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The Lonely House

The
Lonely House

From the German of

ADOLF STRECKFUSS

Author of "Too Rich," "Castle Hohenwald," etc.

By

MRS. A. L. WISTER

Translator of "The Old Mam'selle's Secret," "Gold Elsie," "The
Second Wife," "The Happy-Go-Lucky," etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY
CHARLOTTE WEBER-DITZLER

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

1907

Copyright, 1907 By J. B. Lippincott Company

Published October, 1907

Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

I TAKE PLEASURE IN INSCRIBING THIS TRANSLATION--THE LAST I SHALL EVER COMPLETE--TO THE CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN OF THOSE WHO SO KINDLY WELCOMED THE FIRST, PUBLISHED A LIFE-TIME AGO.

ANNIS LEE WISTER

"Lindenshade,"
Walungford, Pa.
September, 1907

Contents

Illustrations

The
Lonely House

CHAPTER I.

[THE PROFESSOR'S PERSISTENCE].

Ukraine! Ukraine! For years I had longed to spend some weeks in Southern Ukraine. The descriptions I had read of its wonderful mountains had greatly attracted me; I was certain of adding there many valuable specimens to my collection; that section of country had been so rarely visited by entomologists that I might even hope to enrich our German fauna with a new species. Some years before a butterfly-collector from Vienna had discovered there the caterpillar of the beautiful Saturnia cæcigena, found previously only in Dalmatia. Why might I not hope for something equally interesting!

The scenery of Southern Ukraine is not thought to be very fine: the mountains are much less imposing than in other Alpine districts, but the Carpathian range is said to have many very interesting caves, and strange formations of rock, while for the naturalist its fauna and flora offer a rich field for investigation in its mountain fastnesses and deep valleys.

If travel in that section of the country were only not attended with such risk and inconvenience! Travellers who seemed thoroughly familiar with its political and social condition warned me seriously not to attempt going thither. The only tolerable accommodation for strangers, they said, is to be found in the larger towns--Laibach, Adelsberg, etc., and on the high road followed by tourists; as soon as the traveller attempts to penetrate the interior he finds only wretched inns, no comfort of any description, and a poverty-stricken peasantry, speaking the dialect of the country, and understanding not one word of German. All expeditions into the valleys are fraught with discomfort and even hardships. Nevertheless, little alluring as were the accounts given me of the country, the prospect of adding to my collections--I am a naturalist--an entomologist--was so tempting that when I had a longer vacation than usual I determined to fulfil a long cherished desire and to pass a spring in Southern Ukraine.

And then the question arose as to what place I should make my headquarters. A naturalist cannot travel hither and thither like an ordinary tourist; he must establish himself somewhere, and make excursions into the surrounding country, which he must investigate thoroughly or he can hope for no results from his labours; moreover, the paraphernalia of his profession are too bulky to be moved easily from place to place.

Unfortunately all the guide books were too incomplete to give me the least assistance; I had recourse to the admirable maps of the Austrian Government, and in them I found a small town--Luttach--which seemed well fitted for my purpose. It is situated in a deep valley in the midst of the Carpathians, at the foot of a long spur of Mt. Nanos on the road from Adelsberg to Görz--a road once much travelled, but fallen into disrepair since the intrusion of the railroad. From Luttach the topmost peak of Mt. Nanos could be reached in a few hours, and in the valley itself there was sure to be a mingling of the southern fauna and flora with those of the Alps proper. I might promise myself rich additions to my collections. Moreover the many German names of the surrounding villages, and indeed the German name of the town itself, were very attractive for me, giving me hopes that there might be German elements mingling with the Slavonic civilization.

Luttach it should be then. My two huge travelling trunks were duly packed and I was provided with every requisite for collecting. The last of April I left Berlin full of pleasant anticipations.

In Vienna, where I stopped for a day as I passed through, I called on a friend; he gravely shook his head when he heard that I had chosen Luttach for a stay of some weeks. "I never heard before of this God-forsaken hole," said he; "I should not risk going there, but since you are determined to go, provide yourself at least with a good revolver, for without it you never ought to venture among the dreary deserts of the Carpathians, or to wander in those primeval woods and forests. It is dangerous for an elderly man like yourself. You know besides that there are still bears and wildcats in the forest on Mt. Nanos, not to mention those two venomous reptiles native to the rocky retreats of the Karst range--the cross-adder and the sand-viper. More to be feared than all these, moreover, is the human beast of prey whom you will surely meet in your wanderings there. You had really best relinquish your plan of visiting so inhospitable a region. But if you insist upon it, pray be cautious. Go well armed, and do not venture too far among those desert fastnesses."

I cannot say that I was agreeably impressed by my friend's warning. I was not formed in an heroic mould and I do not willingly court danger. At sixty, after a life spent principally in study, there is small desire for perilous adventure. Although I am not deficient in personal bravery, as I had opportunity to prove in my student-days, and afterwards in political embroglios, it is not my nature to seek for perils. Bears and wildcats, and even venomous serpents, caused me no alarm--the beasts are rarely dangerous in summer, and I knew well how to manage the reptiles; I had frequently encountered them in my excursions in the Swiss Alps and even in Northern Germany. The danger from human beasts of prey appeared to me far more serious, but even this could not deter me from carrying out the plan I had contemplated for so long. In Vienna I purchased an excellent revolver with the necessary ammunition and started the next morning for Görz, where I wished to visit an old friend and fellow-student, who, dwelling so near the frontier, would, I hoped, give me a less alarming account of the country I wished to explore. But my hope was vain; he was even more emphatic than my Vienna friend had been, although he laughed at the story of bears, wildcats, and snakes. He shook his head and said: "I know nothing of Luttach and the surrounding country, except that on Nanos the Saturnia cæcigena was formerly to be found. You will probably make some good additions to your collections, although I doubt your making as many as you hope, since in the rocky parts of the mountains insect life is sparse, and where the mountain sides are clothed with trees, they form an impenetrable primeval forest. I doubt also whether the richest harvest you can reap will compensate you for the hardships, the discomforts--yes, the dangers to which you will expose yourself. The greatest of these lies in the fact of your being a German. The unhappy strife between nationalities in Ukraine has so embittered the inhabitants there that all kindly feeling is extinct. The Slav considers hatred of the German his first duty; it is his greatest delight to annoy--even to maltreat--a German. Whether you can defend yourself with your revolver from such maltreatment is more than doubtful. You could not use it against any single peasant who should meet you in the forest, and insult you, or even against three or four, who might amuse themselves by annoying you in countless ways. There certainly is danger of encountering robbers in those wilds; your revolver might serve you there--to me danger from the determined hostility towards Germans seems far greater."

This was encouraging! I almost wonder now that I was not deterred from my undertaking. If my respected colleague had not expressly stated that I should find Saturnia cæcigena on Mt. Nanos, I should probably have followed his advice not to go to Luttach, but my passion for collecting outweighed every other consideration. I refused to be intimidated, and started upon my journey the very next day, arriving at four o 'clock in the afternoon at Adelsberg, whence I could reach Luttach in four hours by a carriage road. So desirous was I to attain this goal of my wishes that I resisted the temptation to visit the world-renowned Grotto at Adelsberg, postponing this pleasure until my return. I hired a vehicle, large enough to accommodate myself and my two huge travelling trunks, and in half an hour I was on my way to Luttach.

The road was excellent, leading through an attractive mountain region among low hills, although loftier eminences bounded the horizon. I should have liked to know the names of those giant mountains, but my driver was a genuine Slav, who could not understand a word of German, and who was too stupid to comprehend signs, so all intercourse with him was impossible. We drove swiftly, almost as swiftly up-hill as down-hill, through a charmingly varied landscape, through forests, past meadows and cornfields, with only a glimpse of the desolate Karst range now and then in the distance, until we rapidly approached the bare gray rocks of Mt. Nanos--which, as we descended by a winding road to the valley of Luttach, stood out boldly against the sky.

Time passed rapidly during the long drive; there was so much to see, and everything that I saw was distinctly in contrast with what I had been led to expect in Southern Ukraine. The numerous villages through which the road ran were entirely different from the ruinous Polish hamlets with which I was familiar in Upper Silesia; they consisted mostly of flourishing farms, with very few straw-thatched cottages. The peasants whom we met greeted me as we passed along with friendly courtesy--they could not recognize me as a hated German--and the inns as we drove by them, so far from presenting pictures of dirt and decay, were most attractive, and invitingly clean.

And when in the valley we drove among meadows bright with the luxuriant growth of spring--past vineyards where each vine showed careful culture and was just putting forth its tender leaves--along a road bordered on the left by hillsides under full cultivation, where countless white cottages in the midst of blossoming orchards betokened a numerous population, I could hardly fancy that I was in the midst of the ill-reputed desolate Karst range, in a corner of the world of which scarce a hint was to be found in the guide books. The bald rocky mass of Mt. Nanos alone, clothed at its feet only with a forest of oaks, and the bare peaks of the high range that seemed to close in the valley in the distant west, showed that vegetation was not as luxuriant everywhere in the Karst range as I found it on the hills to the left and in the valley itself.

"Luttava!" my driver called out, nodding to me and pointing with his whip towards a little town near at hand, nestling at the very foot of Nanos, its white houses seeming to cling to the rocks. In a few minutes we had reached it, and after driving along a street too narrow for more than one vehicle, turned into the gateway of a large building, before which a tall pole supported a sign whereon a golden grape vine declared it to be the inn recommended to me before I left Adelsberg.

The carriage stopped beneath the dim gateway before a door opening directly into a spacious kitchen, where in the huge chimney-piece a bright fire was blazing. Through the door I could see several men, some standing, some seated upon low benches, about the fire, all of whom regarded the newcomer with curiosity. A plainly clad but spotlessly clean dame busied herself on the hearth, moved a steaming pot to one side, and hurried out to receive me, opening the carriage door to help me to alight.

"Can I have a room!"

"Certainly! If the gentleman will kindly go upstairs," was the reply, delivered in excellent German, although with a strong accent. "Mizka, show the gentleman up to Number Two."

Mizka, a pretty slender girl, tripped lightly before me up the stairs leading up two flights directly from the kitchen to a wide entry, where she threw open the door of Number Two, and courteously held it open for me to precede her.

The room was large, low, and square, with two small windows, looking out upon the street. It probably looked larger than it really was from the absence of much furniture along its walls. Between the two windows there was an old-fashioned sofa covered with gay chintz, and above its high back hung an oval mirror in a black varnished frame, while before it stood an extension table, which if pulled out to its fullest capacity would have accommodated twenty-four persons. A tall cedar clothes press, a washstand, six chintz-covered cushioned chairs, and a huge bed which had to be clambered into by the help of a chair, completed the furniture of the room. The walls, painted light green, were adorned with four gaily colored prints, each portraying a quarter of the earth in the guise of a very ugly and scantily clothed dame, whose distorted limbs reclined upon a fantastically shaped couch.

This was Number Two, my room. It certainly did not look inviting for a long stay; it was too bare, but it as certainly possessed the unexpected attraction of perfect cleanliness. Not a speck of dust lay upon the few articles of furniture, the bare floor was spotless, and the creases in the white bed linen bore testimony to its freshness.

"Will the gentleman take his supper here, or below in the dining-room?" Mizka asked me in very good German.

"I will come down as soon as I have washed," was my reply.

"I will bring fresh water immediately;" and she hurried away, returning presently with a can of crystal-clear water, and a supply of fresh towels, and followed closely by two gigantic porters, each of whom bore upon his shoulders one of my heavy trunks. Assuredly thus far I could not complain of lack of promptitude in the service of a Slav inn.

When I had freed myself from the dust of travel, and had changed my coat, I went down to the dining-room; the way led through the kitchen, where several men were sitting or standing around the hearth, talking familiarly with the hostess, who was busy meanwhile with her cooking. All greeted me politely as I passed through the room.

When Mizka showed me into the spacious dining-room, I took it all in with a rapid glance. Its arrangement could not be called elegant, but the cleanliness of the scoured tables atoned for its simplicity. There were but a few persons present. At a table near a window a young man sat alone, apparently absorbed in a newspaper. He looked up for a moment as I entered, disclosing a singularly handsome face, which was immediately hidden behind his paper. The face was thoroughly German. Such deep blue eyes, such fair, close curls are to be found nowhere save in Germany. He was certainly handsome, but his expression was too grave, perhaps even too stern and hard to allow of his being thoroughly attractive.

