A Tale of the Kloster Part 17

All around the base of the tree he looked, missing, as I thought, not a leaf or twig or stone, I wondering now at the patience of him who never since I had known him had been overly patient.

Then slowly he got up from the ground, still holding his torch close to the earth, and started off, now stopping as in doubt, then holding aside a branch or vine in his way, I all the while following as meekly as a little boy his parent, but rejoicing now that Sonnlein's living in the woods so much had taught him what I knew so little of. On we slowly and surely went, he often stooping down and scrutinizing the earth as though he had lost his guiding marks, but always finding them again, until we had gone down over the hill and were aiming toward the Cocalico where it wound its course fully a half-mile below the Brother House.

A great fear again chilled me to the bones. Our sister had thrown herself into the cold waters of the creek rather than weakly surrender herself to love for man! But when I had seen her last she seemed not over-weighted with grief or remorse. Nay, not self-murder!

And now as we were following the right bank of the Cocalico and were treading the wet, soft earth, I could see plainly now and then what a child could have seen--through the weeds and gra.s.ses, footprints of three people, one of whom I felt sure was our sister, for some of the prints were small and delicate, such as would be made by the wooden soles of her sandals. Other of the prints from their size were those of a grown man, but whether white or Indian I had not sufficient woodcraft to tell. The other marks were too small for a man's and yet not Genoveva's, being differently shaped.

We had not gone far along the Cocalico, when suddenly the gra.s.sy bank spread out into a stony, gravelly beach, where the deep pool we had been following dwindled away to a shallow, rippling stream. On this hard beach I at once lost the footprints, but Sonnlein never hesitating led the way, still silent and grim, to the water's edge, and there again I plainly saw the foot-marks in the soft mud among the stones.

He paused but a moment as he looked at the marks, and then plunged into the stream without waiting to see whether or how I might follow. My selfish indignation at his indifference to me lasted but the s.p.a.ce of a lightning's flash, for I immediately thought of the great trouble that had come to my boy, and without any ado I plunged into the icy waters that, despite its shallowness, caught me knee-deep at times, and with such savage eagerness as I feared more than once would sweep my feet off the slippery bed of the stream and no doubt drown me, for in my neglect of earthly things I had never learned to swim.

But with all my floundering and splas.h.i.+ng I did at last reach the farther side, where I found Sonnlein following the sh.o.r.e looking closely for the footprints, of which I could see none. But suddenly we found them again quite a distance below where we had emerged from the Cocalico, and I realized now that the captors had practised the old trick of walking in the water some distance to destroy all pursuit.

But now Sonnlein's f.a.got was almost burnt out and the rain was beginning to fall, lightly as yet, though I knew it would soon be drenching us to the skin, and by was.h.i.+ng away the footprints make it impossible to follow any further.

I tried to call Sonnlein's mind to the utter folly of hoping to accomplish aught in the darkness and the rain, but his only reply was to make a fresh torch from the dead branches of an old tree overhanging the creek. Lighting the sticks from his fast expiring f.a.got, he suddenly turned to me, as if for the first time since we had left the chestnut tree he were aware of me, and said shortly, "Stay thou here till I come back," and with that he plunged into the heavy brush, mine eyes following anxiously as far as I could the light of his torch.

It was not long until, with all the straining of my sight, I no more could see aught of his light, and then heavy-hearted--as I had not been for many a year--and wet and s.h.i.+vering from the cold rain that was beating down faster and faster, I crouched up close to the dry side of the old dead tree, and patiently awaited in all the misery of my body and mind the return of my boy.

Not that I feared he could not take care of himself, for I knew he had the strength of a lion and the quickness of a cat, but I knew his determined, persistent nature, and that he would go to the ends of the earth, if needs be, for her he loved.

How long I waited under the old tree I remember not. Through all the rus.h.i.+ng of the rain and the sweeping of the winds, I heard faintly the Kloster bells, and I knew it must be midnight. I could see in mind the Brothers and Sisters file out of Bethania and Saron for our little chapel for the accustomed devotions, and I found much comfort because I felt sure earnest, loving prayers were ascending to Him to watch over our sister and my boy and me, and bring us back safe and whole to the fold.

