his lonely room in the mountain hut in which he had taken up his quarters, Christian Almer sat writing. It was early morning; he had risen before the sun. During the past week he had struggled earnestly with the terror which oppressed him; his suffering had been great, but he believed he was conquering. The task he had imposed upon himself of setting his duty before him in clear terms afforded him consolation. The book in which he was writing contained the record of a love which had filled him with unrest, and threatened to bring dishonor into his life.
* * * * * *
"I thank Heaven," he wrote, "that I am calmer than I have been for several days. Separation has proved an inestimable blessing. The day may come when I shall look upon my love as dead, and shall be able to think of it as one thinks of a beloved being whom death has snatched away.
"Even now, as I think of her, there is no fever in the thought. I have not betrayed my friend.
"How would he regard me if he were acquainted with my mad passion--if he knew that the woman he adored looked upon him with aversion, and gave her love to the friend whom he trusted as a brother?
"There was the error. To listen to her confession of love, and to make confession of my own.
"That a man should so forget himself--should be so completely the slave of his passions!
"How came it about? When were the first words spoken?
"She sat by my side, radiant and beautiful. Admiring glances from every part of the theatre were cast upon her. In a corner of the box sat her husband, silent and thoughtful, heedless of the brilliant scene before him, heedless of her, as it seemed, heedless of the music and the singers.
"Royalty was there, immediately facing us, and princes levelled their opera-glasses at her.
"There are moments of intoxication when reason and conscience desert us.
"We were stepping into the carriage when a note was delivered to him. He read it, and said, 'I cannot go with you; I am called away. You will not miss me, as I do not dance. I will join you in a couple of hours."
"So we went alone, we two together, and her hand rested lightly upon mine. And in the dance the words were spoken--words never to be recalled.
"What demon prompted them? Why did not an angel whisper to me, 'Remember. There is a to-morrow.'
"But in the present the morrow is forgotten. A false sense of security shuts out all thoughts of the consequences of our actions. A selfish delight enthrals us, and we do not see the figure of Retribution hovering above us.
"It is only when we are alone with our conscience that this figure is visible. Then it is that we tremble; then it is that we hear words which appal us.
"Again and again has this occurred to me, and I have vowed to myself that I would tear myself from her--a vow as worthless as the gambler's resolve to play no more. Drawn irresistibly forward, and finding in every meeting a shameful justification in the delusion that I was seeing her for the last time; and leaving her with a promise to come again soon. Incredible infatuation! But to listen to the recital of her sorrows and unhappiness without sympathising with her--it was not possible; and to hear her whisper, 'I love you, and only you,' without being thrilled by the confession--a man would need to be made of stone.
"How often has she said to me, when speaking of her husband, 'He has no heart!'
"Can I then, aver with any semblance of honesty that I have not betrayed my friend? Basely have I betrayed him.
"If I were sure that she would not suffer--if I were sure that she would forget me! Coldness, neglect, indifference--they are sharp weapons, but I deserve to bleed.
"Still, I cry out against my fate. I have committed no crime. Love came to me and tortured me. But a man must perform a man's duty. I will strive to perform mine. Then in years to come I may be able to think of the past without shame, even with pride at having conquered.
"I have destroyed her portrait. I could not look upon her face and forget her."
* * * * * *
A voice from an adjoining room caused him to lay aside his pen. It was the peasant, the master of the hut, calling to him, and asking if he was ready. He went out to the man.
"I heard you stirring," said the peasant, "and my young ones are waiting to show you where the edelweiss can be found."
The children, a boy and a girl, looked eagerly at Christian Almer. It had been arranged on the previous day that the three should go for a mountain excursion in search of the flower that brings good luck and good fortune to the finder. The children were sturdy-limbed and ruddy-faced, and were impatient to be off.
"Breakfast first," said Christian Almer, pinching the little girl's cheek.
Brown bread, honey, goat's milk, and an omelette were on the table, and the stranger, who had been as a godsend to the poor family, enjoyed the homely fare. The peasant had already calculated that if his lodger lived a year in the hut, they could save five hundred francs--a fortune. Christian Almer had been generous to the children, in whose eyes he was something more than mortal. Money is a magic power.
"Will the day be fine?" asked Christian.
"Yes," said the peasant; "but there will be a change in the evening. The little ones will know--you can trust to them."
Young as they were, they could read the signs on Nature's face, and could teach their gentleman friend wise things, great and rich as he was.
The father accompanied them for a couple of miles; he was a goat-herd, and, unlike others of his class, was by no means a silent man.
"You live a happy life here," said Christian Almer.
"Why, yes," said the peasant; "it is happy enough. We have to eat, but not to spare; there is the trouble. Still, God be thanked. The children are strong and healthy; that is another reason for thankfulness."
"Is your wife, as you are, mountain born?"
"Yes; and could tell you stories. And there," said the peasant, pointing upwards afar off, "as though it knew my wife were being talked of, there is the lämmergeier."
An enormous vulture, which seemed to have suddenly grown out of the air, was suspended in the clouds. So motionless was it that it might have been likened to a sculptured work, wrought by an angel's hand, and fixed in heaven as a sign. It could not have measured less than ten feet from wing to wing. Its colour was brown, with bright edges and white quills, and its fiery eyes were encircled by broad orange-shaded rings.
"My wife," said the peasant, "has reason to remember the lämmergeier. When she was three years old her father took her to a part of the mountains where they were hay-making, and not being able to work and attend to her at the same time, he set her down by the side of a hut. It was a fine sunny day, and Anna fell asleep. Her father, seeing her sleeping calmly, covered her face with a straw hat, and continued his work. Two hours afterwards he went to the spot, and Anna was gone. He searched for her everywhere, and all the haymakers assisted in the search, but Anna was nowhere to be found. My father and I--I was a mere lad at the time, five years
