Class ■PS3S^L7_ 
 
 Copyright)!"^ 
 
 l<^o4- 
 
 COnrRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
'Beside the flower wreathed bier.' 
 
St. Blasien's Maid 
 
 AN ALSACIAN ID YL 
 
 BY 
 
 WiNFiELD Lionel Scott 
 
 DETROIT, MICHIGAN 
 
 WINN & HAMMOND 
 1904 
 
LIBRARY ot CONGRESS 
 
 Two Copies Received 
 
 MAY 20 1904 
 
 Cooyrleht Entry 
 
 0Lj4cg XXu. no. 
 
 ^l l> z L 
 
 COPY B 
 
 — p 
 
 
 ?-) 3s 
 
 Copyrighted, September 2, 1898 
 By 
 
 WiNFiELD Lionel Scott 
 
 Detroit, Michigan 
 
Dedication 
 
 HON. ALFRED ERSKINE BRUSH. 
 
 AS IN some sacred temple, veiled and dim, 
 We bow with holiest vow and prayer ; 
 Or shrine our purest thoughts in some sweet hymn— 
 We place our best upon the altar there. 
 
 So I have shrined in tribute which I bring. 
 Of simple loyal hearts, beyond the sunlit sea; 
 
 The holiest theme of which a bard may sing, 
 The rarest gem in memory's treasury. 
 
 Of greater worth is one true, loyal heart, 
 Than all this life can offer us beside; ' 
 
 To hold one friend from all the world apart — 
 To know he will not change what e'er betide. 
 
 So, looking back across the fading years. 
 
 No statelier gift, methinks, may heaven send — 
 
 Than thou hast been ; through mist of grateful tears 
 I write it here, the holy name of friend. 
 
Prologue 
 
 WHERE lies in golden glamour of repose 
 The fair Alsacian hamlet 'mong the hills — ■ 
 Against whose slopes the nooning vineyards lean, 
 And lowly bending orchards upward spread ; 
 To beechen wood within whose solitude 
 The list'ning silence breathes of rest and peace. 
 
 This is Bettlach, Bettlach the beautiful ! 
 Her dwellers are a hardy race, and staunch ; 
 With hearts so leal that ne'er have beat untrue ; 
 With faces kind where blooms the rose of health — 
 Which glows amid the bronze of wind and sun. 
 With trusting eyes whose purest depths still holds 
 The blessed light of childhood's innocence. 
 
 A blithesome race, who find the keenest joy 
 In simple things, as song of bird and brook , 
 In gently waving bough and wreathing bloom, 
 Their happy songs among the vintage rise, 
 Their cheery call is heard across the fields, 
 And free good natured jest in simple mirth, 
 Or greeting unto stranger as to friend: 
 "God keep thee safe ! His blessing follow thee." 
 
 A highway broad and white leads o'er the hills. 
 And where it climbs in steepest upward curve. 
 
The quaint old homes of Bettlach cluster close. 
 Those stuccoed homes of creamy tinted clay, 
 About whose eaves the mellow touch of time 
 Is seen in many fading hues ; and there 
 The mosses creep across the olden tiles, 
 And tiny plants a nurturing lodgment find. 
 And, too, the wooden beams, in strange device, 
 As through the stucco shown, are gray with age. 
 
 Here ceiled in oak of crudest workmanship — 
 Where overhead the rough hewn beams are laid ; 
 A dearth of comforts shown — in plainest deal 
 Are bench and table formed, and on the floor 
 Is strewn the clean white sand ; upon the ledge 
 Of window each, where whitest curtains sway, 
 The myrtle green and fragrant mignonette 
 Are side by side, where massed carnations droop. 
 
 'Tis here in sweet content the peasants bide; 
 They gather here about the humble board — 
 Their Pater Noster say with bowed head, 
 The sacred sign — then feast on frugal fare; 
 So few their needs, so rich their store of faith. 
 So beautiful in its simplicity. 
 
 With easy flight steps lead aloft, to where 
 The guest hath place ; a simple room, and there 
 A bed with feathers piled, a chair, maybe, 
 A table rude, and from the wall, the Christ 
 Keeps loving ward o'er well earned sleep and rest. 
 
