On the Heights: A Novel. Auerbach Berthold

told the prince and princess what the nurse had been saying. The prince nodded to Walpurga much as he would have done with a dumb animal to which he could not render himself intelligible.

      "But Countess Irma's feet are not swan's feet. Don't believe that, Walpurga," said the king laughing. "Come, 'Lady of the Lake.'"

      They mounted their horses and rode away.

      It was time for the prince to return.

      On their return, they at once repaired to the new apartments on the ground floor, into which everything had been removed during their absence.

      They now had sunlight at all hours of the day. The apartments opened out on the park, where the blackbird sang in the broad daylight, and where the breezes were laden with the odor of the orange bushes. Tall trees were whispering in the wind and a great fountain was constantly murmuring and plashing.

      Walpurga was quite happy, and the fountain was her greatest delight.

      "It's far more comfortable on the first floor," she would often say; "I feel as if I'd just returned from a long journey. The rooms are so nice and cool, and my night-watchman sleeps in the daytime just as a night-watchman should, and-and-"

      And Walpurga, too, fell asleep, although 'twas daylight.

      CHAPTER II

      Walpurga soon accustomed herself to her changed mode of life. She was often concerned because she received no tidings from home.

      But if there were no letters, there was a messenger at all events. A servant entered the room and said:

      "There's a woman outside, who comes from the same place as Walpurga. She wishes to speak to you for a few moments."

      "I'll go to her. Who is it?"

      "No," said Mademoiselle Kramer; "receive her here."

      The servant went out at once, and returned, bringing old Zenza with him.

      "Oh, is it you, Zenza? Have you brought me anything from my child, my husband, or my mother? For God's sake, has anything happened? Are they sick?"

      "No, they're all well, thank God, and send their love to you."

      Walpurga, with an affectionate glance, gazed into Zenza's cunning eyes, which now seemed good and truthful, because they had seen her child. Smiling, Zenza went on to say:

      "I'm glad you still know me. How bad the folks are. They told me you wouldn't recognize me, because you'd become a fine lady. But no, you always were a good girl, and I've always said so."

      "Yes, yes, that's all very well; but what do you want of me?"

      "I want you to help me. If you don't, my son Thomas will take his life and I'll drown myself in the lake. You'll help me, won't you? See, I'm kneeling at your feet. You must help me. Your dear father and I were almost cousins, and if your father were alive, he'd say what he's now calling down to you from heaven-'Walpurga, if you don't help Zenza, I'll never forgive you.'"

      "Get up! What's the matter? How can I help you?"

      "I won't get up. I'll die at your feet unless you promise to help me."

      "I'll do all I can for you."

      Mademoiselle Kramer interposed and said that unless Zenza would calm herself, she would not be allowed to remain in the room another moment.

      Zenza arose and asked:

      "Is that the queen?"

      Walpurga and Mademoiselle Kramer laughed at her question, and Zenza at last made known her wish.

      Her son Thomas, she said, was standing down there before the palace, as the guard would not allow him to enter. He had been caught poaching and, as it was his second offense, he had been sentenced to two years' imprisonment. And yet he was not to blame. It lay in his blood. He must go hunting. His father had been that way before him. He had only shot one little chamois buck and for that he was to go to jail again. He had sworn an oath that, before he would let them lock him up, he would take his own life or else commit a murder, so that they might behead him at once; and Zenza went on to say that Walpurga would have two, – nay, three human lives on her conscience if she did not help them; that Walpurga must procure her an audience with the king or queen, so that she might, on her knees, beg them for mercy.

      "Your husband and the landlord of the Chamois sent me," added Zenza, "and they both say it'll be easy enough for you to help me, and if you do, I'll be your slave as long as I live."

      "Yes, I'd like to help you, but I can't see how. Things are not managed here as they are at home."

      "Oh, you can find a way, quick enough. You're clever, the whole neighborhood says so; and I've known it ever so long, and said so, too, on last St. Leonard's day. Schenck, the tailor will bear me witness, and so will Spinnerwastl, too; 'Walpurga bears herself,' said I, 'as if she were one of the lowliest, but she's the first in the whole neighborhood. You'll all live to see what becomes of her. Her wisdom and her goodness will show themselves.' Now, Walpurga, you'll help me: won't you."

      "Yes, as soon as there's a chance."

      "But I can't wait. Thomas is to go to jail to-morrow, at daybreak, and, if he's not released to-day, there will be murder."

      "My dear woman," interposed Mademoiselle Kramer, "his majesty the king declared a general amnesty at the birth of the crown prince. That covers your son's case, does it not?"

      "No; that's the very trouble. All the courts in the country are against my Thomas. Look at this. It's all there. The innkeeper wrote it down, better than I can tell you. The writing must reach the king before noon, or it'll be too late. My son Thomas is walking up and down out there, and it's an even chance whether he goes to heaven or hell. He's got a double-barreled pistol with him, and he'll shoot the first man he looks at and himself, too, before this very palace, if I go out there without having done anything for him."

      "Yes, but I can't run up to the king as I would to the innkeeper, or I'd gladly do it."

      "I must sit down, my knees are breaking under me," exclaimed Zenza; and Mademoiselle Kramer hurried to bring her a chair. And while she sat there with drooping head, great tears dropped upon the bony, thick-veined hands that lay folded on her knees.

      Walpurga motioned to Mademoiselle Kramer, who was trying to console the old woman. She wanted to tell her that Zenza was not so very good, after all, and that Thomas was still worse; but Mademoiselle Kramer turned about and said:

      "I have an idea. Countess Wildenort's brother is aid-de-camp to his majesty, and, in half an hour from now, will present his report and get the countersign. Now, Walpurga, go to Countess Irma at once and request her to hand the petition to her brother, so that he may submit it to his majesty."

      "Yes, yes, do go-do! Lord, what a wise angel you have here with you, Walpurga; – but go right off-don't lose a moment! May I stay here a little while longer, or shall I wait down there before the palace?"

      "No! you may remain here, my good woman," said Mademoiselle Kramer, consoling her. "But hurry yourself," said she, addressing Walpurga, who still held the letter before her, and stood there as if immovable.

      Walpurga left the apartment. When she drew near to Irma's door, she heard the countess, with fervid expression, singing Schumann's song to Friedrich Rueckert's words:

      He came to me,

      In storm and rain,

      And boldly, he

      My heart hath ta'en.

      Was my heart won,

      Or his, that day?

      Methinks both hearts

      Did meet half-way.

      The chambermaid announced Walpurga. Irma stopped in the middle of her song.

      "Welcome! What good thought brings you here?"

      Walpurga hesitated, but, at last, preferred her request and handed the paper to the countess.

      "Take courage," said Irma, consolingly.

      She rang for a servant, to whom she said: "Tell