CHAPTER VI.

Eight days passed since Johann's departure before the young man again stood at the sculptor's door. Alas! in that silent and gloomy house, the click of the hammer striking the stone, the cutting of the chisel on the marble, the cheerful voices of the pupils, and the pure voice of Mina, singing her love lay in the morning or canticle at eve, were no longer heard. The great window of the atelier was opaque and black, and no spark of light appeared in the house save where the weak and pale light of a little lamp shone through the window of the young girl's room, at the top of the house, and seemingly shadowed by the angel's wings.

Johann sprang from his horse, tapped lightly at the door, and, throwing aside his travelling cloak, hastened to question the old servant.

"Where is your young lady?"

"Above in her room. Her malady hath much increased since last we saw you."

"And Master Sebald?"

"Is at her side. She speaks and weeps in her delirium, and the master desires that we should not approach her."

"But I may enter," said Johann. "Fear nothing, Martha, I will not disturb her--you well know that, when I departed, it was to bear a message for Demoiselle Mina."

Martha allowed the young traveller to pass, and he ascended the stairs rapidly yet softly, and glided noiselessly into Mina's room, of which the door stood half open.

Beneath the thick curtains of the bed, under a canopy of dark blue damask, the white form of the sculptor's daughter was dimly outlined, indistinct and floating like a shadow, and scarcely perceptible, save where the yellow ray of the silver lamp lit up two sparkling, ardent, agitated flames from beneath her dark lashes. How dry and desolate, and even fearful, were those late sweet glances, now glittering with the fires of fever! Tears would bring more gladness to her father's heart than that wild splendor. So thought Johann as he softly entered and hid behind a large arm-chair in his eagerness to escape those burning glances.

By the side of the bed Master Sebald sat gloomy and silent in a high-backed ebony chair. His grief-worn countenance and gray head rested upon a hand which seemed to Johann to have grown, even in the few days of his absence, more yellow and thin. The other hand was stretched toward the bed, and held clasped that of Mina. The old man watched every movement, every look, every sigh of his daughter. A moan from time to time broke from her lips; then she pushed back with her thin fingers the waves of golden hair which fell over her pale forehead, and began to speak in short, gasping tones:

"Wilt thou pardon me, my father?" said she. "Once thou hadst confidence in me and wert happy. Nothing was wanting to thee; neither the grace of God nor the respect of man; neither success nor genius. Ah! my father, when I reflect that thou mightest always have been so, hadst thou no daughter! Why came I ever into this world, or why died I not in my cradle? Then thou wouldst have mourned me, but with different tears with sweet and tender tears--tears of hope and benediction; thou wouldst have placed me in my little coffin, and, when afterward thou wouldst think of me, thou wouldst cease to weep, saying: I am a happy father, whose family is in heaven--there have my pious wife and angel babe flown.'"

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Here sobs interrupted her voice. A heart-broken sigh from the father replied.

The sick girl for a moment was silent, breathing painfully, and wiping away with her hand the drops of sweat which stood upon her brow. Then with a still more mournful voice, she continued:

"Instead of that I grew, I lived, and I loved in vain. Father! my tombstone must bear the thorns of grief the black cross of penitence. It will be a sad sight--my last dwelling. Mockery will sound around it; the passer-by will point it out scornfully, but, if thy malediction floats not over it, my father--if thou wilt there shed a tear on the green turf--"

"O my Mina! my only child, talk not of maledictions or tombs--I love thee. I tremble for thee, I pardon thee--and thou wilt live and yet be happy. Who can say that Otho has proved false? Who knows that old Hans is not mistaken? Who knows that we may not see him once more, generous, true, and loving thee, my Mina?"

"We will never see him more. He loves me no more, my father. If old Hans were mistaken--if the lady of Horsheim were not to wed Otho, Johann would long ere this have returned. Thinkest thou the good youth would delay to bring me glad tidings? No--he is generous, devoted, and tender. Why could I not love him? I have been very weak, alas! but father, rememberest thou not how tall and gracious was the count! How handsome he seemed with his red plume overhanging his black hair, and his fine form encased in his steel cuirass! And his voice that went so straight to the heart! his simple grace! his gentle nobleness! Who would not have loved such a gentleman? And thou, my father, didst thou not first love him?'

"Yes, I loved him, Mina; and I would yet esteem him."

"Contemn him not, father; and, above all, seek not to be avenged on him!" cried the girl, in a fit of sudden terror. "Should a proud cavalier like him espouse a poor maiden like me--one who is not even a lady? Thou hast genius and glory, my father; but thou hast no escutcheon. I should have loved Johann; he had such respect for thee--such devotion for me; he would have given thee a happy old age, and me a peaceful life; he loved me and would have sacrificed himself for me--he, who could find heart to see me happy in another's arms. Oh! when Johann returns, tell him that I was not ungrateful, and that, if heaven is opened to me, I will there pray for him."

Again her words were interrupted by a stifled sob; she turned, and her eyes fell upon the great arm chair. She cried out, with fixed gaze and trembling lips:

"Johann is here--and weeping! Why speaks he not?"

Then old Sebald turned and saw the young man.

"Come hither!" he cried. "Thou hast been at Horsheim; what hast thou seen? See how pale--how burning--how pitifully sick she is. Speak, my son; say that old Hans erred when he named the husband of the Countess Gertrude!"

Johann, erect and pale, for a moment did not reply; he made a few timid steps toward the old sculptor, and whispered as softly as he could:

"O master! why ask me now? Why force me to tell my tidings in her presence?"

And seeing a gesture of Mina's, he ceased. As low as he had spoken, she had heard. She lifted her eyes, clasped her hands, and made an effort to speak.

"Thou seest, father, that I was right," she murmured. "Thanks, Johann; thou hast proved thy courage and thy goodness, of heart, and I rejoice that I am yet able to bid thee farewell. But one last question--answer, if thou lovest me. When will Otho's marriage take place?"

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"In ten days," sobbed Johann.

"'Tis very soon," replied Mina, shuddering. "My heart will be scarcely cold, and a single green bud will not have appeared over my grave. But may the earth be green, and the sky blue, and life sweet to him."

Saying these words, she crossed her hands upon her breast, and, speaking no more, remained thus for long hours, without even casting a look upon the weeping Johann or upon her heart-broken father.

The physician soon came, and after him the priest. The first had marvellous secrets to cure the body; the latter had pious consolation and words of peace for the soul. But they sought in vain to cure the body or strengthen the soul of Mina. Each day, each hour, each moment stole a spark of the waning fire of life; her grief was too great for so frail a form to bear, and one evening at the end of July, ten days after Johann's return, she closed her eyes forever, holding her father's hand in hers and the crucifix to her lips. Johann was at her feet and received her last look. She had near her in dying the Supreme Consoler of heaven and her only two friends on earth, and there was in her last moments a tenderness which the heart of the youth never forgot.