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CHAPTER I.
1 5. ^
GREAT multi
tude of people
lilled the church,
crowded together
in the old black
pews', standing
closely thronged
in Ihe nave and
aisles, pressing,
should e r to
shoulder, even
in the two chap
els on the right
and left of the
apse, a vast gathering ot pale men
and women whose eyes were sad, and
in whose faces was written the history
of their nation. The mighty shafts
and pilasters of the gothic edifice rose
like the stems of giant trees in a
primeval fori st from a dusky under
growth, spreading out and uniting
their stony branches far above in the
upper gloom. From the clerestory
windows of the nave an uncertain
light descended half-way to the depths
ana seemed to float upon the darkness
below ns oil upon the water of a
well. Over the western en
tr« r |huge fantastic or
pan '"*1. siled with blackened
pipes ’ dusty gilded ornaments of
colossal size, like some enormous
king y crown long forgotten in tho
lumber room of tho universe, tarnished
and overlaid with the dust of ages.
Eastward, before the rail which sep
arated the high altar from the people,
wax torches, so thick that a man
might not span one of them with both
his hands, wore set up at irregular in
tervals, some taller, some shorter,
burning with steady golden Hames,
each one surrounded with heavy
funeral wreaths and each having a
tablet below it, whereon were set forth,
in the Bohemian idiom, the names,
titles and qualities of him or her in
whose memory it was lighted. In
numerable lamps and tapers before
the side altars and under the strange
canopied shrines at the bases of the
pillars struggled ineffectually with the
gloom, shedding but a few sickly yel
low rays upon tho pallid face of the
persons nearest to their light.
Suddenly the heavy vibration of a
single pedal note burst from the or
gan upon the breathing silence, long
drawn out, rich, luminous and impos
ing. Presently, upon the massive bass,
great chords grew up, succeeding
each other in a simple modulation,
rising then with the blare of trumpets
and the simultaneous crash of mix
tures, fifteenths and coupled pedals
to a deafening peal, and then subsiding
quickly again and terminating in one
long sustained common chord. And
now as the celebrant bowed at tho
lowest step before the high altar, the
voices of the innumerable congrega
tion joined tho harmony of the organ,
ringing up to the groined roof in an
ancient Slavonic melody, melancholly
and beautiful, and rendered yet more
unlike all other music by the undefina
ble character of the Bohemian lan
guage, in which tones softer than
those of the softest southern tongue
alternate so oddly with rough gutter
alsand strident sibilants.
The Wanderer stood in the midst of
the throng, erect, taller than the men
near him, holding his head high, so
that a little of the light from tho
memorial torches reached his thought
ful, manly face, making the noble and
passionate features to stand out clear
ly, while losing its power of illumina
tion in the dark beard and among
the shadows of his hair. His was a
face such as Rembrandt would have
painted, seen under the light that
Rembrandt loved best; for the ok
pression seemed to overcome the sur
rounding gloom by its own luminous
quality, while the deep gray eyes
were made almost black by the wide
expansion of the pupils; the dusky
brows clearly defined the boundary in
the face between passion and thought;
and the pale forehead, by i„s slight
recession into the shade from its mid
dle prominence, proclaimed the man
of art, the man of faith, the man of
devotion, as well as the intuitive
natureof the delicately sensitive mind
and the quick, elastic qualities of the
man’s finely organized, but nervous
bodily constitution. The long white
fingers of one hand stirred restlessly
twitching at the fur of his broad
lapel, which was turned back across
his chest, and from time to time
he drew a deep breath and
sighed, not painfully, but wearily and
hopelessly, as a man sighs who knows
that bis happiness is long past and
that his liberation from the burden of
life is yet far off in the future.
