Part 18

“To carry a great fish to the fathers for their Christmas supper,” said Fritzchen simply.

“And get your pay in Aves and Paters, eh?” said the dame, with a sneer. “I’ve seen enough of priests, if they’re all like old Father Boniface, who drank himself to death here last year at Whitsuntide. Well, here’s your money, and mind you get me the best candles, and be sure to get home before dark.”

“I will be as quick as I can, ma’am,” said Fritz sorrowfully, for it grieved him to hear any one slight the good fathers, whom he loved, and who had been so kind to him.

Running home for the fish, he told his father hurriedly of his errand, and that he should be later home than he expected; but old Hans promised to have supper all ready without his help, and bid him haste away.

So Fritzchen with the fish at his back, and a great piece of black bread in his hand for dinner, set out, whistling merrily as he ran over the snowy ground.

Arriving at the convent, he left his great fish with the kitchener, who, besides thanking him, gave him his blessing and a beautiful picture of the Virgin Mary all dressed in a blue gown with a red mantle and a green scarf wound about her head. The picture was in a little wooden frame, and Fritzchen thought that surely nothing else in the wide world could be one half so fine or valuable.

His picture under his arm, the little boy ran on to the town, which was still half a mile off; and there, having bought dame Brigitta’s candles, he spent his three pennies; one in buying two little rolls of white bread to add to their Christmas supper, and the rest for two small candles of yellow wax, with which he said to himself he would illuminate their cottage in honor of the holy Christmas night. Then Fritzchen turned his face homeward and hurried along, now running, now walking, but always singing,--with his mouth when he had breath, and with his heart when he had not,--until he reached the foot of the cliff, and began to climb the steep pathway leading to the castle of the robber-baron.

But here, half way up the ascent, he paused, shuddering with fright and astonishment. The servants were just beginning to light up the windows, and while the great square keep, which formed the centre of the castle, frowned in black and sullen shadow, the two wings--one of which was the great banqueting-hall, and the other the neglected and ruined chapel--were in a blaze of light.

But this was not what had so startled Fritzchen. The banqueting-hall, where already the guests were assembled, was illuminated not only by the lights within, but by a lurid, deep-red cloud, or mist, which, falling lower and lower, seemed about to swallow it altogether; beneath the cloud, brooding indeed on the very roof-tree of the hall, hovered a huge, bat-like figure, black as midnight, who, slowly flapping his great wings, seemed to draw with them the lurid cloud ever nearer and nearer.

The chapel, too, was illuminated in otherwise than by Dame Brigitta’s candles, for over it and around it shone a soft, clear light, white and pure, by which Fritzchen could see a beautiful silver-white dove, clinging to the roof, and seeming, with the gentle motion of its wings, to create and retain the heavenly radiance which surrounded it. In the east, toward which the chapel wing pointed, rose the calm, pure moon from out the sea; but in the west, opposite the banqueting-hall, great angry thunderclouds were gathering sullenly and slow,--but rising, always rising.

Fritzchen stood long looking at these strange appearances, not daring to approach any nearer to the castle, and once he turned to run homeward; but just then he remembered that he had promised Dame Brigitta to buy her candles, and had taken the money which she had given him for doing so. He remembered, too, the words which his father had often repeated to him,--

“God and duty first--self last.”

So, keeping his eyes upon the ground, he rapidly approached the castle, and went round the chapel-end (though the path lay the other side) to the kitchen door, gave his parcel to one of the maids without speaking, and then, never looking behind, ran toward home as fast as his legs would carry him.

Old Hans was ready with the supper, and so merry and full of jokes and laughter, that Fritzchen would not tell him what he had seen, lest it should sadden him, and spoil his little holiday.

So, while Hans, proud of his cookery dished the smoking fish and placed them on the table, Fritzchen lighted his candles, and placed one before the picture of the Holy Virgin, and the other in the one window of the hut, that its light might ascend gratefully toward heaven.

At the castle, meantime, all was noisy mirth and rude merriment. The baron, sitting at the head of his long table, with his retainers and their wives, with a few guests of their own stamp ranged down either side, ate and drank, laughed, sung, and swore by turns; and each man present, thinking to flatter his humor, ate, drank, laughed, sung, and swore likewise, till the sound of their rioting and their blasphemies shook the very roof above them, close to which now clung the lurid cloud, hiding the bat-like demon, who, brooding closer and closer to the roof-tree, leaned over now and again to glare with great red eyes through the unshuttered windows at the mad revellers within.

“More wine--more!” shouted the baron every moment; and the old butler was forced to make so many journeys from the hall to the cellar and the cellar to the hall, that he had not time to drink more than six bottles to his own share, and grumbled loudly at the hardships of such a life.

But at last the baron, in the very midst of a horrible oath, dropped his head upon the table, and sunk into a heavy, drunken sleep. Many of the others followed his example, and for the rest old Peter did not care; so, muttering to himself “‘Every dog shall have his day,’ and mine comes now,” he took a candle from the table and descended once more to the cellar, locking the door behind him, lest he should be interrupted.

“The best, the oldest and the best,” muttered he, staggering around among the casks and bottles. “I won’t live such a dog’s life for nought,--I will have my pleasure too, when I get a chance.” Talking in this way to himself, the butler suddenly came upon a dim old cask standing under an arch in the western wing of the castle, and so concealed that he had not noticed it before.

“Aha! what have we here?” muttered he, stooping, and putting his auger into the wood near the bottom of the cask. “Some rare old vintage, I’ll be bound, that’s been hid away here ever since the castle was a convent,--we’re not much like a convent now, I think. Saint Jude! what stuff have we here?--droll wine this,” added he, as a stream of something black and shining followed the auger when he drew it out. Full of curiosity, he stooped to examine it. Just then a terrific peal of thunder rocked the cliff to its foundation; at the same instant a blinding bolt shot from roof-tree to cellar,--and, in another moment, butler, castle, and revellers were blown altogether hundreds of feet into the air.

The terrible noise of the explosion wakened both Hans and Fritzchen; but, too much terrified to rise or look out, they only clung the closer to each other, and said over and over all the prayers that they knew.

At last, an hour after every thing was still, they timidly rose, and, holding fast by each other’s hand, crept to the door and looked out. All about the little hut lay great stones, beams, and fragments; but not the smallest pebble had touched the humble roof, on which now perched, surrounded by its pure, soft light, the silver-white dove.

“The castle, father! the dove has left the castle!” cried Fritzchen. “Come and see what has befallen it.”

Still hand in hand they hastened up the cliff. On its summit stood nothing but cold, gray walls, roofless and desolate, through whose empty window places the setting moon cast long, mournful beams, while overhead the gloomy thunderclouds were breaking and rolling away in great masses.

Hans and Fritzchen stood long looking at the ruin, but neither spoke; and presently they silently turned, and, reëntering the little hut, over which still clung the bright cloud--although the dove had flown--they trimmed the little candles which yet burned with a clear, steady light, and, having once more murmured a prayer, lay down and again slept sweetly and calmly.

Transcriber’s Notes

New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.

Perceived typographical errors have been silently corrected.