But mortal flesh is ever weak, and as I stood and waited with the storm howling about me, wondering where our sister was in all this wind and rain, wondering where my boy was and when he would come back to me, I lost heart and faith. Besides the wind and the rain and the murmuring of the creek, everything was absolutely silent. I seemed utterly alone in the world. I thought to myself, Who or what am I in all this great universe? What careth G.o.d for me? While in this weak mood an owl hooted overhead, and though I had never before found the hooting of owls aught but sad and mournful, this one sounded to me almost as sweet as our own dear bells. And then I thought of what our Master had said about a sparrow's fall--and I doubt not he also regardeth owls--so that I felt better again.

And great need I had of comfort, for hour after hour I waited for my boy. I was drenched to the skin and so cold I shook like a leaf. More than once as I had made up my mind to wait no longer I started to leave, but then crouched closer to the tree again, ashamed of myself for wanting to leave my post. Still as the long, awful night grew toward morning and the faint light of a gloomy dawn came on, I thought to wait longer were of no avail, and so in great anguish of mind, heeding not the lesser pains of the flesh, I made my way back, heavy-eyed and still more heavy-hearted to my cell, drying myself as best I might, and then throwing myself on my hard bench to seek in sleep some peace for body and mind.

CHAPTER XXI

BROTHER ALBURTUS

When death immortal stays the mortal pulse.

--Lucretius.

When I write here that I slept until after the seventh hour--which was midday with us--I fear it may be thought I missed not much our sister and my Sonnlein, but I like not to be misjudged, for though I slept so long and even soundly, it was because of a healthy body and for the still better reason that it was the rule and habit of Brother and Sister, so far as we could school our weak, rebellious flesh, never to fret or worry or complain about anything, whether, as blind mortals regard things, it were good or ill.

But when I did get up stiff and sore, my first thought was of Sonnlein, hoping he had returned by now, but as I opened the door into his _Kammer_ my hope sank within me as I missed not only his presence but everything else that would indicate he had returned during my sleep.

Inquiry among the Brethren confirmed my fears. He had not returned. No one had seen him since the night before nor had they learned anything of Genoveva among the neighbors. I reported first to our superintendent what Sonnlein and I had found and how he had gone on against my will, but I said nothing about my dread of the witch, for while I was sure she had something to do with our sister's disappearance, yet the footprints had shown some other than the witch among the captors.

Our leader at once called a meeting of the Brothers and the nearest house-fathers and set before them the substance of my report. It was soon agreed, as I had expected, that the red men had stolen our sister.

But what was to be done was not so easy to decide. Even if the rain had not washed away the footprints none of us were sufficiently skilled to trace the savages. To make matters worse, this war with the French again aroused all the distrust our monastic mode of life so often inflicted on us. The old accusation was revived that we were Jesuits, through whom the French and Indians were continually receiving secret information that enabled them to perpetrate ma.s.sacre after ma.s.sacre with impunity.

Indeed, so important in this respect did our enemies make us and so bitter was the feeling against our little community that finally the governor of the province was actually prevailed upon to appoint a commission to inquire into these charges that rankled in our b.r.e.a.s.t.s in spite of all our humility and fort.i.tude.

We could endure much in the way of false accusation, but we loved in our quiet, peaceful way our chosen home in this new world, and while, with our view of war, we refused to bear arms against the French and Indians, we were always zealous to do all we could for our province, and this we proved fully when in after years the colonies fought for independence we gave up freely of our property, never asking to be repaid therefor, to the cause of our beloved Was.h.i.+ngton--ever our friend--and not only our property and our services, but many a Brother and Sister cheerfully and lovingly gave up his or her life in nursing the hundreds of soldiers that lay dying of fevers in the halls and cells of our Kloster. It is for the sake of these dear martyr Brothers and Sisters I write this, which to others may seem idle boasting, but which is the glorious truth, as the records will show to him that careth to read.

The governor's commission came in due time and with great pomp and ceremony to our humble little camp, but as we hid nothing from them and answered freely and fearlessly the questions as to our mode of life, these gentlemen soon left, satisfied that we were not Jesuits nor spies--traitors, but were what we claimed to be, quiet, peaceful monks and nuns, serving faithfully according to our peculiar ideas the same G.o.d and the same country as those who were so unnecessarily alarmed about us.