Not all the homes which Bettlach boasts are these ; 
 Quite to the vale good naturedly they crowd; 
 A cart track here, and there a zig-zag path 
 All friendly wise leads past each humble door, 
 Where courts are set, and o'er their palings rude 
 The massing roses smile, and lilies fair ' 
 In serried ranks, vie for supremacy. 
 While clamb'ring o'er the walls, the ripened grapes 
 In sunshine steeped are storing amber wine. 
 
 A little laugh of water floweth down. 
 From hidden nook, among the wooded hills. 
 Where roses wild, with ferns and tangled vines 
 O'ershadow deep a tiny crystal spring. 
 Set jewelwise 'mid mosses cool and green. 
 So slight a stream and yet it needs must toil, 
 For at the smith's a curious wheel is set — ■■ 
 ■But what its use I ne'er have asked or learned. 
 And this glad brook sings only of the hills. 
 
 With gentle trend the road dips to the vale, 
 
 O'er arched with laden bough of fruit and nut ;^ 
 
 On either hand, in heated vibrant air 
 
 The flaming poppies dash the breadths of wheat ; 
 
 Adown the smiling vale which bears its name, 
 
 Winds still the merry 111. marking its course 
 
 In many a fleeting glimpse of shimmering light, 
 
 To where the distant fells are lost to view, 
 
 All netted soft in azure air ; and still 
 
 The road winds on and on, may lead at last 
 
 To where all roads are said to end. in Rome. 
 
A quaint old church, St. Blasien, here hath stood * 
 Through many cycles of the storied past. 
 Time's ruthless touch is on its crumbling tower, 
 In nave and trancept silent shadows kneel. 
 The incense lingers round its altars old, 
 And piercing through the emblazoned wall — 
 All agleam with pictured saints — 
 An image glows of Christ, the crucified; 
 Where kneeling oft the faithful peasants come 
 To look upon their suffering Lord. 
 
 Such pain 
 And grief it wears, this weary, human face. 
 Which with compassion most divine is blent; 
 And where the beaten gold hath framed it in 
 With arabesques, and many rare designs. 
 The purest lilies wreath their fragrant snow. 
 
 There in the holy hush which fills this shrine 
 Kneels one lone worshiper, with tear-wet face; 
 But as a fair Madonna motionless. 
 While he whose hand this wond'rous picture wrought 
 E'en then was driving down the sunlit way. 
 Which leads from Basle to Alsace's fairest vale. 
 
Part One 
 
Part One 
 
 WHEN Paul Evard, brush and pallette laid aside, 
 To art and study for a season bid adieu ; 
 With fellow students — boon companions they — 
 Of Schwarzwald, and the Rhine they made a tour. 
 One sweet June day, when all the world was fair. 
 With melody and fragrance in the air. 
 Had chanced upon this hamlet 'mid the hills, 
 Remotely hid from travel's beaten track. 
 Unsullied thus from touch of outer world. 
 
 Could those return, whose sacred dust hath slept 
 A thousand years beneath St. Blasien's walls, 
 In customs would and worship find no change ; 
 The simple household ways, the homely toil — 
 With pilgrimage and all the old time fests. 
 The blessing of the fields — glad harvest home — ^ 
 The ripened grain on sacred altar lain."* 
 
 This picture fair! when on some Sabbath morn 
 The happy children, clothed in raiment white, 
 With garlands bound about their sunny hair, 
 With smiling face above the golden sheaves; 
 They bear the ripened wheat, and mingled bloom — 
 Lilies and roses twined with ivy green. 
 While some, perchance, have sought the weaver's art, 
 And shining ribbons bind the prize they bear. 
 
With hymn and prayer they seek the olden shrine 
 
 And on its altar lay their fragrant sheaves. 
 
 Oh ! faith most beautiful ! nor any blight 
 
 When mingled with the springtime seed 'tis sown, 
 
 Shall touch or harm the grain so blessed as this. 
 
 There envy hath no place, nor greed of gain ; 
 
 No bart'ring of the soul for things of clay — 
 
 That perisheth 'though used with patient care. 
 