The celebrant reached the reading
of the gospel, and the men and women
in the pews rises to their feet. Still
the singing of the long-drawn-out
stanzas of the hymn continued with
unflagging devotion, and still the
deep accompaniment of the ancient
organ sustained tho mighty chorus of
voices. The gospel over, the people
sank into their seats again, not stand
ing, as is the custom in some coun
tries, until the creed had been said
Here and there, indeed, a woman,
perhaps a stranger in the country, re
mained upon her feet, noticeable
among the many figures seated in the
1 pews. The Wanderer, familiar with
many lands and many varying tradi
tions of worship, unconsciously noted
these exceptions, looking with a vague
curiosity from one to the other. Then,
ill at once his tall frame shivered
from head to foot, and his lingers con
vulsively grasped the yielding sable
in which they lay.
She was there, the woman he had
sought so long, whose face he had not
found'in the cities and dwellings of
Ihe living, neither her grave in the
silent communities of the dead.
There, before the uncouth monument
of dark red marble beneath which Ty
cho Brahe rests in peace, there she
stood; not as lie had seen her last on
that dav when his senses had left him
in the delirium of his sickness, not in
the freshness of her bloom and of luir
dark loveliness, but changed as he
had dreamed in evil dreams that
death would have power to change
her. The warm olive of
her cheek was turned to
the hue of wax, the soft
shadows beneath her velvet eyes were
deepened and hardened, her expres
sion, once yielding and changing
under the breath of thought and feel
ing as a field of flowers when the west
wind blows, was now set, as though |
forever in a death-like fixity. The
delicate features were drawn a..d
pinched, the nostrils contracted, the ;
colorless lips straightened out of the !
tines of beauty into the mould of a i
Jifeless mask. It was the face of a
dead woman, but it was her face still, j
and the Wanderer knew it well; in the
kingdom of his soul the whole resist
less commonwealth of the emotions
revolted together to dethrone death’s
regent, sorrow—while the thrice
tempered springs of passion, bent, but
not broken, stirred suddenly in the
palace of his body and shook the
strong foundation of his being.
During the seconds that followed
his eyes were riveted on the beloved j
head. Then as .the creed ended, the
vision sank down and was lost to his
sight. She was seated now, and the 1
broad sea of humanity hid her from
him, though he raised himself the full
height of his stature in the effort to 1
distinguish even the least part of her !
head-dress. To move from his place '
was all but impossible, though the
fierce longing to be near her bade him
trample even upon the shoulders of
the throng to reach her, as men have i
done moro than once to save them
selves from death by fire in crowded
places. Still the singing of the hymn
continued, and would continue, as
he knew, until the moment of the
Elevation. He strained his hear
ing to catch the sounds that
came from the quarter where she sat.
In a chorus of a thousand singers he
funded that he could have distin
guished the tender heart-stirring vi
brations of her tones. Never woman
sang, never could woman sing again,
as she had once sung, though her
voice had been as soft as it had been
sweet, and tuned to vibrate in the
heart ratlser than in the ear. As the
strains rose and fell, the Wanderer
bowed his head and closed his eyes,
listening through the maze of sounds
for the silvery ring of her magic note.
Something he heard at last, some
thing that sent a thrill from his ear
to his heart, unless, indeed, his heart
itself were making music for his ears
to hear. The impression reached him
fitfully, often interrupted and lost,
but as often renewing itself and re
awakening in the listener the certain
ty of recognition which he had felt at
the sight of the singers face.
He who loves with his whole soul
has a knowledge and a learning which
surpass the wisdom of those who spend
their lives in the study of things living
or long dead, or never animate. They,
indeed, can construct the figure of a
flower from the dried web of a single
leaf or by the examination of a dusty
seed, and they can set up the scheme
of life of a shadowy mammoth out of
a fragment of its skeleton, or tell the
story of hill and valley from the con
templation of a handful of earth or of
a broken pebble. Often they are
right, sometimes they are driven
deeper and deeper into error
by the complicated imperfections
of their own science. But he
who loves greatly possesses
in his intuition the capacities of all
instruments of observation which man
has invented and supplied for his use.