As far from this young man as the size of the room would permit, at a large round table near the tall stove, sat six or eight men, smoking long cigars, with glasses of wine before them. They evidently saw me enter and look about for a seat, and one of them instantly rose and motioned courteously with his hand, placing a chair at the table, while the others moved aside to give it room.

I was amazed at so polite a reception in this notoriously hostile Slav country, and I was not quite pleased. I should have liked to observe the magnates of Luttach, who were apparently here assembled, from a distance, at my leisure, before making their acquaintance, whereas now, when I accepted their invitation, and introduced myself as a German, a Prussian, and worse than all, from Berlin, whose citizens are never popular, their amiability might decrease. "Permit me to present myself to you, gentlemen," I said, "as Professor Dollnitz from Berlin, who hopes to spend some weeks with you here in your beautiful country, collecting plants and butterflies, beetles and chrysalids. I am an old naturalist who looks forward to much gratification here in your richly endowed Southern Ukraine."

I observed a fleeting smile pass around the circle upon hearing that I, so old a man, was running after butterflies and beetles, but I am used to that; all sensible men regard us old entomologists as cranks, and sometimes jest rather rudely at our expense; but this was not the case here; the gentlemen, as I could see, suppressed their smiles at my butterfly mania; they rose very politely and formally introduced themselves as the District Judge Foligno, his Assistant Herr Einern, Burgomaster Pollenz, a retired Captain Pollenz, a landed proprietor, Gunther by name, Herr Weber, a merchant, and Herr Dietrich, a notary. Strange! All German names save that of the district judge.

Chance had surely brought me among Germans. I was strengthened in this belief by finding that they all spoke excellent German, not merely with me, but among themselves; only now and then was there heard a brief remark in Slavonic. I soon found out my mistake, however, when in the course of conversation I mentioned that I had been warned in Vienna and in Görz not to visit the Ukraine on account of the hostility of the Slavs to Germans. The Burgomaster Pollenz, a reverend old man, made reply, speaking with emphasis, and so loudly that even the young man sitting by the window at the other end of the room could hear every word distinctly: "That is unfortunately a widespread error which has brought our good Ukraine into ill-repute. We are all Slavs, and are proud of being so. Our ancestors were Germans, but we are not. The Ukraine is our home. Whoever is born here and lives here must feel himself a genuine Slav. Those only do we hate among us who are disloyal sons of their native land, who would rob us of our language, our customs, and make Germans of us; we have no hatred for Germans born. There are none of them dwelling among us; our entire population is Slavonic, and you will soon find that as a native-born German you will be kindly received everywhere. It is not so in Laibach, or where, as there, the population is mixed, and national prejudice has free sway, causing constant strife, but even there the Slavs are seldom the aggressive party."

"Then you think I can chase my butterflies alone among your woods and mountains without fear of insult? I was expressly warned in Vienna not to leave the house here without a loaded revolver in my pocket to protect me from robbers."

I was answered by a burst of laughter. "I assure you there is no tract of country in the realm of Austria as perfectly safe as ours," the Burgomaster replied. "We have had no robbery here for many years and I will guarantee you as a German against any insult, unless, indeed," he raised his voice again, and spoke very loud, "you should consort with the only Slav among us who is disloyal to his country; friendship with him would cause you to be suspected of hostility to our nation."

The young man by the window had hitherto seemed heedless of our conversation; now he arose and approached us. His flashing eyes seemed to defy each member of the circle, but their expression grew gentler as he addressed the Burgomaster. "I cannot be angry with you, Herr Burgomaster," he said gravely, but not unkindly. "Your words were offensive, but I know that you mean well by me and by the strange gentleman. You have called me a disloyal son of my country, which I am not! I am a whole-souled Austrian, but one also who can never forget that he is sprung from German and Austrian blood. You have all of you forgotten this; I am true to the German tongue and to German customs. You are the faithless ones, not I!"

"Do you want to pick a quarrel with us all, Franz?" asked the Burgomaster, regarding the young man disapprovingly.

"No, but I cannot allow you to give the strange gentleman a false idea of me. Moreover, you need not fear that I shall force my friendship upon him. I know too well that it might cause him annoyance. Good-night!" He turned upon his heel and left the room without bestowing a further glance upon the company.

When the door had closed behind him, the District Judge said: "Franz Schorn always was and always will be a most disagreeable fellow. He deserves a thrashing for his insolence in calling us all faithless."

"Your cane is just beside you in the corner; why did you not use it!" the Captain asked with a sneer. "In fact, Franz is not altogether wrong. My brother irritated him unnecessarily; he would never have forced his company upon the Herr Professor. He lives so quietly and is so reserved that he cannot be accused of officiousness."

"'Tis natural that you should espouse the cause of your future cousin," remarked the District Judge with a contemptuous emphasis upon the word "cousin."

"I should be glad to have him for my cousin; he is a thoroughly brave, honest fellow."

"But a German."

"I am half German myself, and at all events I should prefer a German to an Italian cousin. The Italians are always squinting over at Italy, and Franz is, as he says, a German-Austrian at least."

"Leave off bickering," the Burgomaster admonished his brother. "What will the Herr Professor think of us, if we quarrel so before him over our wine?"

During this short skirmish of words I took occasion to observe the two antagonists narrowly. I liked the Captain's frank, manly face and bearing, but the District Judge Foligno produced a very unpleasant impression upon me. He was a man of about forty, with a worn, sallow countenance. His features were regular; he might have been accounted handsome but for some ugly lines about his mouth, half hidden though they were by a glossy black moustache, and a false, unsteady expression in his piercing black eyes. Before his war of words with the Captain he had taken no part in the conversation, but had sat gloomily silent, with downcast eyes, smoking his long cigar and drinking far more than the others. In the short time that I had been present Mizka had twice filled his tall glass.

The Burgomaster's efforts to restore peace were unavailing; the District Judge renewed the quarrel by a malicious remark about old army officers who no longer knew what nation they belonged to. The Captain retorted angrily, more bitter words ensued, the other gentlemen presently took part in the dispute, which principally concerned the character of young Franz Schorn. The Burgomaster alone was silent; of the rest only the County Clerk, Herr Einern, sided with the Captain. While the others all agreed with the District Judge's abuse of Franz Schorn as a rough, arrogant fellow, a recreant Slav, who was detested and despised all through the countryside, and were unanimous in declaring that "old Pollenz" was perfectly right in forbidding Franz to hang around the Lonely House watching for pretty Anna, that it was the old man's patriotic duty to shield his charming daughter from Schorn's advances, the Clerk and the Captain warmly espoused his cause. The Clerk, in fact, did not mince matters, but frankly characterized as exaggerated and unjust his chief's tirade against Franz. The boldness that he showed in doing this without in the least overstepping the bounds of civility impressed me very favourably.

I was soon tired, however, of listening to a discussion which became more and more heated as time went on, concerning people of whom I had no knowledge, and therefore when I had finished my supper--an excellent one, by the way--and had emptied my glass of wine, I rose to retire, pleading fatigue from my journey.

The gentlemen probably suspected that their quarrel had driven me away, and they fell silent in some confusion while the Burgomaster said kindly: "You have chanced upon an unfortunate evening, Herr Professor. Do not suppose that such a disturbance is frequent in our little circle, and I pray you pardon any harsh words you may have heard with regard to Germans. I can assure you that we have no quarrel with any Germans, save those who should be Slavs. That we have no dislike for Germans or Germany you may see for yourself, since you hear us all speak your language among ourselves, and pray do not let this evening's experience prevent you from joining our circle in future. You will always be an honoured and welcome guest."

I pressed the good man's hand cordially and followed Mizka, who stood with lighted candle ready to show me to my room.

I thought it not indiscreet to gossip a little with pretty Mizka while she was arranging my bed, and to learn from her something regarding the gentlemen whose acquaintance I had made below, and with whom I should probably have daily intercourse during some weeks to come. I could not have sought information from a better source.

Mizka had been born in Luttach; she knew all about every inhabitant of the town, and she felt highly honored by "the gentleman's" desire to converse with her. In her gratitude she detailed all that I wished to know. I learned that the Burgomaster, Herr Pollenz, was the owner of the "Golden Grapevine," which Mizka's aunt, Frau Franzka, or rather, her husband, rented from him; he was now a guest in his own house, occupying with his brother, a pensioned captain, the entire second story.

Mizka was eloquent in praise of the two brothers, whom she described as the best and truest of men. No one could be as thoroughly kind as the Burgomaster; he was, in fact, too kind, for he was sometimes really pinched for money himself, because he could not refuse to give or to lend to the poor, and there were evil-disposed people who abused his benevolence. He was very wise, too, and learned. Whoever in all Luttach stood in need of good counsel could be sure of finding it from the Burgomaster. He and the Captain were much respected, not only in Luttach, but throughout the countryside.

Mizka gave unstinted praise also to the County Clerk, Herr von Einern, for whom every one in Luttach had a good word, regretting that he was not District Judge and Foligno the Clerk; he was too young for a Judge as yet, but he was sure of promotion, for he belonged to a very old Luttach family--his father was a general--although he never prided himself upon his position, but was kind and courteous to the very poorest, whereas the Judge was often rude and harsh to poor people in court.

Mizka had nothing pleasant to say of the Judge. He was out-and-out Italian although his grandfather had settled in Luttach and he himself could not speak Italian fluently; but an Italian was always an Italian; he never could be a true Slav. Yet he was not temperate, like most Italians; he drank too much, and was not content with the good Luttach wine, but always wanted some special kind for himself. That was why he was always needing money. Eighteen hundred gulden was a good salary; many a Judge could live comfortably upon it with a wife and children, whereas he, though a bachelor, was always in debt. He already owed Frau Franzka nearly five hundred gulden, and Mizka could not understand why her aunt would go on lending to him. He had the best two rooms in the upper story--Number Twelve, just above the Herr Professor's Number Two, and Number Thirteen--but he had paid nothing for them for a year, and yet he behaved as if he was the greatest guest in the house; nothing was good enough for him. He often drove to Görz, where he consorted with the officers, and 'twas said that he had sometimes lost at play more than a hundred gulden in one evening. He had long since squandered all the property he inherited from his father; he had a house in Luttach, but not a stone of it really belonged to him; he had mortgaged it all to the wealthy old Pollenz, the Burgomaster's cousin, and whoever got into the clutches of that old man never got free until he had lost his last penny; for old Pollenz, who lived in the last house on the mountainside--it was called "the Lonely House"--was a hardhearted usurer.

Old Pollenz now owned forests, vineyards, meadows, and farmlands, for which he exacted the highest rents; all his money had been made by usury, and woe to the peasant to whom he had lent any--he was sure to be obliged to sell all that he possessed to satisfy his creditor's demands. The man was a hateful old miser; in spite of his wealth he hardly dared to eat, and never entered an inn to drink a glass of good wine. He lived with his daughter, pretty Anna, and an old servant maid, apart from everybody, in the Lonely House; its windows barred with iron, because he was constantly in dread of robbers, although there had never been a robbery or burglary in all the countryside within the memory of man. But the old fellow was so afraid of thieves that he would let no one enter the house whom he did not know well, and he always went armed with a couple of pistols and a big knife.

He was most afraid of Franz Schorn, and had often said of him: "If he should meet me alone, he'd be sure to do me a mischief, but I'll be even with him. I'll shoot him like a mad dog sooner than let him attack me." The old man's dread in this case was not quite without cause, for Franz was a rough fellow, who might well assault a mortal enemy, and the two had been mortal enemies ever since two years before, when old Pollenz drove Franz from his door with curses.

The old man was a bitter foe of the Germans, and had fallen into a terrible rage when some one had told him that Franz was sneaking around his house courting pretty Anna. And so, when one day Franz did not sneak around the house, but boldly entered it and asked for pretty Anna for his wife, the old man became almost insane with fury; he drove the young fellow out of doors with blows and curses, although Anna wept and entreated, saying that she would rather die than give up her Franz.

Just at that time the Judge, who certainly had need of a rich wife, asked old Pollenz to take him for his son-in-law. The old miser said "yes," thinking to make an end of pretty Anna's love affair with Franz. He told his daughter that she must marry the Judge, but Anna refused. To all her father's threats she answered, "I'd rather die! You may drag me to the altar, but you cannot compel me to utter a 'yes'!" And so the Judge got the mitten in spite of the father's consent. Ever since then he had been a deadly enemy to Franz Schorn; every child knew how he had got the mitten in the Lonely House; he had often been teased about it, and the malicious Italian would never forgive Franz Schorn because of it.