 There standeth wide the ever open door 
 
 In greeting warm, when stranger feet are led 
 
 To crave a shelter, or a wayside rest; 
 
 The coarsest crust when with such grace 'tis given 
 
 Are richer viands than a king's repast. 
 
 All this akin to that which held a place 
 
 In Evard's soul; here might true rest be found. 
 
 And deeming thus begged to be left awhile. 
 
 Of turmoil weary and of needless strife. 
 
 Here would he find the balm which nature yields. 
 
 His companions chaffed him thus: *'Hast dart 
 From some fair maiden's eyes thy heart empaled, 
 Till helpless captive thou art held, or hast 
 Thou wearied of companionship like ours? 
 Shall lighter prattle cease, and sober themes 
 The passing hours employ? Are not the song 
 And jest meet for our holiday?" 
 
 "Nay." 
 To learn this people's lore, he fain would stay, 
 Their ways are quaint and old, and subjects, too, 
 
For studies rare were here. "Would they proceed?" 
 He would them join anon at Chamonix. 
 
 Thus he prevailed, and all reluctantly. 
 
 Farewells were said, for he was well beloved, 
 
 And few could fill the place of genial Paul. 
 
 He bade God speed, and saw them take their leave, 
 
 And watched their course adown the sunlit vale; 
 
 E'er yet the pearly dew had left the blooms, 
 
 And every breeze that swept the thyme-fringed banks 
 
 Brought echoes sweet, of happy, college songs — 
 
 And laughter free from joyous, youthful hearts. 
 
 And then two, restful, perfect weeks were his. 
 Through wood and field he wandered at his will — 
 Or lay at ease, through listless, summer hours. 
 And through his soul, so strangely sweet, there stole 
 Delightful dreams. 
 
 In the deliciousness 
 Of full content — and faith and hope restored — 
 He wandered oft through bosky glen and grove, 
 And let the busy world go as it would. 
 
 Thus sped the days, until he, too, must go; 
 
 Such precious days! like threaded gems they were — 
 
 And in his heart he shrined their memories; 
 
 And these he held, a heritage indeed. 
 
 Which ever brighter grew as years advanced. 
 
 With study close, which only artists know. 
 When toil and pastime ever more are art, 
 
 13 
 
When high ambition lures, and fills the soul 
 For work that rivals all the Masters old — 
 Till in each canvas throbs a life divine, 
 But baffles still the hand that fain v^ould grasp, 
 Till prayer — despair and tears of blood it holds, 
 When finished 'tis. 
 
 Thus Paul Evard had toiled; 
 It was his hand »St. Blasien's picture wrought — 
 That tender face, the lilies wreathed this day. 
 Such, too, the task, nor rest nor peace were his 
 Till it completed was, a thing that breathed. 
 
 The winter of his northern home prolonged 
 Had been; when storm succeeded storm until 
 His health had failed, and left him weak and wan. 
 He cast about him for a place of rest — 
 Where health again his vigor might restore. 
 A memory stirred within, of dear Alsacian days. 
 And longing filled his soul. 
 
 He fain would dwell 
 Again with this Arcadian race. 
 The kindly deeds, so tenderly performed — 
 The gracious gift of flowers, and lucious fruits; 
 The restful peace of field and wood hid thall 
 Tugged at his heart, until he needs must go. 
 
 Such missives, too, had come through passing years, 
 They plead for sight of his dear face once more; 
 And every heart an earnest welcome held — 
 Each humble door for him stood opened wide — 
 While wistful eves turned ever toward the sea. 
 
 14 
 
They, too, had told how, when the picture came, 
 The peasants each in hoHday attire 
 Had made the shrine a fragrant bower of bloom ; 
 Had hung the dingy walls with banners bright — 
 Had twined in wreaths the shining myrtle spray. 
 And when the altar stood at last complete. 
 In rare device, of w^oodland blossoms frail. 
 With high and solemn Mass and priestly rites 
 Had set the sacred picture in its place. 
 
