fridolin then said: ”The pathway toward the foundry tread, And of the workmen there inquire, If they have done their lord's desire.”

The other answered, ”Be it so!”

But o'er him came this thought, When he was all-prepared to go, ”Will she command me aught?”

So to the Countess straight he went: ”I'm to the iron-foundry sent; Then say, can I do aught for thee?

For thou 'tis who commandest me.”

To this the Lady of Savern Replied in gentle tone: ”To hear the holy ma.s.s I yearn, For sick now lies my son; So go, my child, and when thou'rt there, Utter for me a humble prayer, And of thy sins think ruefully, That grace may also fall on me.”

And in this welcome duty glad, He quickly left the place; But ere the village bounds he had Attained with rapid pace, The sound of bells struck on his ear, From the high belfry ringing clear, And every sinner, mercy-sent, Inviting to the sacrament.

”Never from praising G.o.d refrain Where'er by thee He's found!”

He spoke, and stepped into the fane, But there he heard no sound; For 'twas the harvest time, and now Glowed in the fields the reaper's brow; No choristers were gathered there, The duties of the ma.s.s to share.

The matter paused he not to weigh, But took the s.e.xton's part; ”That thing,” he said, ”makes no delay Which heavenward guides the heart.”

Upon the priest, with helping hand, He placed the stole and sacred band, The vessels he prepared beside, That for the ma.s.s were sanctified.

And when his duties here were o'er, Holding the ma.s.s-book, he, Ministering to the priest, before The altar bowed his knee, And knelt him left, and knelt him right, While not a look escaped his sight, And when the holy Sanctus came, The bell thrice rang he at the name.

And when the priest, bowed humbly too, In hand uplifted high, Facing the altar, showed to view The present Deity, The sacristan proclaimed it well, Sounding the clearly-tinkling bell, While all knelt down, and beat the breast, And with a cross the Host confessed.

The rites thus served he, leaving none, With quick and ready wit; Each thing that in G.o.d's house is done, He also practised it.

Unweariedly he labored thus, Till the Vobisc.u.m Dominus, When toward the people turned the priest, Blessed them,--and so the service ceased.

Then he disposed each thing again, In fair and due array; First purified the holy fane, And then he went his way, And gladly, with a mind at rest, On to the iron-foundry pressed, Saying the while, complete to be, Twelve paternosters silently.

And when he saw the furnace smoke, And saw the workmen stand, ”Have ye, ye fellows,” thus he spoke, ”Obeyed the Count's command?”

Grinning they ope the orifice, And point into the fell abyss: ”He's cared for--all is at an end!

The Count his servants will commend.”

The answer to his lord he brought, Returning hastily, Who, when his form his notice caught, Could scarcely trust his eye: ”Unhappy one! whence comest thou?”-- ”Back from the foundry”--”Strange, I vow!

Hast in thy journey, then, delayed?”-- ”'Twas only, lord, till I had prayed.”