The lenses of his eyes can magnify
the infinitesimal detail to the dimen
sions of common things, and bring
objects to his vision from immeasura
ble distances; the labyrinth of his ear
can choose and distinguish amidst the
harmonies and the discords of'the
world, muffling in its tortuous passages
the reverberation of ordinary sounds,
while multiplying a hundred-fold the
faint tones of the one beloved voice.
His whole body and his whole intelli
gence form together an instrument
of exquisite sensibility, whereby the
perceptions of his inmost soul are
hourly tortured, delighted, caught up
into ecstasy; torn and crushed by jeal*
ousy and . fear, or plunged into the
frigid waters of despair.
The melancholy hymn resounded
through the vast church, but though
the Wanderer stretched the faculty of
hearing to the utmost, he could no
longer find the note he sought, among
the vibrations of tfie dank and hoary
*r. Then an irresistible longing ,
ciitne upon him to turn and force his
way through tho dense throng of men
and women, to reach the aisle and
pres past tho huge pillar till he
mu d slip betwei n (he tombstone <>l
Li asti unon er aad the row of black
w.ioieti se its. Once there, he should
see her lace to face.
lie turned, indeed, as he stood, and
lie tried to move a few steps. On all
-siiii-b curious looks were directed upon
him, b it no one offered to tn.ike way,
hi d still the monotonous singing con
tinui d until he feit himself deafened ,
as he faced the great congregation.
‘•1 am ill.” hi- said to those nearest
to him. "Pray let me pass.’’
His face was white, indeed, and
those who heard his words believed
him. A mild old man raised his sad
blue eyes, gazed at him, and. while
tning to draw back, gent y shook his
head. A pale woman, who-o sickly
features were half veiled in the folds
of a torn black shawl moved as far as
she could, shrinking as the very poor
and miserable shrink when they are
expected to make way before the rich
ana strong. A lad of 15 stood upon
tiptoe to make himself even slighter
than he was. and thus to widen the
way, and the Wanderer found himself,
after repeated efforts, as much us two
steps distant from his former position.
He w&ssti 1 trying to divide the crowd
when the music suddenly ceased, and
the tones of the organ died away far
up under the western window. It
was the moment of the elevation,
and at the first silvery tinkling
of the bell, the people swayed a little,
all those kneeling who were able, and
those whose movements were impeded
by the press of the worshippers bend- j
ing toward the altar as a field of grain
before the gale. The Wanderer turned
again and bowed himself with the
, rest, devoutly and humbly, with half
closed eyes, as he strove to collect
and control his thoughts in the pres- j
ence of the chief mystery of his faith.
; Three times the tiny bell was rung, a
pause followed, and thrice again the
; clear jingle of the metal broke tho
solemn stillness. Then once more the
people stirred, and the soft sound of
! their simultaneous motion was like a
mighty sigh breathed up from tho
i secret vaults and the deep foundations
of the ancient church. Again the
pedal note of the organ b-iomed \
through the nave and aisles, and again ]
j the thousands of human voices took
! up the strain nf song.
The Wanderer glanced about him,
measuring the distance lie must tra- [
verse to reach the monument of the
Danish astronomer, and confronting
; it with the short time which now re
mained before the end of the mass. '
llejsaw that in such a throng he would
have no chance of gaining the posi- :
tion he wished to occupy in less than
half an hour, and he had now but a
I scant 10 minutes at his disposal. He
j gave up the attempt, therefore, deter- |
j mining that when the celebration
should be over he would move for
ward with the crowd, trusting to his
superior stature and energy to keep
him within sight of the woman he
sought, until both he and she could
meet, either just within or just with
out the narrow entrance of the
church.