 Now borne toward this Mecca of his joys, 
 Where throbbed the sun on fields of ripened grain, 
 And brooded there his smile ineffable; 
 Then like a benediction peace enfolded him. 
 And in his heart an answering peace was found. 
 
 Clematis fragrant snow the boskage wreathed, 
 Which by the spendthrift breeze was wafted widC) 
 Till all the land with its spilled fragrance filled. 
 On every hand the dainty bloom was spread — ■ 
 Sweeter than Venus trod 'neath Ida's pines, 
 And fit for feet of peerless Persephone. 
 
 The journey ends, and then from fir-clad height 
 This hamlet lay close clasped within the thrall 
 Of lang'rous Summer fast asleep. 
 
 "Now, God be praised ! here is our foreign friend." 
 This was the housefrau's greeting, when he came. 
 Then welcome leal — the clasp of ready hands — 
 And joyful smile — through mist of tender tears. 
 
 15 
 
The news went forth, home from the field they throng 
 With eager haste, their brows bedewed with toil, 
 And greeting gave, such as few men have known. 
 
 Evard, throughout that glorious afternoon 
 Reception held, a guest and host as well was he. 
 
 In the twilight told him legends quaint and old, 
 The won'drous deeds of ancient lore. 
 
 Here waged 
 A battle fierce. And yon a mighty army lay,^ 
 That long besieged, to Death succumbed at last. 
 Here was a shrine, and there a castle, where 
 Some lord of old had dwelt ; at night a ghost 
 Walked headless; there in yonder field a rill 
 Gushed out, when stalf of St. Walberga pierced 
 The hillside, when her many virgins pure 
 Were famished on their toilsome way. 
 
 Yon wood, 
 Three graves of martyrs, mark a place of prayer. 
 And in this glen, the home of Elfin bands. 
 Who roved the fields at night, transforming all 
 They met, beneath the noon on certain nights. 
 They sat in converse thus, through gloaming late 
 Till curfew rang, and then, lights were out. 
 
 When 'mid the silence of St. Blasien's aisles,^ 
 Paul Evard saw the pictured face of Christ 
 Upon the altar stand enwreathed in blooms. 
 Of snowy whiteness — sainted lilies fair, 
 Which in dying left their sweetest odor there. 
 
 i6 
 
One ray of light, in fitful splendor fell 
 
 Through window pane, and o'er the face 
 
 Before him, with a smile of welcoming; 
 
 It upward crept like hands caressing, to 
 
 The thorns whose cruel piercing, twined the brow. 
 
 Long, long he stood and gazed upon it, till 
 
 His wonder grew; it seemed, than his hand, an other 
 
 Must have painted what he saw. No longer he 
 
 Remembered, tears and strivings sore — 
 
 Until, one day achievement lifted, and 
 
 The picture finished was. 
 
 Bethought him then 
 The lilies! wondered who had placed them there; 
 Ah, yes ! to honor his return had they 
 The blossoms twined ; but in succeeding days 
 Were fresher lilies ever more replaced 
 In lieu of those who dying left a faint 
 Perfume, like mem'ries wafted from the past. 
 
 Oft times a worshiper before it knelt ; 
 Found true restfulness within the calm. 
 Wayfarers, too, were there. 
 
 One golden morn — 
 When 'round the altar incense lingered still — 
 From service which was ended now, saw he 
 A maiden enter, bearing fragrant bloom. 
 
 Then long she knelt and wove the blossoms, with 
 A tender care ; saw the tear-drops welling, 
 The lips all tremulous with fervent prayer. 
 
 17 
 
And then with eyes downcast she passed him, 
 
 Unheeding where he stood, by friendly screen 
 
 Of column shielded, where he saw her leave. 
 
 But on the street he never met her, no means 
 
 He had to learn her name, "The angel of 
 
 The lilies," named ; this maid so stainless seemed. 
 
 Romance most tender wove he 'round her then; 
 
 Her innocence, the lilies symbolized. 
 
 Her guardian he stood and shielded her 
 
 From every danger with his strong right arm. 
 
 The tuneful days of June were speeding on 
 
 With all their bloom and balm; the laughing hours 
 
 Brought health and joy, and his eager soul was 
 
 Filled with longing for the conflict earnest. 
 