But all the distrust and suspicion and hatred in the minds of those who would not have it other than that we were spies did not keep us from writing out hundreds of notices of the capture of our sister. These we spread as far and wide as the state of affairs would let us, and, as day after day pa.s.sed without bringing to me my Sonnlein or any word of him, I also sent out notices of his departure.

In our great trouble it came to me that our justice, Brother Weiser, might help us, for not only was he ranger, taking care of all stray horses and cattle, but as Indian interpreter for the government in this cruel war he saw much of what was going on and of necessity met a great many people. Acting upon this thought, I sent him a letter setting forth in full about our sister and my boy, knowing our stern but great-hearted brother would make our loss his and leave nothing undone to restore to us our own.

But over a month went by without a word or sign of our lost ones and to most of us they were now as dead; but though my mind and heart were oft a.s.sailed with a great dread that I should never again see my boy in this world, yet through all the dark clouds that hung over me there would now and then fall on me the bright suns.h.i.+ne of hope.

Another month went by. It was midwinter, and though I knew Sonnlein, like me, never made any great worry about the weather, no matter how severe, I could not help wondering where, if he were still alive, he had place to lay his head in all this broad earth.

While in this mood I received a long letter from Brother Weiser. He had as interpreter taken part in many negotiations with the Indian chiefs in various parts of the province. At every opportunity and wherever he had been he had sought information about Genoveva and Sonnlein. It grieved our brother much that he had been able to learn nothing anywhere. There had come to him strange tales from some of the Indians he had met about a tall, strong white man who was wandering from village to village and tribe to tribe seeking for his white squaw. The Indians had a name for him which meant one who wandered about searching without ceasing. There had also come equally strange stories to our brother of a young white hunter who was fighting among the hills and valleys of the Blue Mountains to the north and west beyond the block-house forts with untiring and savage ferocity against the French Indians, by whom the young hunter was known as "The Firebrand," some of the Indians regarding him as mad for that he rested not night or day, as it seemed to them; that the savages believed he bare a charmed life and that all the red men feared him exceedingly. More than this our good brother could not tell us, but somehow it left no doubt in my mind that this young wanderer, this fiery hunter, must be none other than Sonnlein, roaming the wilds so far away in the undying hope that somewhere he would find our beloved Genoveva.

In this uncertain, hara.s.sing state stood the welfare of my Sonnlein and our sister, when one day thinking even more than usual about him, I found myself wandering along the banks of the now icebound Cocalico. Ere I knew how far I had wandered thus aimlessly I had arrived at the place where Sonnlein and I had crossed the creek on that awful night. I could see through all the ice and snow where the pool narrowed at the stony beach and on the opposite side some distance down the creek stood the old, dead tree from whose gaunt and gnarled limbs the owl had hooted to me to be of good cheer.

I crossed the snow-covered ice and slid and walked along the bank until I came to the old tree, where I paused for a moment to consider the direction Sonnlein had taken when he left me that night. And now, like him, I plunged into the undergrowth that overran the lowlands in this little valley of the Cocalico. Often I slipped and stumbled over some log or stone or brake through the snow into a hole or gulley, so that I marvel now I did not break my legs. The branches and the vines caught me about the arms and feet and more than once stung me across the face, but it seemed I had only a great overpowering desire to press forward in the direction I knew Sonnlein had gone.

In this wise I stumbled on in the snow for some distance without seeing any sign of any human being. As I stopped for a moment, nearly exhausted with my wild enterprise, to catch my breath, I gave a great start as I saw but a few paces ahead of me tracks in the snow, and which, as I hurried on, I saw to be the footprints of some grown person. The tracks were running directly across my path, and whereas I had been pursuing my mad course to the southwest, the footprints of this unknown person were pointing toward the southeast.

I had not the slightest idea that they were Sonnlein's and yet I know not why I suddenly determined to follow them. It may be that all unconsciously something told me they were the footprints of our Brother Alburtus who but a few days before had disappeared again from the community so that at the time in my own trouble I had paid little heed to his absence.