Such, in brief, was the sum of Mizka's information; she would gladly have talked on, but I was afraid she might be wanted in the room below, so I dismissed her with a "Goodnight."

I admit that she had interested me much with her gossip. I now understood many words and phrases that had escaped the gentlemen below in the heat of their quarrel, and I perfectly comprehended the bitterness of the Judge's hostility to Franz Schorn. A love story in a Slav village! But what did it all matter to me? What possible interest could an old naturalist, sixty years of age, take in the love affairs of a young fellow whom he did not know, and the disappointment and lack of money of a very disagreeable District Judge? There was absolutely no reason why I should mix myself up with such matters, or even bestow a thought upon them. That was not why I was in Luttach, but for the purpose of collecting plants, butterflies, and beetles, which I resolved to begin to do the next morning, oblivious of all love affairs, German or Slav.

I undressed, mounted a chair and made a bold leap which landed me in the midst of the maize straw with which the bed had been stuffed. It was not a luxurious couch, but fatigue sleeps well even upon a poor one. I had scarcely extinguished the candle on the table beside my bed when I fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER II.

[THE PROFESSOR'S FIRST EXCURSION].

The sun shining brightly into my room awoke me about five o'clock. I got up, dressed myself quickly, and went down to the kitchen, where Mizka had already kindled a bright fire on the hearth. She assured me that my coffee would be ready in a quarter of an hour and that she would bring it out to me in the garden. There I met the Captain, who, enjoying his morning pipe, was walking to and fro between the flower beds. Now and then he would stop before an opening rose, regarding it with eyes really full of affection. He greeted me cordially.

"You are an early riser, Herr Professor," he said with a smile. "I thought all those who lived in large cities never rose before eight o'clock, but I am glad that you are an exception, for the mornings and evenings with us are the most delightful time of the day. At noon the sun is far too hot and glowing to enable us to enjoy the beauty that lies about us here. Only look at these rosebuds, how beautiful they are, each one with a diamond dewdrop in its breast! Are they not enchantingly lovely?"

He chattered on, pointing out to me every blossom that delighted him, and taking positive joy in all. He conducted me through the garden, which was not very large, and at the end of it he unlatched a gate that was not locked.

"Now I must show you the only thing perhaps that we have worth showing in Luttach. Pray follow me," and he walked before me through the open garden gate. After a few steps we reached the banks of a broad, brawling brook, which seemed in all its breadth and force to come directly from out the rocky wall before us. The rock must certainly have been thoroughly undermined. From countless smaller and larger openings the crystal-clear water streamed with such power that the numerous jets instantly formed a broad deep brook.

"This is the Luttach. On the north side of Nanos the raging Voyna rushes through a savage rocky vale, suddenly vanishing without a trace; the mountain engulfs it. They say that the Voyna in the interior of Nanos forms a deep unfathomable lake and from this lake in the interior of the mountain it flows on, breaking through the rocks, to come to light again here as the Luttach brook. This may be possible, for Nanos, like the whole Karst range, is absolutely riddled with caves. The famous Adelsberg Grotto would not be the unparalleled wonder that it is, if our population were not too indolent to explore the hollow openings and grottoes in our side of the mountain. Why, in the immediate neighbourhood of Luttach there are two caves, the depth of which is known to none, for no one has ever taken the trouble to explore them, except for a few yards."

"What absolutely unconscionable neglect!" I rejoined. "If you could succeed in finding here a spring, a mineral spring as wonderful with its grottoes as that of Adelsberg, think of how it would attract travellers and what a goal it would be for all tourists."

The Captain shrugged his shoulders. "I really do not know whether our Luttach population would desire this. They certainly feel no wish for it at present. Besides, it is questionable if our grottoes are really very large in extent, and it is probable that their exploration would be attended with some difficulty and perhaps indeed danger. I have never thought of making an attempt to explore one or the other of these, but, if you desire to do so, Herr Professor, I shall be very glad to accompany you."

I joyfully accepted the Captain's offer. Under all circumstances the exploration of a cave, hitherto unknown, possesses for me extraordinary interest; in the depths of these caves in the Karst range are found rare cave beetles, the species is confined entirely to such places. It might well be possible to discover in the Luttach grotto a species hitherto unknown. Such a prospect made me forget the threatened difficulty and danger.

The Captain smiled when he heard the reason for my interest. That a human being should be ready to subject himself to inconvenience and even to danger that he might discover a new beetle appeared to him extremely ridiculous, but he was too polite to make this evident. He promised to look about for some strong, courageous men, who, armed with torches, ladders, and ropes, should accompany us into the caves.

"I hope," he said, "that you will reap a rich harvest of rare cave beetles, but even if you do not succeed you will be abundantly repaid by the beetles and butterflies which you will find on the slopes of Nanos. A naturalist from Vienna, who was here about ten years ago and spent six weeks in Luttach, was thoroughly enraptured by the richness of his discoveries. I was then at home on leave and frequently talked with him. His best and rarest caterpillars he found near the Chapel of St. Nikolas, I believe, upon the leaves of beeches and oaks."

Here was an important piece of news! The caterpillars of the Saturnia cæcigena, the rare Dalmatian butterfly which had lured me to Luttach, lived upon beech and oak leaves. I immediately determined to seek the neighbourhood of the Chapel of St. Nikolas this very day. To St. Nikolas my first excursion should be made.

I asked the Captain the way thither. "You cannot miss it," he answered; "there are two paths, each very easy to find. The first, which is perhaps fifteen minutes the nearer, is steep in its beginning, and even dangerous for unaccustomed mountain climbers. Part of it you can see from here. It begins there at that elder bush and leads directly up the rocks by steps partly natural and partly artificial, most of them, however, giving space only for one foot. A false step, a slip, might be disastrous, therefore I can hardly advise you to take this nearer path over the rocks. It is not long; in five minutes you would reach a very pleasant, gently ascending footpath, which in fifteen minutes more would lead you past the Lonely House, to reach in another quarter of an hour the Chapel of St. Nikolas in a direct line. The second path, just as easy to find, is very charming, beginning at the last house of Luttach and leading to the left from the road to Adelsberg, winding through meadows and through oak forests, and ascending gently, past the scattered houses of the village of Oberberg. After perhaps half an hour you reach a large crucifix at a fork of the pathway. The path to the left leads to the Lonely House, that to the right directly to the Chapel of St. Nikolas without going near the Lonely House; you cannot miss it. I advise you to take the longer path. The shorter is seldom used even by the inhabitants of Luttach, because it is certainly dangerous in descending. The District Judge alone, who is very fond of flowers, often climbs up the steep rocks, in search of rare, beautiful plants."

The advice was well meant, and I determined to follow it, although the mention of the rare and beautiful plants allured me. Still, I do not willingly expose myself to danger. We returned to the garden, where our coffee awaited us in a pretty arbour covered with wild grapevine.

I hurried my breakfast, for I was burning with impatience to find near St. Nikolas my entomological treasures. Scarcely a quarter of an hour had passed before I started on my way thither, supplied with a cane and a large umbrella, my tin box upon my back, my pockets filled with glasses for beetles and boxes for caterpillars and butterflies.

The Captain had described the path to me so exactly that I really could not miss it. He had called it charming, but it was more than that. It was wondrously beautiful. It was a joy to ascend the mountain quietly, while fresh beauties of the landscape revealed themselves at every step. At my feet lay the pretty little town of Luttach, framed in emerald green meadows, bounded by the steep rocky wall against which it leaned. On the summit of this bare rock, majestically enthroned, were the remains of a ruined old castle, whose knightly possessor had in former times probably ruled over the rich valley of the Luttach.

Wherever the eye turned, whether downward to the houses and cottages in the valley, surrounded with blooming orchards, or to the distant view where the mighty mountain range bounded the horizon, its rocky peaks glowing in the sunlight--everywhere, it filled me with rapture.

And then, the fresh, delicious morning! It was a joy indeed to wander thus in the mountains.

The crucifix on the path was very quickly reached. I turned to the right, and soon the little Church of St. Nikolas lay before me.

Hitherto I had sturdily strode on without being detained by my desire to collect. But now, when the goal of my wanderings was reached, I began to search. Once more I turned on the steps of the church to feast upon the wonderful view above the tops of the oaks growing in the valley below, and then I began my work. I could have scarcely found a piece of ground more adapted for my purpose than this around St. Nikolas. The church lay in the midst of a forest of tall oaks; around them there was a rich undergrowth, and where their trunks were more rare, there spread a carpet of charming wildflowers, above which countless butterflies fluttered from one blossom to another. The wood above the chapel consisted partly of ancient trees and shrubbery, climbing the gentle slope of Nanos until it reached the bald rock which showed no trace of vegetation.

My first attempts at collection were rewarded by an astonishing result. I found upon the leaves of an oak a caterpillar entirely unknown to me. When I examined it more closely, it recalled to me the description which I had seen of the Saturnia cæcigena. My dearest wish was fulfilled.

Only a naturalist can form an idea of my joyful emotion, my delight, and the passion for collecting which this first specimen aroused in me. I forgot everything: the beauty of the landscape, to which I now paid no attention; the difficulty of finding my way in the forest without a guide, the danger of treading upon one of the poisonous reptiles native to the Karst range--in short, I wandered about animated only by the desire to procure more specimens of this rare and beautiful insect, and the more I found, the more the desire increased. I never noticed that hours had passed, that the refreshing morning had given place to an intensely hot noon, and that the exertion of climbing and searching had caused the perspiration to stream from my forehead. But at last my sixty years asserted their right. I began to be tired and to feel very thirsty, as the sound of church bells ascended from the valley. I looked at my watch; twelve o'clock! More than six hours had I passed in unbroken labour, and surely a man of sixty had the right to be a little tired and to think of home, especially since all my boxes were well filled.

I found myself in a dense forest at a considerable height above the little Church of St. Nikolas, but whether to the right or to the left of it I could not say, since I had walked along searching here and there, without a thought of the direction in which I was going. I might have informed myself as to this if I could have obtained a view of the valley, but the tall undergrowth made this impossible. There was nothing for it but to walk in the direction of Luttach, keeping to the right, down the mountain, and endeavouring to avoid any precipices, hoping thus to find the path in a roundabout way.

If it were not so oppressively hot! The oaks, covered with the early foliage of spring, hardly afforded any depth of shade. They could not protect me from the burning rays of the midday sun. The thirst which tormented me grew more intense with every minute, and almost intolerable. I longed for one swallow of water. Surely I could not be far from some cottage. Fortunately, in the morning the Captain had taught me the most important word in the Slavonic tongue, woda, "water." This word formed my entire Slavonic vocabulary, but it would suffice to inform any Slav of my need.

I strode on sturdily, keeping to the right down the mountain, and by good fortune encountered no precipice. After a little more than a quarter of an hour, I struck a footpath which wound about gently in the direction of Luttach. I pursued it, and I had proceeded but a few steps when in a little turn of the way I perceived a solitary pedestrian coming towards me. I immediately recognized the young man about whom there had been so lively a discussion in the Golden Grapevine, Franz Schorn. He was ascending the mountain path slowly, with eyes fixed gloomily on the ground. He did not see me until, when I was scarcely thirty steps from him, he suddenly raised his head as if listening. Then he started violently upon perceiving me. For a moment he seemed undetermined as to what he should do. He paused, regarded me darkly, then turned away, without a greeting, and in a moment more had vanished in the thick undergrowth of the forest.

A very strange fellow! He need not have considered himself so strictly bound by his promise not to press his friendship upon me. He need not have grudged me a kindly greeting and a word or two. I should have liked to ask him about the nearest cottage where I could perhaps get a drink of water, but there was no help for it; I could not run after him and must find my way for myself.

I pursued the footpath further. To my joy I soon found myself in the neighbourhood of a house, but as I approached it my joy turned to disappointment. All the windows--not only those of the ground floor, but those of the first story--were provided with strong iron bars, and I made sure that I had reached the Lonely House, whose possessor, old Pollenz, according to all that I had heard of him, could hardly be expected to show any civility to a hated German. Should I ask him for a drink of water? It would not be pleasant to be rudely refused so modest a request. If I had not been tortured with thirst, I would rather have continued upon my path to Luttach instead of asking any favour of the old usurer; but he could at most only return me a surly "No," so I determined to try it. On reaching the house, contrary to my expectation I found the front door wide open, although Mizka had told me that old Pollenz almost always kept it locked and would not open it until continued knocking had removed all suspicion of thieves.