 Then he sought an inspiration from the 
 
 Scenes about him ; so would he paint, his work 
 
 To rival all that he had done before. 
 
 His peasant friends were those he painted in 
 
 Their every day attire ; in home or field 
 
 Were they busied with their duties. 
 
 On eves 
 Of Sabbaths, restful, they sang so blithe '' 
 Their German airs, till day blew out her torches 
 And left the land in slumber 'neath the stars. 
 
 At times he placed his easel close beside 
 The way, where travelers paused his work to view. 
 From the fields the home returning peasants stood 
 Well pleased to watch the picture as it grew. 
 
Now some quaint home, so picturesque and old — 
 
 Where wreathing vines upheld the crumbling wall 
 
 And clad each thatch in leafage green and cool, 
 
 And only door and window leaving for 
 
 The wefts of rarer light, where swayed and tossed 
 
 The fragrant roses, held in tender thrall. 
 
 By tended hedge and palings white. 
 
 Here, too, 
 The lombards tall, in dewy splendor sheened. 
 They seemed the faithful warders of the place. 
 Beneath their shadows cool a crystal spring, 
 That sped away to vale, like startled fawn, 
 And quickly hid within the bosom of 
 The 111; and one lone and aged washer spread 
 Her whitened linens there, till all around 
 Were meadows drifted as with stainless snow. 
 
 Thus all the _day he wrought, and whistled low, 
 While at his back agape the loiterers stood. 
 And watched the magic picture as it grew, 
 Although its technique was not understood. 
 Yet o'er the counterfeit of common things. 
 As wayside weed, or lichened stone, or bough 
 They raised a cry of marvel, stood amazed. 
 And hailed to distant comrades, "Haste and see ! 
 Sweet Jesu ! What wond'rous gift is this ? 
 Ah. this near perfect is, the tiles alone 
 On Francept's house are much too new, and bright, 
 And Rader's wife is washing, only see!" 
 And thus commenting, gave a critique true. 
 
 19 
 
And burly fellows, bringing down the wood, 
 Where erst some wald recht monarch had succumbed;* 
 The shrine he bore, was to some younger tree. 
 Conveyed, and left a space — a void — where stood 
 This patriarch before. 
 
 In wonder long they stood; 
 "Had we this gift," they said, "no longer would 
 We need to moil for pittance such as ours." 
 Was it not difficult ? they asked, if art, 
 Which seemed so wonderful as this, to learn? 
 One answer made, "it cometh of itself;" 
 And knew not, artists are not made, but born. 
 
Part Two 
 
Part Two 
 
 IN the vineyards lay the vines neglected — 
 It was the garnering season of the hay ; 
 When mowers brown and blythe, swung rythmic 
 scythe, 
 With its soothing over word to grasses tall. 
 As down they fell. When stone on steel is laid 
 Methinks no sweeter rythm hath the summer time; 
 Nor fragrance more delightful is than hath 
 The hay, when yielding up its soul beneath 
 The kisses of the sun. 
 
 For oh ! the song 
 And laughter gay, through the golden haze of eve, 
 When wains come lumbering home with hay. 
 
 Untrained, the vines had rampant grown, 
 
 And thus must be restrained. "It might 
 
 A pleasure prove, and would he care to go?" 
 
 Thus asked the kindly old housefrau, one day. 
 
 When ready for the fields, equipped with bands 
 
 Of straw to bind them captives to the stake. 
 
 Evard, for nonce thus putting art aside, 
 
 Expressed an eager readiness to go — 
 
 And followed where she led, across the fields, 
 
 O'er shadowed by the wood, down to the warm 
 
 And sun-kissed slope, where smiling vineyards lay. 
 
 23 
 
Among the toilers, one of finest mold — 
 Who e'en in sabots moved with stately ease; 
 About the head, the loosely knotted hood, 
 Hid eyes that were like violets, half afraid — 
 Too shy to look the glad sky in the face. 
 