Very soon the moment of action
came. The singing died away, the
benediction was given, the second
gospel was read, the priest and the
people repeated the Bohemian prayers,
and all was over. The countless
heads began to move onward, tho
; shuffling of innumerable feet sent
: heavy, tuneless echoes through vaulted
space, broken every moment by the
sharp, painful cough of a suffering
child, whom no one could see in the
multitude, or by the dull thud of some
heavy foot striking against the wooden
seats in the press. The Wanderer
moved forward with the rest. Beach
ing the entrance of the pew where
she had sat he was kept
back during a few seconds by
the half-dozen men and women who
were forcing their way out of it be
fore him. But at the farthest end a
figure clothed in black was still kneel
ing. A moment more and he might
enter the pew and be at her side. One
of the other women dropped some
thing before she was out of the nar
row space, and stooped, fumbling and
searching in the darkness. At* the
minute the slight, girlish figure rose
swiftly and passed like a shadow be
fore the heavy marble monument.
The Wanderer saw that the pew was
open at the other end, and without
heeding the woman who stood in his
way, he sprung upon the low seat,
passed her, stepped to tho floor upon
the other side and was out in the
aisle in a moment. Many persons had
already left the church, and the space
i was comparatively free.
She was before him, gliding quickly
toward the door. Ere he could reach
her he saw her touch the thick ice
which filled the marble basin, cross
herself hurriedly and pass out. But
he hud seen her face again, and he
knew that he was not mistaken. The
thin, waxen features were those of the
dead, but they were hers, nevertheless,
In an instant he could be at her side, j
But again his progress was momenta
rily impeded by a number of persons
who were entering the building hasti
ly to attend the next mass. Scarcely
10 seconds later he was»out in the nar
row and dismal passage which winds
between the north side of the Teyn
Kirche and the buildings behind the
Kinsky Palace. The vast buttresses i
and towers cast deep shadows below j
them, and the blackened houses oppo
site absorb what remains of the un
certain winter’s daylight. To the left
of the church door a low arch sfans
the lane, affording a covered commu
nication between the north aisle and
, the sacristy. To the right the open
space is somewhat broader, and three
dark archways give access to as many
passages, leading, in radiating direc
tions!* and under the old houses, to the
streets beyond.
The Wanderer stood upon the steps
beneath the rich stone carvings which
set forth the Crucifixion over the door
of tho church, and his quick eyes
scanned everything within sight. To
tho left, no figure resembling the one
he sought was to bo seen, but on the
right, he fancied that among a score
of persons now rapidly dispersing he
could distinguish a moving shadow
just within one of the archways, black
against the darkness, in an instant
he had crossed the way and was hur
rying through the gloom. Already
far before him, but visible, and, as lie
believed, unmistakable, tho shade
was speeding onward, light as mist,
noiseless as thought, but yet clearly
to be seen and followed. He cried
aloud as he ran:
‘•Beatrice! Beatrice!"
Ilis strong voice echoed along the
dark walls and out into tho court be
yond. It was intensely cold, and the
still air carried the sound clearly to
the distance. She must have heard
him, she must have known his voice,
but as she crossed the open place, and
tho gray light fell upon her, ho could
sec that she did not raise her bent
head nor slacken her speed.
He ran on, sure of overtaking her
in tho passage she had now entered,
for she seemed to be only walking,
while lie was pursuing her at a head
long pace. But in tho narrow tunnel,
when he reached it. she was not,
though at the farther end he imagined
that the fold of a black garment was
just disappearing, lie emerged into
the street, in which ho could now see
in both directions to a distance of fifty
yards or more. 11c was alone. The
rusty iron shutters of the little shops
were all barred and fastened, and
every door within the range of his
vision was closed. lie stood still in
surprise and listened. There was no
sound to be heard, not tho grating of
a lock, nor the tinkling of a bell, nor
the fall of a footstep.
lie did not pause long, for he made
up his mind as to what he should do
in the flash of a moment’s intuition.