Uncertain whether or not to enter, I stood before the open door; it looked into a spacious hall running through the entire house, ending in another door which probably led into the courtyard. That I confronted the Lonely House was made certain by the huge iron bolts with which the door towards the courtyard was secured. A steep staircase leading to the upper story led from one side of the hall. Opposite the staircase was a door; and two other doors, one to the right, one to the left of the entrance, led into the inner rooms of the house; they were all closed.

I entered and knocked modestly at the door on my left. No reply; no "Come in." I listened; there was not a sound to be heard; an uncanny stillness reigned throughout the house. I knocked again, more loudly, and then, after a pause, more loudly still for the third time. The sound of my knocking was so loud that it surely must have been heard within, but it met with no response. I waited in vain.

A strange and uncomfortable sensation overcame me. I dreaded the Lonely House, where everything seemed dead. What folly! An old man should have more sense. I was ashamed of this strange and disagreeable sensation and turned towards the door on the right of the entrance. Perhaps my knock here might have a better result. No longer as modestly as before, I knocked loudly, and the door, which happened to be only ajar, opened slowly of itself. I cast one look into a spacious room, and staggered back, overcome by intense horror.

There, almost in the centre of the apartment, a motionless figure lay upon the floor in a pool of blood, which had stained the white boards dark red. Such horror, such intense dread, seized me that my first thought was of flight as swift as my feet could carry me from this terrible sight; but the next moment I was ashamed of such cowardly fear. Perhaps the unfortunate man who lay there in his blood still lived. Perhaps I might help him. I overcame the paralyzing terror and entered the room.

All that I saw there only increased my horror. No mortal help could avail the unfortunate man whose stiffened corpse lay before me. He had either killed himself, or had been horribly murdered. His throat was cut, and from the gaping wound dark drops of blood were still trickling. The pale, bloodless, distorted countenance was that of a dead man.

Had there been a murder here! Had the old man's foreboding, always dwelling upon burglars and murderers, been fulfilled! Perhaps the murderer was still in the house. The horrible crime could not have been committed for long, for the blood had not yet congealed; some drops were still trickling from the wound.

Horror seized me afresh. I looked timidly about me. It seemed to me the murderer might be near. Hastily I drew from my breast pocket my loaded revolver; I was safe from any attack and could look about me with less agitation.

There was no doubt that a horrible crime had been committed here. There upon the floor, at some distance from the dead man, lay a bloody knife, near a large cabinet, the folding doors of which stood wide open. Several drawers had been drawn out and papers lay scattered upon the floor. The murderer had apparently been searching the cabinet for money or valuables, and had scattered about these papers.

Had he been startled by my knocking and escaped! If so, he must have passed through the door which led on the left to an adjoining room, for the windows here were barred.

I summoned all my courage to follow him, but there was no need, for the door leading outside was bolted and no one could have left the room by it. He must have escaped before I entered; he might be concealed somewhere near; but, again, he might have left the house, and, in his hasty flight, have forgotten to close the front door.

What should I do? Ought I not to search the place? Yet if he were not there, all search would be unavailing, and if I found him, it would be foolhardy to wander about these unfamiliar rooms merely to expose myself to an attack. The murderer might deal a blow from behind which would make me and my revolver useless.

It suddenly occurred to me that old Pollenz did not live alone in the house; that he had a daughter. Where was she! And where was the old servant of whom Mizka had told me? They had not heard my knocking, and yet it had been loud enough to resound through the entire building. Had they, in their endeavour to escape from the murderer, concealed themselves? Or--oh, horrible thought!--had they also fallen victims to the monster! On this point I must have certainty. If the assassin were still in the house, I could not leave the two women unprotected. My cowardly fear must be overcome; I must pursue the wretch. Humanity made my duty clear. With my revolver held ready and with a beating heart, I turned back to the bolted door, which I opened easily. I entered a spacious, dreary room. A bed against the wall, a table, a couple of wooden chairs, and two large closed wardrobes formed its entire furniture. Evidently it was the old man's sleeping room--a sordid apartment. Here I found nobody, and I continued my search. A second door in the room was unlocked. Through it I again entered the hall. Beneath the staircase was a door which evidently led to the cellar; it was closed by a massive bolt. Two other doors led from the hall to rooms on the left. I went to the first of these--the one at which I had knocked so loudly--opened it, and entered a large apartment much better furnished than the rooms which I had hitherto explored. It gave an impression of more comfort, and I was struck by its great cleanliness. By the window there was a work-table, upon which lay some sewing. A couple of flowers blooming in earthen pots stood on the window sill. A bed with snowy curtains stood against the wall opposite the window.

Undoubtedly this was the sitting-room and bedchamber of the fair Anna, the daughter of the murdered man. Without delay I continued my search. A door opposite the bed was unlocked. Through it I entered the kitchen. Here also I found no one, and I returned to the hall.

The four rooms of the ground floor had now been searched without result. With a calmer mind I mounted the steep staircase to the second story. Here I found rooms similar to those below. They were all unlocked and appeared to be used partly for old rubbish. In one of them there was a bed, probably that of the old servant.

I had found nothing. It seemed useless to ascend to the garret, so I went down to the room in which the murdered man lay, to consider what steps I should take next.

My fear lest the daughter and the maid had been the murderer's victims had proved groundless. Neither of them was in the house. The monster had probably profited by their absence to kill and rob the old man, whom he knew to be alone. Any longer stay in this terrible abode seemed useless. Of course I must inform the proper authorities of the murder, and it was my plain duty to do this as soon as possible. I ought not to linger longer in the Lonely House. Everything must be left lying as it was to await the legal investigation. I could do no good to the dead man by remaining. I ought to proceed to Luttach as quickly as my feet could carry me to inform the District Judge of my terrible discovery. On, then, to Luttach and the District Judge! Suddenly, by a strange chain of ideas, the memory awoke in me of Franz Schorn as he was coming from the Lonely House, with eyes gloomily downcast, in the forest path; of how he started when he saw me before he fled away through the undergrowth. Franz Schorn came from the house of his mortal enemy. I shuddered. Had I met the murderer fresh from the cruel deed? Had not the old man who lay there in his blood always feared him? Had not Mizka yesterday evening told me that Franz was a rough, morose fellow, who might be readily suspected of taking the life of his mortal enemy?

This was a dreadful suspicion, but not without foundation; and, at all events, it seemed to be my duty to inform the Judge as quickly as possible of my meeting with Franz Schorn. I hastily left the scene of the crime, not casting another glance behind me. I breathed more freely when I emerged from the gloomy hall into the brilliant sunshine. No longer under the spell of the ghastly spectacle, I could consider more calmly what was to be done. My first determination, however, remained unaltered. It was my plain duty to hasten to Luttach by the nearest way and there report to the District Judge. The nearest way, as the Captain had told me in the morning, was by the rocks. I could not miss it; I saw it clearly before me. A broad, well-worn path went directly from the Lonely House probably to the outlying cottages of the village of Oberberg. Another, narrow and overgrown, led in the direction of Luttach, and, at first, in a gentle incline down the mountain. This must be the footpath, then, which further on became the narrow way, over the rocks leading directly to the inn, which the Captain had described to me as perilous. Ought I to expose myself to the danger of a fall! The descent was more difficult than the ascent. The rocky way was at least the nearer by fifteen minutes. I had certainly climbed up and down more dangerous places among rocks in order to procure a rare caterpillar. I was now upon a far more important errand, and ought to reach Luttach quickly. It is foolish to expose oneself to unnecessary danger, but the man who shuns it when something important is at stake is a miserable coward. I delayed no longer. One glance over my shoulder I cast. The door of the Lonely House was wide open. Any passer-by might enter. Surely it was wrong to leave it open for more than an hour without any guard. Could I lock it! The key might still be in the lock. I approached it once more, I confess with great reluctance. The silence as of the grave which reigned within filled me with horror, but I overcame this weakness. My expectation was confirmed; the large house key was still there. I locked the door, and taking the key could now pursue my way, sure that for the next hour no passer-by could enter. I hurried down the narrow way leading to the rocky abyss; it was a charming path. The view of the valley was enchanting; I had no eyes for it; I saw nothing of the wealth of rare mountain plants blooming on either side, nothing of the gorgeous peonies which now and then projected their red blossoms almost from the very rock. My thoughts still clung to the Lonely House and the gloomy room where lay the dead man. I encountered not a single human being as I hurried along. At length the little town lay directly below me. I must descend over the dangerous rocks. I looked about me searchingly; it was not easy to find the narrow, untrodden footway, but it soon became plain to my practised eye. Without hesitation I strode down from stone to stone, partly leaping, knowing that a false step would cost me my life; but my training among the mountains made my footing sure, and after a few minutes I stood at the garden gate of the inn.

CHAPTER III.

[THE PROFESSOR'S RETURN].

"Dinner has been waiting for you ever so long, Herr Professor," called Frau Franzka to me as I entered the kitchen, but hardly had I approached her before she clasped her hands above her head with "Holy Virgin, how you look! How pale! How distressed, and how dripping with perspiration! Why, large drops are falling from your hair; no one can climb about the mountains in the hottest part of the day. The District Judge----"

"Is the District Judge at home!" I broke in.

"Yes; he came home about a quarter of an hour ago. I did not see him, but I heard him going upstairs. He is in his room and is probably dressing. The Herr Professor ought also to go to his room and dress. You will take cold in your damp clothes."

I scarcely heard the last words. I hurried up the three flights of stairs and in the passage looked about me for the door marked No. 12--the District Judge's sitting room. I knocked at the door; no answer. I knocked more loudly; there came from within, as from an adjoining room, "Who's there?"

"Professor Dollnitz. I must see you with regard to a matter of great importance, Herr Foligno."

"I pray you just wait for a few minutes. I am dressing, but I'll be ready immediately."

I had to wait. Whilst I stood motionless before the door I suddenly became conscious of the intolerable thirst which, more than half an hour before, had driven me to the Lonely House. During my great excitement I had not been conscious of any physical need, but now in the first moments of quiet it attacked me with double violence. I was perfectly exhausted--almost fainting. Fortunately on the table in the passage there stood a carafe half filled with water. It must have been there for hours; the water was lukewarm, but I drank it eagerly and it gave me the refreshment of which I stood in need. I was as one new born.

I had to wait at least five minutes. The time seemed very long to me. At last the door opened and the District Judge appeared in a new and very elegant summer suit. His thin, sallow face had not attracted me on the previous evening, and now as he received me with a forced friendly smile I liked it still less.

"Forgive me for keeping you so long, Herr Professor," he said, "but I could not open the door before; I was, to speak frankly, entirely undressed when you knocked. I was obliged to change my clothes because, in your interest, I have had quite a fatiguing walk on the mountain. I am a little of a botanist--only a layman--but I am interested in botany, and I was desirous to surprise the learned Herr Professor with some rare plants whose habitat I knew. It cost me an effort to obtain them, and even a little danger; I had a fall which gave me a slight wound in my hand, but it is very insignificant, scarcely worth mentioning, since I have procured what I desired. Here they are." With his left hand (his right was wrapped in a white handkerchief) he took some orchids from the table before the sofa and handed them to me. They were of a beautiful and rare species, and at any other time would have given me the keenest delight, but at this moment I scarcely looked at them.

"I must reserve my thanks for a time," I said gravely, "the terrible intelligence which I bring to you, Herr Foligno, as the foremost official in the town, will admit of no delay. I come directly from the Lonely House--the scene of a horrible murder and robbery."

The District Judge recoiled as from a sudden blow. Pallor as of death overspread his sallow face. His mouth twitched; his eyes became glazed and fixed on me with a look wherein gleamed downright fear and absolute dismay.

"You came from the Lonely House--a murder and robbery! Incredible!" he stammered. Terror so mastered him that he could scarcely utter these few words.

"What I tell you is only too true," I replied, and then in the fewest words I related what I had seen and how I had closed the open door and hurried to Luttach in order to make him, as the chief authority of the place, acquainted with the fearful crime.

During my short narrative he was struggling to regain his composure and succeeded. He listened with his gaze fixed gloomily upon the floor. When I finished, he cast upon me a searching, piercing glance, and his voice trembled as he said, "Did you find no trace of the murderer! Did you see no one in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House!"