 With constant toil the shapely hands were browned; 
 He noted how they deftly gathered up 
 The tangled vines, and firmly wrapped then 
 The bands of dampened straw ; her fingers deft 
 Gave perfect twist, and thus secured were they. 
 Her low, sweet voice, his ear the cadence caught — ■ 
 Like strains that o'er the starlit waters steal. 
 That form familiar grew; bethought him then, 
 Ah, truly ! this must be my lily maid. 
 
 Thus questioned our Evard. "Pray, who this maid 
 In kerchief white may be?" The housefrau smiled, 
 And answer made. "Kind sir ! we all who here 
 White kerchiefs wear; that one is Husher's frau, 
 And this is I, and she is Bernardine ; 
 Alas, dear heart ! an orphan lone is she, 
 Who with the good Adora, hath her home 
 In humble cot beneath yon linden baum." 
 
 And with that freedom which the German hath, 
 Then turned the housefrau to Bernardine, 
 And saith : "My liebling ! I've given to 
 This friend your name. The Ecce Homo he 
 Hath painted, we so dearly prize ; this gift 
 He made for us, in home beyond the sea." 
 
 24 
 
An instant, upward glorious eyes were raised, 
 Forth looked the angel of her soul, and then. 
 Like starbeams drowned in rain, the lashes swept 
 The eyes again ; the rose hue mantled e'en 
 Her brow. In accents low, reply she made. 
 Then turned again unto her wayward vines. 
 
 Twilight with eyes of starry sadness 
 Bade the weary, patient toilers homeward. 
 Till like silent shadows, through the scented dusk 
 Sped they, and halo-like each kerchief's snow 
 Lit up the gloom, as in some cathedral old 
 And dim the Virgin's sainted head is shown. 
 
 As they loitered homeward through the twilight 
 Eivard heard a tale of sorrow, grievous, 
 How severed by the cruel hand of fate — 
 Although through years they mourn with bitter tears, 
 True hearts may break, and weep alone apart. 
 
 Emile and Bernardine together grew ; 
 
 E'en from the hours of earliest infancy they oft 
 
 Afield had wept and waiting hungered while 
 
 Their mothers toiled ; thus found mid summer's heat 
 
 The lesson which in poverty is learned. 
 
 When children grown they wandered oft across 
 The sunlit fields, and there he bound her brow 
 With chaplets fair — to call her sister, learned; 
 They every joy and sorrow gladly shared; 
 Far into later years their innocence 
 They kept, holding still this bond of kinship. 
 
 25 
 
But, ah ! one day with feet atremble, touched 
 That border land, where all must stand, our youth 
 O'er past, a broader life before. 
 
 'Twas then 
 Those simple hearts first understood a strange, 
 New love had grown, full nurtured by the years; 
 Thought each to hide this secret then, enshrined 
 Within their inmost soul, and deemed it safe; 
 But things were not as they had been. 
 
 There grew 
 Restraint, the tell-tale blushes — the down cast eye — 
 Bespoke too well love's consciousness. 
 
 Oft Bernardine sat by herself, enrapped 
 
 In roseate dreams, and yet could ne'er have told 
 
 Their import sweet, had she been asked. 
 
 Emile, 
 His heart was from his keeping gone, and yet 
 He dared not tell ; ofttimes he wandered by 
 Himself, down some lone path, where no one came — 
 Beneath the shade of pines aeolian laid. 
 Within, an answering sadness, yet he knew 
 No cause. 
 
 There came a time when vows they spoke- 
 And plighted troth — and heart to heart revealed. 
 Oh. rhythm ! and the cadence, sweeter far. 
 Than joyous brook that singeth onward through 
 The blossoms, of some dewy, meadow nook ; 
 The song her happy heart kept singing, with 
 Its echoes softly ringing through the days. 
 
 26 
 
Across the land red handed carnage swept, 
 And when the smoke of conflict cleared away 
 Alsace the beautiful reverted to 
 The German hands. 
 
 Between those nations each 
 Must choose. Emile, whose sire beside the great 
 Napoleon fought, was loyal to his France,^ 
 And with her cast his lot ; nor doubted he 
 The woman whom he loved, would join him there 
 Most willingly; alas! the mother old 
 She found the dear home ties too strong to rend, 
 And so, Emile still toiled and yearned for them. 
 The die was cast, and he dare not return. 
 