As I went on, the tracks, showing clearly in the deep snow, left the lowlands for the hills, winding in and out among rocks and trees and bushes all the time going higher and higher into the mountains; and now and then I would see a little trampled s.p.a.ce as if the unknown one had paused for a moment to rest, or, perhaps, to look down over the beautiful, snow-covered valley.

In this wise I went on and on until finally I was way up in the mountains that range themselves to the south of our Kloster grounds and, indeed, occasionally through the openings in the trees I could see Mount Sinai and the towers and roofs of our little monastery.

I believe I had gone but a short distance beyond my last view over the valley when suddenly I turned about sharply to my right whence I thought I heard a low moan. My next thought was that my fancy had played some trick on me, but as I stood in complete silence looking about in every direction I heard again this same sound as of one in pain, and as I pushed forward I noticed that the footprints turned toward the direction of the sound and I saw a large rock in front of me, the snow on it displaced and disturbed here and there as if some one had mounted it. I was about to scale the slippery height when again I heard the moaning sound so near I thought it must almost be at my feet and yet I could see nothing; but a moment later as I broke through a thicket I started back horrified to see at one side of this great rock the cloaked form of our Brother Alburtus prostrate in the snow.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Again I spake to him. 'Dost not know me, Brother Alburtus?'" Page 243.]

Then as I rushed to him and lifted his head on my arm I saw the blood rus.h.i.+ng freely from a long cut directly across his brow so that I might have thought the scar he so long carried had been opened by the force of some fall. I could see too, he had not been hurt long, for the blood flowed too freely for that. With the pity and horror in my heart was also a strong feeling of guilt that we had so carelessly let our brother leave us without following and protecting him in his aimless wanderings.

When first I lifted up his head I saw that he was unconscious, but I wiped away the blood as best I could and bound the ugly wound with pieces from my cloak, and then rubbed his face with snow. After a long while he opened his eyes and looked at me wonderingly.

"'Tis thy Brother Jabez," I said gently; but he only looked at me with meaningless gaze, his hands lying so still and helpless it would have rejoiced me to see him rub them together as of old.

Again I spake to him, "Dost not know me, Brother Alburtus?" But still he seemed not to regard my words, and leaving him for a brief s.p.a.ce, fearing his lying in the snow would be his death even if the wound would not, I brake from the trees and bushes about me armful after armful of twigs and branches making a bed of them on the southern side of the rock where he would be sheltered from the cold winds and we could catch the warmth of the sun s.h.i.+ning down through the trees. Then I dragged him tenderly upon his rough bed making him as comfortable as I could, rubbing his hands to warm them and then putting them within his cloak so they might not freeze, during all of which he seemed not to pay the slightest attention to me.

After a long wait he tried to lift his head, and I said to him, "Art feeling better, Brother Alburtus?" whereat he looked at me in great wonderment and said weakly, "Dost not know me, Thomas? Where am I? What is wrong with my head?"

"He mistaketh me for our Brother Thomas," thought I, and so I said smiling to him, "Nay, 'tis Brother Jabez; thou hast wandered from our Kloster and hast fallen from this high rock, Brother Alburtus."

But he only glared at me as he replied in such weak anger that my heart smote me, "Why dost thou torment me so, Thomas? Thou knowest I am David Seymour, thy own brother!"

"What meaneth he?" thought I to myself; "surely his hurt hath taken his mind from him so he knoweth not he is Brother Alburtus." Thinking it best to humor him I spake gently, "Yes, 'tis thy brother; what aileth thee?" To which he answered feebly, "The tree hath fallen on my head; take me to the cabin to 'Lisbeth and the baby."

"Surely," thought I, "we know not what we say when the mind is wrong,"

but still thinking it better to humor him I merely said, "Yea, as soon as help cometh we shall carry thee to them," whereat he smiled gratefully and lay back more contentedly.

But though I sat and s.h.i.+vered by the side of our brother for hour after hour, sheltering him from the cold with my cloak, I could see as the afternoon wore on, and his sighing and groaning grew fainter and weaker, that his days were numbered, and so with the sun's setting behind the hills to the other side of the valley, there was opened for our brother's coming, not the door of his humble cabin but instead the ever-s.h.i.+ning gates of those mansions beyond the skies He hath prepared for his well-beloved children.