On my way down the mountain it had been clear to me that it was my duty to report my meeting with Franz Schorn, but when the District Judge put this question to me, I suddenly felt a decided reluctance to inform him of it. This man was Schorn's mortal enemy. Ought I to make him a sharer of my suspicion, which had been aroused by nothing but a chance encounter?

Still more searching and still more penetrating was the glance the District Judge bestowed upon me as I hesitated to reply.

"Did you see no one in the neighbourhood of the house, or upon the path towards it!" he asked once more.

As Judge he had a right to put the question and I ought to tell him the truth. As I reflected thus, I overcame my reluctance and replied.

"I did encounter a man not far from the Lonely House in the forest, but I cannot think myself justified in suspecting him of evil." I then described accurately my meeting with Franz Schorn.

He listened in silence, his eyes still fixed on the floor. When I finished, he said with emotion, extending his left hand to me: "I thank you, Herr Professor; your report may be of the first importance for the discovery of the murderer, but it may also subject an innocent man to a horrible suspicion. As long as there is no evidence against a man except that he was seen in the neighbourhood of the scene of a murder, nothing would justify his being suspected of what, even as a mere suspicion, might darken his whole future life. Therefore, let me request you to allow me to consider your account of your meeting with Herr Franz Schorn as a matter personal to myself and confidential, not official. I shall then not be forced to include it in a short account which I must write out of your information."

"You surprise me, Herr Foligno."

"I suppose so, and I owe you an explanation of my request. Herr Franz Schorn is my bitter enemy and I have never concealed my dislike of him. You were a witness yesterday evening of my quarrel with Captain Pollenz and my clerk. Precisely on this account I do not wish to include in my official paper a suspicion which I myself hold to be entirely groundless. I promise you that I will neglect nothing that will lead to the discovery of the murderer, that I will investigate every step which Herr Schorn has taken to-day, and will have him watched by a thoroughly competent detective. If he is guilty, I shall discover his guilt; but I do not believe he is so, and because I am his foe I will not attach any suspicion to him which, while the true murderer remains undiscovered, might ruin his life, merely because at the time of the murder he had been seen near the scene of the crime. Promise me, Herr Professor, that you will tell no one at present of your meeting with Franz Schorn. Should there be other and more important grounds for suspecting him, I shall request you to give me your account officially."

I pressed the Judge's hand cordially, and joyfully gave him the promise for which he asked. How unjustly I had judged this man! How I had misunderstood him! I was ashamed of the reluctance I had felt to tell him of my meeting with Franz Schorn.

"I must now make out a short official account of your information," the District Judge continued. "You can hardly believe how difficult this is for me. Your account has agitated me so profoundly that I can scarcely control myself. I was very familiar with old Pollenz. He had indeed many disagreeable qualities. Toward others he was often hard and unyielding, but I never had anything to complain of in his behaviour to me. He has often shown me favours. He was indeed almost a friend, and now I must prepare a paper which shall show him to be the victim of a horrible crime, which I must take the first steps to investigate. It must be done. It is my duty. In spite of the pain which my right hand gives me in writing, I will do it immediately."

He took a sheet of paper; pens and ink were at hand, and seated himself on the sofa behind the large table to write. His hand could not have been very painful, for it did not prevent his writing swiftly and clearly. Now and then, without interrupting his writing, he addressed some brief, leading question to me, and in scarcely ten minutes the paper was finished. He read it aloud to me. It was wonderfully concise and clear, without saying one word too much or too little, and I signed it without an alteration. After he had added his own signature, he said, "I must now beg you, Herr Professor, to accompany me to the Lonely House. I shall immediately summon my assistant, as well as the District Physician and the captain of gendarmes, to inspect the premises. You, too, Herr Professor, must be present. You must testify that nothing in the house has been altered in your absence. This is important for further investigation. Can I count upon you!"

"Most certainly."

"Then pray hold yourself in readiness. In half an hour, at the latest, I shall have notified the other gentlemen. The time of waiting, if I may advise you, should be employed by you in strengthening yourself with food and drink. Yon may not feel the need of refreshment at present, but we have some sad hours before us."

How kind and thoughtful! I certainly had cause to ask pardon in my heart of the District Judge for the prejudice he had created.

CHAPTER IV.

[THE INVESTIGATION].

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when Herr Foligno called for me in the dining-room, where I was sitting with the Captain. It had taken him almost an hour to assemble those who were to inspect the scene of the murder in the Lonely House. I had informed the Captain, a near relative of the murdered man, of my terrible discovery, and he had been deeply moved. He said:

"I was never intimate with old Pollenz, although he was my first cousin. He was a hard usurer and a miser. He loved no one in the world save his daughter, but that his end has been so horrible is certainly very sad. Poor child, my dear little Anna! How will she bear this fearful shock! I saw her about twelve o'clock here in Luttach with her old maid, Johanna. She had been paying a visit to an aged aunt, and she is probably still there. I must see if it be so. I do not willingly visit the malicious old gossip, but if Anna is still with her, I must go to prepare the poor child for the sad news that awaits her."

He sent Mizka to old Frau Lancic's, and in a few minutes she returned to say that Fräulein Anna had been with the widow, but that she had left about a quarter of an hour before to make some purchases in the village and then to return home.

Upon hearing this, the Captain determined to accompany the officials to the Lonely House, for which he received permission from the District Judge.

Soon after four o'clock we began our walk; not by the steep rocky path, which was rather too difficult for the old District Physician, and might prove dangerous, but in accordance with the Judge's directions, by the longer way past the village of Oberberg.

We could make but slow progress, for the heat was still oppressive. The old physician gasped and panted as we ascended the mountain. The Judge with kindly consideration, begged him to walk slowly, although he himself was trembling with impatience to reach our goal.

We met various people on the way. They greeted us politely and looked after us with surprise. Intelligence of the murder had not yet reached the village of Oberberg, and people could not imagine what so many persons, accompanied by the captain of gendarmes, could have to do in the little village. I walked first with the Captain. The Judge and his clerk followed, and, naturally, very little was said as we pursued our way; all were oppressed by a sense of what lay before them.

We had turned into the path by the crucifix leading on the left to the Lonely House, and were but a short distance from the spot to which we were tending, when the Captain suddenly stood still and said in a faltering voice, "There comes my poor little Anna."

She came towards us hurriedly from the Lonely House. She was called pretty Anna in the country round, and indeed she deserved the name. I have scarcely ever in my long life seen so beautiful a girl. Even her expression of intense anxiety could not distort her charming face. When she recognized the Captain she flew towards him.

"Oh, uncle, my dear kind uncle, thank God you are here!" she cried. "I am dying with anxiety; my father will not open the door. For a quarter of an hour Johanna and I have been knocking in vain. Something must have happened to him, or he would hear us and open the door for us."

The Captain put his arm round the lovely child and pressed a kiss upon her white forehead. "My poor little girl!" he murmured. His voice failed him; he could say no more; his eyes filled with tears; he tried to control himself, but the compassion which he felt for the girl in his arms was too intense; it mastered him; he could hardly utter a word.

"Good heavens! What has happened?" cried Anna, extricating herself from the Captain's embrace and gazing at him, her large black eyes dilated with horror. "You call me your poor girl? There are tears in your eyes. For God's sake tell me what it means! Has anything happened to my father? Oh, answer me, uncle! I would rather hear the worst than suffer such suspense."

The Judge answered instead of the Captain, who could not control his voice. "Compose yourself, Fräulein Anna," he said with grave kindliness, "you need all your courage, all your self-control to endure the misfortune which God has sent to you. Unfortunately your anxiety is justified. Something has indeed happened to your father, my lifelong friend."

"He is dead!" the girl cried, with what was almost a shriek; overcome with grief, she tottered and would have fallen to the ground if the Captain had not thrown his arms about her. The Judge took her hand with deep sympathy, but she snatched it away and pushed him from her with a gesture expressive of the most profound aversion.

"Do not touch me; I hate, I despise you!" she cried, as she cast herself again into the Captain's arms. "Uncle, my dear kind uncle, you tell me what has happened. I can hear the worst from you, but not from that man."

The Judge, thus rudely repulsed, was deeply offended, but was too magnanimous--his pity for the unfortunate girl was too profound to admit of his expressing his resentment by a harsh word.

"You do me bitter wrong, Fräulein Anna," he said gently. "I sympathize sincerely with your pain, but I will not thrust my pity upon you. I pray you, Captain, to inform her as mercifully as possible of what has happened."

It was a hard task for the Captain, but it was his duty to fulfil it. He motioned to the Judge and to myself to withdraw for a few steps, and then took Anna's arm in his and, walking on before us, spoke to her in the most sympathetic and loving way. He told me afterwards that in all his life he had never had so hard a duty to perform. He searched in vain for kindly words to soften the horror; he feared that the delicate girl could hardly endure the frightful truth which he was forced to tell her; but to his great surprise Anna showed a remarkable degree of composure. She had not succumbed, he said, to pain and grief; she had become ghastly pale and her dark eyes had gleamed with a strange flickering fire, as, almost in a whisper, not to him, but to herself, she had murmured, "Foully murdered and robbed; murdered for the sake of his wretched money. He sacrificed his soul and now has given his life for money." She shed no tear; her grief was too great, too heart-breaking; but she trembled violently; her little hand shook as it rested on her uncle's arm, and as he put his arm round her and tenderly drew her to him, he could feel the violent beating of her heart. He told her everything that he had heard from me. When he had finished, she looked at him with flaming eyes.

"The vile murderer will be discovered," she said in a hoarse voice; "I trust in God's justice."

Her composure was really remarkable, and gave great cause for anxiety. I had lingered behind with the Judge and his clerk. We slowly followed the Captain and Anna about twenty steps in the rear.

"I certainly am most unfortunately situated," said the Judge, turning to me confidentially. "You heard the harsh words which the poor girl, half crazed with pain and horror, spoke to me. I know what those words mean. I am well aware that Fräulein Anna is prejudiced against me. She thinks that the hostility which her father showed to Herr Franz Schorn was partly my fault. That she does so is well known in Luttach, and I commit no indiscretion in telling you that there is an attachment between Fräulein Anna and Herr Schorn, of which old Pollenz disapproved. Fräulein Anna knows that Herr Schorn is my bitter enemy. She has sided with him against me, but that her prejudice is as intense as the words she has just spoken testify, I confess surprises me. Never before have I seen in her the least sign of dislike. Imagine my position. My official duty compels me to play the part of a disinterested investigator. I cannot spare her pain, but I shall have to subject her, with her old maid, to an examination. I must inquire how it happened that the Lonely House was left unlocked, perhaps by herself; every child in Luttach knows that old Pollenz always locked the front door securely. I would give much, very much, to spare the young lady this examination."

"If you would depute me to make it, Judge, such an act on your part would be entirely justified by the peculiar relations in which you stand to Fräulein Anna Pollenz." The Clerk uttered these words very quietly and in a businesslike tone, but the District Judge was not pleased. He cast a sinister glance at the Clerk and asked, "What do you mean by peculiar relations, sir?"

"Nothing but what you yourself indicated, and what, to use your own words, every child in Luttach is familiar with," was the quiet reply.

"You allude to the foolish gossip which makes me the young girl's rejected suitor? There is not one word of truth in it."

"Then old Pollenz lied, for he stated this, not as a secret, but quite openly, in Luttach. At all events, such a report does exist, and it will be confirmed unless you make use of your right to depute to me the examination of the young lady."

"No, that I will not do. My standard of official duty is too exalted to permit my neglecting it out of regard for my own feelings. I might perhaps take your advice if I were forced to play the part of examiner during the entire legal process, which must ensue upon this murder, but, fortunately, that is not so; only the preliminaries are our duty. Capital crimes," the Judge said turning to me, "do not come within the domain of the District Judge. They are the business of the tribunal of the country. Subsequent investigations will take place in Laibach. The preliminary examination alone is my task, which, whatever it may cost me, I will fulfil."

The Clerk made no reply; he simply bowed in sign that he had no further remarks to offer. We now reached the goal of our wanderings. The Lonely House stood before us. The Captain and Anna were standing near the locked door, and upon a wooden bench beside it sat an old woman, old Johanna, "The only servant of the house," the Judge whispered to me. The Captain had just told her of the murder of her master. Paralyzed with horror, incapable of speech, she was gazing up at him. When she tried to rise, she sank back helplessly. The Judge opened the front door with the key which I had given him.