 Before his easel in the lanes Evard 
 
 Still whistled merrily, the while his thoughts 
 
 Elsewhere, while ever more this vision 'rose 
 
 Of maid amid the vines, with trusting eyes 
 
 Of blue, which looked into his own, were those 
 
 Of Bernardine. 
 
 He to the vineyard went. 
 Where silence reigned supreme, deserted quite, 
 It was, and there he dreamed amid the vines 
 Her hands had touched, how well his pencil wrought 
 Their counterpart, his faithful sketch book showed. 
 
 27 
 
Amid the shadows and the silence of 
 St. Blasien lone, with naught of life save that 
 Faint ember which before the Host is shown, 
 There, too, he dreamed the passing hours away- 
 Such dreams as suited only time and place. 
 
 This sacred picture on the altar seemed 
 
 A mute companionship; still that face 
 
 In lilies wreathed — those sainted lilies pure — 
 
 And yet, alas ! the lily maiden saw 
 
 He never anywhere. 
 
 This ambition 
 In his soul was wakened ; to the Salon 
 He would one glowing canvas send; he'd paint 
 This self same vineyard, and as Pomona she 
 Its central figure be ; beyond should lie 
 The valley, where brooding like a dove, is peace, 
 With summer skies above it smiling, clear 
 As infant's eyes. 
 
 But how solve this problem ? 
 Was she not too shy to pose as model, 
 This Bernardine, this modest lily maid ? 
 
 Still o'er this subject pondering, Evard 
 So chanced, one day, upon Maria, who sat 
 Beneath the roses clustering 'round her door. 
 This Maria was sister to the master of 
 The hamlet's school. Ah! this indeed is well. 
 She can assist me much in this, thought he ; 
 And so he paused to pluck a rose, and her 
 A salutation gave; and then conversed 
 
 28 
 
Of household things, and then of books and art, 
 And last of his desire — of what he hoped ; 
 Already was the canvas stretched for use. 
 The background roughly in was laid, he yet 
 A model lacked e'er he could set to work ; 
 So deftly brought the subject 'round at last. 
 
 "Our Bernardine!" Maria exclaimed, aghast. 
 
 "'Tis she I mean, thou wilt assist me, this 
 I know." 
 
 "Not I, indeed ! I fear that this 
 Is not the proper thing to do ; and she 
 Would ne'er consent ; and, too, her time is filled 
 With tasks." 
 
 "The hay is home — the labor of 
 The vineyards done, pray what is there for her 
 To do?" 
 
 "Not much, poor Bernardine! and yet 
 Till harvest's golden prime, she from the woods 
 Must faggots bring — and stick by stick convey 
 Till winter's wood is home." 
 
 "Mean you to say 
 Those slender arms must bear the rugged woods? 
 On her dependeth their source of warmth? 
 Regret most lamentable! such tender life 
 Be .sacrificed for one that worthless is." 
 
 "Our Bernardine counts this but joy, so fond 
 Of this Adora old." 
 
 29 
 
"May heaven's joy 
 Be hers ! poor child ! she ne'er shall bear the wood 
 Whilst I remain; and then dost think that there 
 Objections farther are ? Thou art my friend !" 
 
 "I fear, kind sir! this thing cannot be done, 
 For there are those her service might require." 
 
 "Might they not be induced their rights to yield 
 Were I their fee outvaluing to pay 
 For lesser hours of toil? For surely they 
 At heart her interest have!" 
 
 "It can't be done!" 
 
 "Still I believe it can ! Thou art my friend, 
 And might come with her each morn, for an hour 
 Or so, it need not hinder thee from work. 
 Thy hands art doing now, and it might be 
 Amusing, too." 
 
 "And I my household duties all 
 Neglect, leave Joseph dine on viands cold. 
 Or wait for me ? Nay, nay ! although I were 
 A thousand times thy friend." 
 