It was physically impossible that she
should have disappeared into any of
the houses which had their entrances
within the dark tunnel he had just
traversed. Apart from the presump
tive impossibility of her being lodged
in such a quarter, there was the self
evident fact that lie must have heard
the door opened and closed. Sec
ondly, she could not have turned to
the right, for in that direction the
street was straight and without any
lateral exit, so that ho must have
seen her. Therefore she must have
gone to the left, since on that side
there was a narrow alley leading out
of the lane, at some distance from the
point where he was now standing—
too far, indeed, for her to have
reached it unnoticed, unless, as war,
possible, he had been greatly de
ceived in the distance which had
lately separated her from him.
Without further hesitation, he
turned to the left. lie found no one
in the way, for it was not yet noon,
and at that hour the people were
either at their prayers or at their Sun
day morning’s potations, and the place
was as deserted as a disused cemetery.
Still he hastened onward, never paus
ing for breath, till he found himself
all at once in the great ring. He
knew the city well, but, in his race,
he had bestowed no attention upon
the familiar windings and turnings,
thinking only of overtaking the fleet
ing vision, no matter how, no matter
where. Now. on a sudden, the great,
irregular square opened before him,
flanked on the one side by the fantastic
spires of the Teyn Church, and the
blackened front of the huge Kinsky
palace, on the other by the half
modern town hall, with its ancient
tower, its beautiful porch, and the
graceful oriel which forms the.apse of
the chapel in the second storv.
One of the city watc imen, muffled
in his military overcoat, and conspic
uous by the great bunch of dark
feathers that drooped from his black
hat, was standing idly at the corner
from which the Wanderer emerged.
The latter thought of inquiring
whether the man had seen a lady
pass, but the fellow’s vacant stare
convinced him that no questioning
would elicit a satisfactory answer.
Moreover, as he looked across the
square he caught sight of a retreating
figure dressed in black, already at
such a distance as to make posi
tive recognition impossible. In his
haste he found no time to convince
himself that no living woman could
have thus outrun him. and he instant
ly resumed his pursuit, gaining rapid
ly upon her he was following. But it
is not an easy matter to overtake even
a woman, when she has an advantage
of a couple of hundred yards, and
when the race is a short one. He
passed the ancient astronomical clock,
just as the little bell was striking the
third quarter aftereleven. but he did
not raise his head to watch the sad
faced apostles as they presented their
stiff figures in succession at the two
square windows. When the black
eyed cock under the small Gothic arch
above flapped his wooden wings and
uttered his melancholy crow, the
Wanderer was already at the corner
of the ring, and he could see the ob
ject of his pursuit disappearing before
him into Karlsgasse. He noticed un
easily that the resemblance between
the woman he was following and
the object of his loving search
seemed now to diminish, as in a bad
dream, as the distance between him
self and her decreased. But he held
resolutely on, nearing her at every
step, round a sharp corner to the
right, then to the left, to the right
again, and once more in the opposite
direction, always, as he knew, ap
proaching the old stone bridge. He
was not a dozen paces behind her as
she turned quickly a third time to the
right, round the wall of the ancient
house which faces the little square
pver against the enormouB buildings
comprising the Clementine J. suit
monastery and the Astronomical Ob
servatory. As he sprang past the
lorner he saw the heavy door iust
I closing and heard the sharp resounu
ing clang of its iron fastening. The
Indy had disappeared, and he foltmiro
that she had gone through that on
trance.
He knew the house well, for it l»
distinguished from all others in
Prague, both by its shape and its
oddly ornamented, unnaturally nar
row front. It is built in the liguro of
an irregular triangle, the blunt apex
of one angle facing the little square,
the sides being erected on tho one
hand along the Karlsgasse, and on
the other upon a narrow alley which
leads away towards the Jews' quarter.
Overhanging passages are built out
over this dim lane, as though to facil
itate the interior communications of
the dwelling, and in the shadow be
neath them there is a small door
studded with iron nails, which is in
variably shut. The main entrance
takes in all the scant breadth of the
truncated angle which looks toward
tho monastery. Immediately over it
is a great window, above that another,
and highest of all, under the pointed
gable, a round and ungla/.ed aperture,
within which there is inky darkness.