Scarcely had he done so when Anna released herself from the Captain's arm and would have been the first to rush into the house, had not the Judge barred her way.

"Let me go," cried Anna. "I must go to my poor father. You dare not hold me back."

She would have pressed past him, but he prevented her from doing so, and with quiet resolve, in a perfectly judicial manner, said, "You must not see your father yet, Fräulein Anna. My official duty compels me to exclude you from the room in which the crime has been committed until it has been thoroughly searched. The traces which the murderer has perhaps left behind must not be interfered with. You must either stay here outside, or, if you wish, wait in your own room until it is permitted you to see your father. Captain Pollenz, I pray you to remain with your relative and to prevent Fräulein Anna from making an attempt to disturb the investigation by going into the murdered man's room. I cannot permit it."

Anna retired. As the Judge forbade our entrance into the house, her eyes seemed to flash with anger, but she controlled herself, only bestowing upon Herr Foligno a glance of dislike and antipathy.

"I obey," she said, recovering her composure wonderfully. "I will wait in my room with Johanna and my uncle. You shall have nothing to reproach me with. I pray you, sir," she said, turning to the Clerk; "I entreat you to search, investigate. The blood of my poor father cries to heaven. I must doubt its justice should you not succeed in discovering the ruthless murderer."

"Rest assured, Fräulein Anna, that I shall leave nothing undone----"

"I did not address you," Anna interrupted the Judge; "I entreat you, the assistant, to fulfil your duty; search for the murderer, whoever he may be, deliver him to the vengeance of the law. I trust you. You will not be influenced by fear or considerations of any kind. Do not answer me; I trust you; I know you will do everything to discover the criminal, even though you do not promise me. Come uncle, come Johanna, we will wait in my room."

While Anna was speaking, Herr Foligno's expression was, strangely enough, that of timidity and embarrassment; his lips moved; he seemed to wish to reply but could not. He retreated silently, as Anna, without looking in his direction, passed him. She entered the room at the left of the hall, her own apartment, and the Captain and the old maid, still half paralyzed with terror, followed her silently.

The Clerk also made no reply to Anna's strange words; he had been much astonished by them, as were all who heard them. With a keen searching look he regarded the Judge. Not until the door had closed behind Anna and the Captain did he say, whispering so softly that only I and the Judge could hear, "If you do not feel sufficiently well, Herr Foligno, to undertake the examination and will delegate me to conduct it, I am quite ready to do so."

"No, no," the Judge replied in as low a tone. Aloud he said, "Follow me, gentlemen. We must begin our melancholy task."

CHAPTER V.

[THE INVESTIGATION CONTINUED].

Among all the tragic and even terrible recollections which live in my memory, and of which my life has perhaps had more than its share, the most terrible is that of the first few days of my stay in Luttach. Even now they sometimes disturb my sleep at night. In dreams, I am once more in the spacious, dreary room of the Lonely House, with the stiffened corpse of the murdered man before me on the floor. The sunlight through the window falls upon his pale face with its distorted features. I see the terrible wound, and the hard, rasping voice of the District Physician strikes upon my ear as with professional calmness he examines the wound and with all the indifference with which he would discuss the commonest affair of business, explains that any suspicion of suicide is out of the question, coldly pointing out to us bystanders, grouped about the body, our faces pale and awed, the numerous wounds of which any one would have been mortal, and endeavouring with perfect calmness to prove that the murderer had first attacked his victim from behind, and had finally cut the throat to make sure that the deed was complete. I still hear in dreams the clear, incisive words showing that the murderer must certainly have been intimately acquainted with the murdered man's ways, and that in order to avoid any possibility of the old man's divulging his name with his dying breath, he had inflicted the last gaping wound.

Fearful as had been the impression made upon me in the morning by my discovery, it had not so curdled my blood with horror as did this examination of the body. The necessity for action, the danger which possibly threatened me from the murderer concealed in the house, had strengthened and quickened me in the morning; but now, when I was forced to stand by, an inactive spectator of this terrible scene, the whole horror of the affair for the first time presented itself to my consciousness.

The absence of all emotion, the inflexible indifference of the District Physician, who, as I learned from the Clerk, had been the friend and physician of old Pollenz, deepened the impression which rendered me almost incapable of connected thought.

I was a prey during the entire investigation to intense nervous agitation. I saw and heard everything that went on around me so clearly that the smallest detail remains stamped upon my memory, but I was incapable of connected thought, of drawing conclusions from what I heard and saw. This I was able to do only later when removed from the spell thus thrown around me. The investigation produced a most agitating effect upon the Clerk also, and in especial upon the Judge, but they could not leave, and were obliged to fulfil their official duty. The Clerk was very pale, but quiet and composed throughout; but the Judge was obliged to exert all his self-control to conquer his excitement, while the physician, still handling the body, demonstrated with great clearness, almost as if he had been a witness of it, the manner in which the murder had been committed.

But however intense his emotion, the Judge proved himself equal to the task his office imposed upon him. When the time came to search the room he displayed the greatest care and circumspection. The bloody knife lying upon the floor at some distance from the body was, of course, the first object of his notice.

"There lies the weapon with which the deed was committed," he cried. "Fortunately, the murderer has left it behind. It may afford a clue in his detection."

But this hope proved to be unfounded. The Clerk testified that the knife was the same which old Pollenz had always carried as a weapon of defense. Whereupon the Judge confirmed what he said; he had seen the knife in his friend's possession, and recognized it, but doubtless it was the weapon with which the crime was committed. "Most certainly," the Judge added, with keen observation, "the murderer must have snatched it from the old man as he tried to defend himself, and in so doing caused a struggle; the knife must have wounded the murderer in the hand, since its handle is stained with blood. We shall undoubtedly find further traces of his bleeding hand there in the cabinet which he broke open, and from which he scattered the papers lying about."

The Judged supposition proved correct. Inside the cabinet, as well as upon the open drawers, there were distinct traces of bloody fingers, and they were also found upon some of the papers strewn on the floor, which the murderer had taken from the cabinet but tossed aside as useless.

It was in this cabinet, as the Judge and the physician both testified, that old Pollenz had kept his money and papers of value. The murderer must have been familiar with this place of deposit, for he had opened only those drawers used for the purpose. The others, which contained receipted bills and worthless papers, had not been opened. The closest search failed to discover either money or papers of value, such as promissory notes or similar documents. All such had been abstracted. On the other hand, an old gold watch, a heavy gold snuffbox, both articles of value, remained untouched.

"The murderer is no common thief or burglar," the Judge said calmly. "Such an one would not have despised valuable articles like these."

"Certainly not," the physician added; "my firm belief is that he was an intimate acquaintance of old Pollenz. None other would have opened those drawers unless they knew they would reward a search."

"Unfortunately, this is the only hint we have to put us upon the trace of the criminal," the Judge said in a tone of disappointment. "Our melancholy investigation has had no result of value."

This was indeed so. The murderer had left the Lonely House without leaving any traces except those of his bleeding hand. In spite of the most careful search, nothing further was discovered. The Judge set down in his deposition all that had been done. It was as clear and well composed as that which he had written previously in his room. I confirmed his report that I had found the Lonely House and in especial the room in which the crime had been committed in the same condition in which I had left it. It now remained for the Judge to fulfil the hardest part of his task. He was obliged to examine the daughter and the old servant of the murdered man. He evidently feared to meet with difficulties caused by the aversion to him which the fair Anna had so openly expressed, but it was necessary to make this examination in order to find some explanation of the surprising fact that the Lonely House, usually so carefully locked, should have been left wide open at midday.

The Judge's fear, however, proved to be groundless. He found Anna in her room, wonderfully quiet and composed. She immediately declared herself ready to be examined, and only asked that the Captain, the Clerk and myself should be the sole witnesses present. The Judge willingly granted this request, and every difficulty was removed. She testified that she had that day had her breakfast as usual with her father at eleven o'clock, and, close upon twelve, had left the Lonely House with Johanna to make some purchases in Luttach, and at the same time to visit her old aunt. Her father, as usual, accompanied her to the front door and locked and bolted it behind her. It was his custom when left alone in the house to bolt himself into his sitting-room. Whenever any one knocked at the front door, he always first made sure of his visitor by looking out of the window, and, when he was alone, never allowed a stranger to cross his threshold. Even acquaintances in whom perchance he did not repose entire confidence were always dismissed by him from the window. He did not even open the door for them. As to her father's property in papers of value and money, Anna knew nothing. Her father had never talked with her about his pecuniary circumstances. She could not possibly tell of how much he had been robbed.

With perfect composure Anna gave her testimony, but, when in conclusion the Judge asked her if she had met any one upon her way to Luttach, the colour suddenly mounted to her cheek and as quickly left it, and her "no" was by no means so clear and decided as had been her earlier report. She blushed still more deeply when the Judge asked if her father had any special mistrust of any of his acquaintances, and assured her that what she should say would be entirely confidential, even if there should be nothing in her reply to arouse suspicion.

"I will not answer this question," Anna replied, after she had stood for a moment with downcast eyes. "No one in the world has a right to ask such a question, and you least of all."

To this declaration she adhered, and the Judge was obliged to finish his deposition without learning anything further from her. The examination of old Johanna also produced no further result.

Thus the examination ended, and the Judge could no longer refuse to allow the daughter to see her father's body. Conducted by Captain Pollenz, Anna entered the old man's sleeping-room, where the captain of gendarmes and the physician had laid the murdered man upon the bed. The Captain afterwards told me that the composure shown by the young girl at the terrible sight had filled him with genuine admiration. She kneeled beside the bed on which the corpse had been laid. She took the cold, stiff hand in hers and kissed it, while tears rolled over her cheeks. The Captain would have said a few words to comfort her, but she interrupted him.

"Let my grief have way, uncle," she said sadly; "you do not know what I have lost in him. He was harsh to every one else, but he loved me with all his heart, me only in the world, and I am perhaps the cause of his death. This it is that fills me almost with despair. The thought that I may be guilty of his death is almost unendurable."

"How can you think such a thing, my child?" the Captain asked, much startled.

"I cannot explain it to you, uncle," Anna continued, kissing the dead man's hand again and again. "It is perhaps only a foolish thought, but it arose in my mind when I heard how cruelly my father had been murdered, and I cannot banish it. I dare not share it with any one, not even with you, my dear, kind uncle. I commit an injustice perhaps in not being able to banish it. I know nothing, nothing which gives me the right to entertain it. It is only a vague, fearful foreboding, oppressing my heart all the more because I must bear it all alone and can share it with no one in the world."

The girl refused all explanation of her mysterious words. For a long while she silently knelt by the bed, holding the dead man's hand in hers, but at last she rose and followed the Captain to her room, in which we--that is, the Clerk, the Judge, the physician, and myself--were awaiting her. During Anna's absence with the Captain we had been discussing the future of the young girl. It was impossible that she should remain with the old servant and the murdered man alone in the Lonely House. We had therefore determined to take her back with us to Luttach. The physician had kindly offered to give her an asylum as a guest in his house. His wife, he told us, was very fond of the fair Anna; she would rejoice most heartily to show any loving service to the unfortunate child. Anna could not possibly live with her old, peevish Aunt Laucic, who was even a greater miser than old Pollenz. She would find none of the sympathy and love of which she stood in such need with that old dragon.

The kindness and friendliness for the unfortunate young girl which prompted the words of the physician reconciled me to him. His businesslike indifference during the investigation had made me almost hate him, but now I acknowledged to myself that I had been unjust and that he was no cold and heartless man, but, on the contrary, a very kindly, benevolent old doctor.

We had arranged everything as we thought for the best, but when Anna returned to us we found that our wise arrangements were entirely useless. She declared, with a decision remarkable in so young a girl, that she would not leave her father, but would stay beside him.

In vain did we all entreat her, the Judge alone prudently refraining from doing so. We used our most eloquent powers of persuasion.

In vain did the Captain add his voice, and in vain did the physician explain to her what an insufficient protection old Johanna would be in the Lonely House during the next night.

"If Johanna is afraid, she can go with you to Luttach," she said. "I am not afraid to remain alone with my beloved dead."

As she was immovable, we were obliged to comply. We could not force her to go with us to Luttach, but we did not leave her alone in the Lonely House, for the Captain declared he would not leave her; if she stayed, he would stay also; they could make up a bed quite comfortable enough for an old soldier.

Anna was reluctant to accept this offer, but the Captain refused to withdraw it. He said he could be quite as obstinate as Anna herself, and thus he remained in the Lonely House, while we returned to Luttach.

CHAPTER VI.

[TWO WOUNDED HANDS].

Both kitchen and dining-room in the "Golden Vine" were crowded with guests--a very unusual thing of a week-day. The report of the murder in the Lonely House had spread quickly, not only in the little town, but also in the surrounding villages, and, naturally, all were eager to hear further particulars, and could find no better place for gratifying this desire than in the inn, the home of the Judge, who was sure to be there in the evening.

In the spacious kitchen, which was the gathering place of guests of the lower classes, peasants and small tradesmen, there was quite a crowd. Some were even obliged to drink their wine standing; all the benches and chairs were occupied. Here not a German word was to be heard; the talk was entirely in Slavonic; even around the hearth where Frau Franzka received her intimate friends, all spoke in that tongue.

Nearly twenty men, principally petty tradesmen from Luttach, were sitting and standing around the huge hearth listening respectfully to Frau Franzka's words, who, as she cooked and broiled, was obliged to give all the details of the terrible deed which the "German fly-catcher"--such was the name that had already been bestowed upon me in Luttach--had discovered. When I passed through the kitchen to go to the dining-room, I was most politely and kindly greeted by all present, while they looked at me with undisguised curiosity.

In the dining-room there was a far larger assembly than usual. All the tables were occupied, but principally the great round one at which the Burgomaster presided. All the gentlemen to whom I had been presented on the previous evening were present, with the exception of the Captain. The District Physician, two gentlemen (strangers to me), and, oddly enough, Franz Schorn, were also there; the last sat next the Judge's assistant.

I had evidently been expected. A chair beside the District Judge had been reserved for me, and when I appeared--quite too late to suit the impatience of those present--I was cordially received. Even Franz Schorn rose from his seat, and when the other gentlemen offered me their hands, he held out his--not the right hand, but the left, like the Judge, who had protected his wounded hand with a black glove. I remarked that Franz Schorn did not use his right hand, but kept it concealed in the breast of his coat, which was closely buttoned.

The conversation was hardly interrupted by my arrival. Naturally it had been concerning the murder in the Lonely House, and it so continued after I had taken my place at the table. It was to me that all inquisitive inquiries were now addressed--to me instead of to the Judge or his assistant or to the physician. I was obliged to relate all that I had seen. I was questioned about the smallest details; the most insignificant interested every one.

The Judge, the assistant and Franz Schorn alone were silent. I could inform the two first of nothing new; there was no need for them to question me, and Franz Schorn probably did not wish to thrust himself forward with inquiries.

It was evident, however, that he listened with intense interest to everything that I related. As I spoke I narrowly observed the behaviour of the Judge and of Franz Schorn, the two rivals. Herr Foligno appeared scarcely to hear what I was saying. His eyes were fixed gloomily on his wineglass, and he seemed to take no part in what was going on, but from time to time as he looked up I could see that he heard every word that I said. Franz Schorn kept his eyes riveted upon me as I spoke. The description of my first discovery of the murdered man evidently horrified him; he was more agitated by it than any of my other hearers.

After I had ended my narrative, and it had been completed by the physician, the question of course was discussed as to who the murderer could be, whence he had come, how he had entered the locked house, whither he had fled, and what had been the amount of his robbery. In this discussion, however, the Judge and his assistant and Franz Schorn took no part, although they listened with close attention.

The physician defended with much acuteness his own theory that only an intimate acquaintance of old Pollenz could have committed the crime; on the other hand, many present maintained that the murderer must be some Italian from Trieste, for neither in Luttach nor in the surrounding country was there a man capable of such a deed.

During this discussion, to which Franz Schorn listened very attentively, the physician accidentally pushed aside the left arm of his neighbour--Franz Schorn--who dropped the cigar which he was holding in his hand and stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he instinctively drew from his bosom his right hand, which had hitherto been concealed by his coat. It was bound about with a white bandage, upon which were several spots of blood. He thrust it quickly into his breast again, but not before the physician had noticed the spots on the white linen.

"Ah, Franz! What is the matter with your hand?" he asked kindly.

"Nothing," Franz replied curtly; "a slight cut."

"Slight! That can hardly be; if you have a bandaged hand and don't use it, it must be a tolerably deep cut. Of course, you have done nothing, as usual, but wrap a rag about it. You young people are incorrigible. You never reflect that the neglect of such cuts, which you consider insignificant, may cost you the hand itself. Take off the bandage; I want to see what it is."

"It is nothing; a trifle, not worth mentioning."

"All the more readily should you show it to me. You owe obedience to an old friend of your father's, you obstinate fellow; so off with your bandage; I wish to see the wound."

"Certainly, if you insist," Franz replied, holding out his hand and unwinding the bandage. It did not come off easily, but adhered to the wound and a few drops of blood followed its removal.

"A couple of good cuts," said the physician, examining the hand; "not dangerous; they will heal without any particular care if you spare your hand a little for a couple of days; but how did you get such strange cuts! Four fingers implicated, and another gash in the palm. It looks as if you had done it with a knife."

"And so I did," Franz replied. "I was using a large knife in the vineyard to-day and laid it down upon a high wall; it fell and would have pierced my foot, if instead of shifting it, I had not foolishly grasped at the falling knife and seized the sharp blade instead of the handle. That is the whole story. Such slight cuts are not worth mentioning." He wrapped the bandage around his hand again and concealed it as before in the breast of his coat.

"Such slight cuts are not worth mentioning," the young man had said, and it was true; they were insignificant. Nevertheless they aroused in me a chain of thought which filled me with dread. Involuntarily I thought of the bloody, dagger-like knife which I had seen in the Lonely House. If the murderer in his contest with the old man had endeavoured to take the knife from him and had accidentally seized it by the blade, his hand would have been wounded precisely as was that of Franz Schorn. Schorn had hitherto kept his right hand concealed. Why so? Did he wish to conceal the wound? An involuntary motion, an accident, had compelled him to show the bandaged hand, and it was with great reluctance that he had acceded to the physician's request.

I looked at the District Judge. The same suspicion which had made me shudder had been aroused also in him. I could read it in the lowering, searching glance which he gave to the hand as Franz was wrapping it in the bandage again. When he looked up afterwards and his gaze met mine, his eyes were more eloquent than his tongue could have been. He slowly raised his hand in its black glove as if in token of our understanding each other. Strangely enough, his motion and his look had the effect of instantly banishing the dark suspicion that had been awakened within me. I had no right to entertain it. Had not the Judge himself also accidentally wounded his right hand this very day? Might I not have seen him also near the Lonely House, since he had been climbing among the rocks in search of flowers? No, it would be rank folly to found a suspicion with regard to Franz Schorn upon such accidental circumstances. That the young man seemed even more gloomy and preoccupied than on the previous evening, and that he scarcely uttered a word, furnished no grounds for any suspicion with regard to him. Must he not be deeply agitated by the terrible death of an old man with whom he stood in such close, although hostile, relations? I blamed myself for being so carried away by my indignation as to be ready to find in insignificant trifles an undue importance. Besides, with the exception of the Judge, whose duty it was to investigate all grounds of suspicion, no other member of the company had thought of connecting Franz Schorn's wounded hand with the murder. They all continued to converse freely; even the physician, so acute in piecing out evidence, who might have entertained some vague suspicion, had none at all; he had thought no possible evil of Franz, and continued to address him now from time to time as kindly and unreservedly as before. Still, this evening I was very uncomfortable among them all. Their continued talk, always of the same details, always of the horrible crime, increased my nervous agitation to an intolerable degree. It was impossible to change the subject of the conversation; it always reverted to the murder in the Lonely House.

This perpetual return to the same horrible subject stretched me upon the rack; I could no longer endure it. As soon as I had finished my trout and my wine, I rose to withdraw to my room. The Judge followed my example, and rose also. After emptying his tall glass at a draught, he said he was tired and unhinged and needed to go to bed early after so terrible a day. His clerk and the physician, with several other gentlemen, courteously entreated me to stay at least for half an hour longer, it was so early. Without positive discourtesy I could not refuse their request, and ordered myself another glass of wine. The Judge followed my example, although no one had requested him to remain. In the short time that I stayed, barely half an hour, he drank two full glasses of wine, the last at a draught just as I arose and declined to remain longer.

Together we ascended the stairs. Mizka preceded us with a candle. When we reached the landing in the first story, the Judge offered me his left hand in farewell.

"Good-night, Herr Professor," he said aloud, adding in a whisper, "I fear I shall be obliged to ask you to-morrow to give me officially an account of your meeting with Herr Franz Schorn in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House." He looked around at Mizka, who was opening the door of my room, and as she entered it he continued, "A ground of suspicion such as the wound in his right hand compels me to abandon all personal considerations."

Greatly startled, I replied, "Mere chance, Herr Foligno; you, too, have wounded your right hand to-day."

My innocent words made him start as if I had struck him a blow in the face. I could not see his features, it was too dark on the landing; a weak ray of light coming from the open door of my room was the only illumination; but the quiver in his voice as he answered me after a pause of a second, betrayed the disastrous effect of my words.

"You are perfectly right, Herr Professor; it may be 'mere chance.' I shall not proceed against Herr Schorn. I will even try to combat my suspicion of evil in him, my enemy, but it is my duty to search for further grounds of suspicion against him. That must be done in spite of my hostile feeling towards him. Good-night, Herr Professor."

He pressed my hand once more, and we parted.

Mizka was already busy in my room putting everything in order for the night. She was obliged to do this as quickly as possible, for the number of guests below in the dining-room and in the kitchen depended upon her services; but she could not forego a little gossip. She told me that before I had entered the dining-room this evening there had been quite a quarrel between the Judge and his assistant. They had been seated at the round table when Franz Schorn entered the room and looked around for a place. All the tables were full, and the Clerk had invited Schorn to sit beside him at the round table. This made the Judge violently angry, but the Clerk declared that the Judge had no more authority than any other guest in the dining-room of the inn. Franz Schorn would have retired, but the Clerk detained him, and the physician, who had been an old friend of Franz's dead father, had declared that he himself would stay only on condition of Franz's remaining, and would never again take his place at the round table if Herr Foligno denied a seat there to Franz. The Burgomaster, too, and the other gentlemen, who were not always friendly to Franz, now took his part, so that the Judge was obliged to yield, and Franz, induced by their persuasions, took his seat; but neither the Judge nor Franz after the quarrel had exchanged a word.

What strange occurrences were these in this little country town! Even here, the few cultivated people, so circumscribed in their social relations, were divided by hatred and prejudice. I undressed myself and, with a memory of the gymnastic feats of my boyhood, clambered into my lofty bed. I was sadly in need of repose. The agitations of the day had been too much for my old body. They had exhausted my strength, and yet excitement of mind conquered bodily weariness. I could not sleep. I tried in vain to banish the memory of the dreadful scenes through which I had passed. I tried to think of it all with indifference; but what I had seen in the Lonely House scared away sleep, of which I had such sore need. Hours and hours passed. The time seemed eternal before at last I closed my weary eyes.

And the Judge had the same experience; he could not sleep that night. As long as I lay awake in bed I heard the sound of his footsteps above me, as he paced his room to and fro restlessly. Surely the same memories were agitating him which denied me the blessing of slumber. The investigation at the Lonely House had not been the mere fulfilment of a duty for him, any more than it had been for the physician. The horror of it all had impressed him as profoundly as it had myself. It did not lessen my opinion of him that he should thus have preserved in the midst of his official duties a warm, sensitive heart.

CHAPTER VII.

[THE TWO REQUESTS].

Again I awoke early in the morning. I did not need much sleep for physical refreshment, and although it had lasted but a few hours, I felt quite fresh and well. The beautiful morning should serve me for another expedition, and I wished to start as early as possible; in Southern Ukraine only the early morning hours are suitable for mountain walks and climbing. As long as the dew still glitters on the grass, wandering in the Ukraine mountains is indescribably delightful, but when the glowing sun has absorbed the last dewdrops, when its direct rays are reflected from gray rocks, when no breath of air fans the climber's cheek, mountain-climbing becomes altogether too hard a task for an old man. I finished my breakfast before six o'clock and was all ready for a start. Whither should I turn my steps! The forest above the Chapel of St. Nikolas allured me. I had found such entomological treasures there on the previous day that I surely could do nothing better than go thither again. I could not collect too many specimens of the grub of the Saturnia cæcigena, for, unfortunately, I could not be sure that each larva would produce a butterfly. To St. Nikolas, then, I took my way and by the narrow path. I had succeeded in descending it without accident the day before, and it was surely not too dangerous for me to ascend it. I set out. The path certainly was better than its reputation. It had no danger for a climber not subject to dizziness, and was quite firm beneath the foot. I had often ascended far more steep and dangerous pathways in my search for some rare plant.