The windows of tho first amt second
stories are Hanked by huge ligurcs of
saints, standing forth in strangely
contorted attitudes, black with the.
dust of ages, black as all old Prague is
black, with tho smoko of brown Ho
hemian coal, with the dark and
unctuous mists of many autumns,
with the cruel, petrifying frosts of
ten score winters.
lie who knew the cities Of men as
few have known them knew also this
house. Many a time had ho paused
before it by day and by night, wan
dering who lived within its massive,
irregular walls, behind those uncouth,
barbarous sculptured saints, who kept
their interminable watch high up by
thelozenged windows; lie would know
now. Since she whom he sought had
entered he would enter, too; and in
some corner of that dwelling, which
had long possessed a mysterious at
traction for his eyes, he would lind at
last that being who held power over
his heart, that Hoatriec whom ho had
learned to think of as dead, while
still believing that somewhere she
must be yet alive, that dear lady
whom, dead or living, he loved beyond
all others, with a great love, passing
words.
CHAPTER 11.
HE Wanderer laid
his hand boldly up
on the I'hain of the
bell. He expected
to hear the harsh
jingling of cracked
metal, Imt ho was
suprised by the sil
very clearness and'
musical quality of
the ringing tones
which reached his
ear. lie was
pleased, and un
consciously took
the pleasant im
pression for a
favorable omen. The heavy doorswung
back almost immediately, and he was
confronted by a tall porter in dark
green cloth and gold lacings, whose
imposing appearance was made still
more striking by the magnificent fair
beard which flowed down almost to his
waist. The man lifted his heavy
black hat and held it low at his side
as he drew hack to let the visitor en
ter. The latter had not expected to
he admitted thus, without question,
and paused under the bright light
which illuminated the arched en
trance, intending to make some inqui
ry of the porter. But the latter
seemed to expect nothing of the sort.
He carefully closed the door, and then,
bearing his hat in one hand and his
gold-headed staff in the other, he pro
ceeded gravely to the other end of
the vaulted porch, opened a great
glazed door and held it back for the
visitor to pass.
The Wanderer recognized that the
farther he was allowed to penetrate
unhindered into the interior of the
house, the nearer he should be to the
object of his search. He did not know
where he was. nor what he might
find. For all that he knew, he might
be in a club, in a great bank.ag
house, or in some semi-public institu
tion of the nature of a library, an
academy or a conservatory of music.
There are many such establishments
in Prague, though he was not ac
quainted with any in which the inter
nal arrangements so closely resembled
those of a luxurions private residence.
But there was no time for hesitation,
and ho ascended the broad staircase
with a firm step, glancing at the rich
tapestries which covered the walls, at
the polished surface of the mai ble
steps on either side of the heavy car
pet and at the elaborate and beauti
ful iron work of the hand rail. As ho
mou nted li igher he h eard the qu ick rap
ping of an electric signal above him. and
he understood that the porter had an
nounced his coming. Reaching the
landing he was met by a servant iD
black, as correct at all points as the
porter himself, and who bowed low as
he held back the thick curtain which
hung before the entrance. Without a
word the man followed the visitor
into a high room of irregular shape,
which served as a vestibule, and stood
waiting to receive the guest’s furs,
should it please him to lay them aside
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
Paradoxical.
Clive—“In some respects a nail tuanu
facturer is like a man who fails in order ta
make money.”
Mr. Mauf—“I don’t see it.”
Clive—‘ Why, if he is successful bi
goods arc likely to go under the hammer.”
All lie M ;s Worth.
Snively—“I hear that pocr Muggins is
dead.”
Snodgrass—‘‘Yes. Life insured?’’
fcinively—“For $5,000.” *
Snodgrass—“Oh, well, the loss is fully
covered.”