The easy footpath leading to the Lonely House was soon reached, and I strode forward sturdily. On the previous day I had hurried along it, only desirous to reach Luttach as quickly as possible. To-day I feasted my eyes with the view of the charming country upon which I looked down, while at the same time I scrutinized with the keenness of a collector the gentle ascent on my left where I might perhaps discover some treasure growing among the rocks. Not far from the Lonely House I perceived to my great joy in a spot which could be reached without difficulty many beautiful specimens of the very orchid Ophrys Bertolini which the Judge had brought to me yesterday. This was an unexpected delight. In yesterday's excitement I had neglected to put the charming flowers in water, and when I returned from the investigation they were so withered that they were not worth preserving for my herbarium. Now I could gather many glorious specimens without any trouble.

I left the path and easily climbed the rocks soon reaching the spot where the orchids grew. But no sooner had I arrived there than to my astonishment several trampled flowers showed me that another had been before me, who was also a collector, and had plucked many blossoms of the rare Ophrys.

One spot showed me that whoever he was, he had been no true botanist; a true botanist would have taken the plants, roots and all, not the blossoms only. He who collected the flowers here must have been in a hurry; he had dropped several blossoms which lay wilted on the ground and had evidently been plucked yesterday.

Was this the spot where the Judge had collected the beautiful Ophrys for me! The specimens which he had brought me were without roots. I now recalled this circumstance, which had escaped my notice on the previous day; but he had said that it had cost him some trouble and even danger to reach the rare plants with the habitat of which he was acquainted. He had fallen in doing so and had lacerated his hand. It was impossible that he could have done so here; for here was no possible danger; no flowers on the mountains could be plucked with more facility than these.

And yet here the Judge had been. He had certainly gathered the Ophrys for me here. I found one unmistakable proof of his presence. On the ground lay a red and yellow silk pocket handkerchief, just exactly such a handkerchief as the Judge had carried the day before yesterday. I remembered it perfectly. Of course he had lost it here while plucking the flowers.

Involuntarily I smiled at the good man's boast; in order to give his gift a higher value, he had talked of danger in procuring it. I would tease him a little for his bragging. When I returned his handkerchief I would expatiate on the terrible danger of the place where the Ophrys Bertolini was to be found.

Still the plucking of the flowers had not been entirely without danger for him. I could not comprehend how he could have fallen on this smooth spot and wounded his hand, but that he had done so the handkerchief testified. On the yellow silk there were several brown stains, which I recognized as blood. The hackneyed old saying, "No fall so slight but may kill you quite," occurred to me. With a smile I put the handkerchief in my pocket to return it to its owner when I got back to the inn. I dug up a number of the beautiful Ophrys Bertolini growing here by hundreds, and then, walking on quickly, in scarcely five minutes I reached the Lonely House. I was going to pass it, but from a window of the upper story the Captain called, begging me to wait a moment and he would join me.

He came and greeted me with great cordiality. He had passed a melancholy night. Old Johanna had been half crazy with fear and was absolutely useless. He had tried to persuade her to occupy one of the two rooms on the right of the hall, but she had fled to her bed in the upper story and locked herself in. Therefore the Captain had earnestly entreated Anna to leave the Lonely House, but all his words had been in vain. Anna displayed wonderful composure in her profound grief, but at the same time a firmness of purpose bordering on obstinacy. She had declared that she would not leave the Lonely House as long as it sheltered her father's body. She could not leave it all alone there. She would stay with him until he was buried, and she watched beside the corpse for half the night. Morning had dawned before she betook herself to rest.

"Anna is a strange child," said the Captain. "There are odd contradictions in her character. She is gentle and yielding and at the same time absolutely firm, open to no persuasion; sometimes frank and confiding; at others reserved and almost suspicious even of me, although she has repeatedly assured me that she trusts no human being as she does me and my brother, the Burgomaster. With entire frankness she has given me a detailed account of all the misery and wretchedness which has existed here in the house ever since the day when Franz Schorn asked her in marriage of her father. Towards herself the old man was kind and caressing, although she declared to him that she never would forsake Franz Schorn, that she never would marry the Judge; but to every other human being, and particularly to Franz, he displayed positive hatred, regarding all with profound suspicion, even old Johanna. He was completely dominated by the fear that some day he should be attacked and murdered. Wherefore he always bolted himself into his room, and if he admitted any one was armed with a dagger-like knife. He kept this terrible knife in his hand even whilst old Johanna arranged his room; even from her he feared some secret attack. No entreaty of Anna's could induce him to moderate his savage hatred of Franz. She, on her part, declared that she never would forsake Franz as long as she lived. This had led to continual strife between herself and her father, for she had told him frankly that he must shut her up in a close prison if he wished to prevent her from seeing Franz, and she had seen him almost daily; when her father locked himself up in his room after the midday meal to sleep for an hour, she always left the house to see Franz, who awaited her beneath the large oak not far away. Her father knew this, but had done nothing to prevent it, after she had declared to him that she should continue to do it, and if he locked her in the house, she would try to break the locks. The strange girl told me all this with reckless frankness, while at the same time she refused me any explanation, although I begged her to give it, of what she meant yesterday when she declared that she perhaps was guilty of her father's death. My little Anna is a riddle to me," the Captain thus closed his long account, "but I love her none the less and I shall stay here to protect her. I will not leave her all by herself in the Lonely House. Now you can do me a favour, Herr Professor. When you return at midday from your excursion to St. Nikolas, stop here before the Lonely House once more, and I will give you some directions to take to Luttach for my brother, the Burgomaster. He must provide a suitable home for Anna in Luttach if she refuses to accept the doctor's invitation after her father's funeral, for which he must also give directions. I will put all this down in a letter, which you will have the kindness to give to my brother yourself."

I at once promised what he asked, and we parted the best of friends. The Captain returned to the Lonely House to write his letter, which, as he said, was quite a task for an old soldier unaccustomed for many years to hold a pen.

I continued my walk and soon reached the little Church of St. Nikolas. Again I fed my eyes on the charming prospect and then proceeded to collect. I scrambled about in the forest, hither and thither, for some hours; then up on the bald rocky side of Nanos, and not until my bottles and boxes were so full that I could accommodate no more treasures, and the heat had become oppressive, did I take my way back towards noon by the same path which I had followed yesterday. In a little while I reached the footpath leading to the Lonely House, and on the very same spot where I had yesterday encountered Franz Schorn I found him again to-day, but he did not avoid me; he awaited me. He was not alone; beside him, with his arm around her waist, stood pretty Anna. They were a charming pair. I delighted in the sight of the two beautiful young people. Franz was certainly a handsome fellow. Now, as he looked down on his lovely companion, with eyes full of the tenderest affection, the beauty of his features, which a gloomy expression had hitherto concealed, was plainly visible.

When the young man observed me, a shadow crossed his brow. Without releasing his companion, with his left hand he took off his straw hat in greeting. Then Anna, too, saw me, and with a blush beckoned to me kindly. She made no attempt to release herself from the embracing arm of the young man.

"We were awaiting you here, Herr Professor," said Franz, as I reached them. "Captain Pollenz informed my betrothed that you, in coming from St. Nikolas, had promised to stop, towards noon, at the Lonely House; therefore we came to meet you to make a request of you."

"Which I shall certainly comply with if possible," I replied, regarding the young girl with genuine delight. She blushed, but looked up with kindling eyes at Franz as he uttered the word "betrothed."

"It is a request that may seem strange to you, Herr Professor," Franz continued, "but, nevertheless, I will make it; I am convinced that you would not wish to cause annoyance either to myself or to my dear betrothed."

"Most certainly not. Pray tell me quite frankly what you wish."

"It is not much. I would only ask you not to mention to any one our meeting yesterday here in this place."

The request in itself seemed trivial enough, but the look which accompanied it was far from meaningless. It betokened intense anxiety as to whether or not I would accede to what he asked.

In truth, the young man's request was a strange one. Involuntarily my eyes turned to his wounded right hand. All diverse thoughts ran riot in my brain. I remembered the large double-edged knife with its bloody handle lying on the floor of the room in the Lonely House, and then came the memory of the cut on a brown hand and the doctor's voice saying, "That looks as if you had grasped a knife by the blade." Again I saw Franz turn from me to hurry through the undergrowth, and again I saw him with eyes gloomily cast down as he listened to the physician's words. I recalled his bitter hostility to old Pollenz, and the old man's words, "That fellow will kill me one of these days." Hitherto I had entertained no downright suspicion of the young fellow, but it suddenly stirred within me.

"Why do you wish me not to mention our meeting?" I asked in reply.

"Because I begged Franz to ask you this," Anna replied for the young man, whose features as I spoke resumed their wonted gloomy expression. "Franz told me that yesterday he turned away from you because he wished to avoid any meeting with you. He feared it might cause you annoyance, if you had happened to be seen by any chance passer-by walking with him. He had been waiting for me a long time in vain beneath the old oak where we are used to meet every day at noon. I could not come because my father had sent me down to Luttach. Franz was in a very bad humour when he met you, and so, to avoid greeting you, he turned away into the forest."

Anna's words had a peculiar effect upon me. They strengthened my suspicions. If he were not guilty, would Franz have thought it necessary to have the young girl explain to me why he was in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House at noon, and why he had turned away from me with such sullen looks?

"You have not yet told me why I should not mention my meeting with Herr Schorn," I replied.

"I will explain that to you myself," Franz said hurriedly, "my betrothed thinks that if Foligno should learn that I was seen yesterday here in the neighbourhood of the Lonely House, the malice and hatred with which he regards me would find expression in vile suspicion of me."

"It would certainly be so. I entreat you, dear Herr Professor, do not tell a human being that you met Franz yesterday."

As she spoke the young girl looked up at me with such entreaty in her beautiful eyes that my heart was softened. I was in an awkward position. Ought I to tell her that I could not comply with her request, because I had already informed the Judge of my meeting Franz? This I could not do. I could not warn Franz without perhaps injuring the investigation; but, on the other hand, I certainly could not make a promise which it was already impossible to keep.

"I can promise nothing," I replied guardedly; "in an official examination one is bound to conceal nothing."

"Oh, Herr Professor, I beg, I entreat you----"

Franz interrupted her, and, casting at me a look which was almost menacing, exclaimed, "Do not say another word, Anna; the Herr Professor is right; it was folly, yes, wrong, for me to yield to your desire and make this request of the Herr Professor, who ought not to comply with it. If that scoundrel, Foligno, suspects me, I know how to meet his suspicion. Come, Anna, we ought not to detain the gentleman any longer."

He lifted his hat by way of farewell, and walked towards the forest with the young girl. My mind was filled with contradictory thoughts. Can that proud, self-assertive young man be a miserable criminal! I would so gladly have banished all suspicion of him, but--how terrible it was that so lovely and charming a girl had perhaps bestowed the wealth of her affection upon her father's murderer!

I walked slowly towards the Lonely House, where the Captain, sitting before the door, was awaiting me. He handed me the letter for his brother, gave me various verbal commissions, and I left with a promise to visit him shortly in the Lonely House.

"Shall I bring the Herr Professor's lunch into the garden?" Mizka asked me as I entered the kitchen of the Golden Vine on my return from my excursion. "The Judge has been lunching in the garden, and is sitting with his coffee beneath the great linden."

The Ophrys Bertolini occurred to me. I smiled at the remembrance of the Judge's boast and was pleased at the idea of teasing him. Of course I ordered my lunch in the garden and betook myself thither.

The Judge was sipping his coffee and smoking his long cigar at the round table beneath the spreading linden. He seemed sunk in a profound reverie, leaning his head upon his hand and with downcast eyes. I was struck with his pallor and with the sallowness and the drawn look of his features. At my first words he started violently, and for a moment gazed at me with terror, almost as if awaking from an oppressive dream, but in an instant he recovered his self-control, and greeted me with a smile.

"I think I was dozing," he said; "the terrible heat makes me sleepy."

Why should he have told such an untruth? He had not been dozing; just before he started he had raised his hand to his cigar and had taken a long whiff.