 "I have a thought ! 
 And thou my friend must help ; 'tis this, get her 
 Consent; I will transfer from Burgomaster's field 
 Some stocks of grape, transplanting them within 
 The orchard at the rear, and neath the boughs 
 My easel set, and the Adora at 
 Her shaded lattice watch us as we work. 
 Come, come! cans't thou objections farther have? 
 
 30 
 
E'en thou ! and wilt assist ? My heart is on 
 This matter set." 
 
 "Ah, men will have their way! 
 And foolish women yield, 'twas ever thus, 
 Since Adam's time ; and thou no exception art ! 
 My master ! speak thy wish, it shall be done." 
 
 Submissively her hands she folded then. 
 
 "'Tis this, the morn, on good Adora call, 
 There broach the subject of the painter's skill; 
 What wond'rous thing is art ! and speak thou of 
 St. Blasien's picture if there's need, make sure 
 That Bernardine shall hear ; tell her my wish — 
 Of what I hope to do — plead well my cause, 
 But let her not refuse; and thus to thee 
 I shall indebted be." 
 
 He held her hand 
 In brief farewell, and then he left her 'neath 
 The roses thoughtful there. To Eivard, all 
 The world of rose hue seemed, success assured. 
 
 There came a sound of lumbering, jarring wheels, 
 When Bernardine forth from the lattice looked 
 At morn, and saw the loaded wains of wood 
 Halt at her door, and leave their load. 
 
 Questioned, 
 They smiled, for such their orders were, the pay 
 Advanced. The women wondered, while they wept 
 For joy; they counted o'er the friends 
 
 31 
 
Who thus would do, but ne'er thought they of him 
 He who sojourned within their gates. 
 
 And then 
 Maria came, and o'er the busy cHci-c 
 Of needles bright, she told who sent the wood ; 
 She of his talent spoke — the picture sketched. 
 And when she paused, the good Adora said, 
 While grateful tears rained o'er her patient face, 
 Now was a burden lifted from her heart; 
 Had wondered much how it would come about ; 
 This bringing wood, too great for Bernardine ; 
 Her slender arms had ached, the previous year, 
 Oft times too weary for her food at night. 
 "Our God doth not forget us in our need !" 
 
 Then speaking low, with tears her fears she told. 
 How she had weakened day by day, and soon 
 Must keep her bed ; unable to be left, 
 What would they do for bread ? She such a care, 
 And Bernardine no longer earn. Still would 
 She trust, had they not proof of God's dear love? 
 And He would not forget their greater need," 
 
 "One final wish I crave, and then, methinks. 
 Would gladly fold my hands and be at rest; 
 To see my child once more, to feel his arms 
 Enfold me close, to hear him speak my name. 
 Emile, Emile! desire consumes my soul; 
 I pray for strength to trust and wait." 
 
 Then to her aged, care-worn face 
 
 There came a look of yearning most intense. 
 
 32 
 
''My Bernardine! God grant, I may not be 
 A burden ever to this blessed one." 
 Then tender arms enfolded her, and thus 
 With kisses warm on lip and brow, she hushed 
 Complaint. 
 
 For Bernardine the burden was, 
 When homeless, she had home and mother found. 
 The locks of gray and gold commingled there, 
 While tears fell silently. 
 
 "Dear heart ! Dear heart ! 
 The perfect joy of life be thine, for this, 
 Thy tenderness, and sacrifice for me." 
 
 "Say, what is this of picture grand we hear ? 
 The Burgomaster's vineyard spreading far, 
 And at its rear, the vale all dotted o'er 
 With hamlets nestled 'mid the orchard boughs, 
 And Lands Krone far away, it crests^ ^ 
 The hill top, where the fells are growing dim. 
 The center hath a space not yet laid in; 
 I long for sight of it ! desire grows keen, 
 I dream of it at night, and wonder what 
 The space will show, until at times it seems 
 My very heart hath in that picture grown." 
 
 "No wonder that such great desire is thine, 
 For thou its central figure art to be." 
 
 A look of awe stole o'er the fair, young face, 
 Then one of doubt. 
 
 "Pray, do I hear aright?" 
 
 33 
 
"Yea ! thou his model, child ! and say not nay ; 
 This conception his, that day he saw thee there 
 Amid the vines. The self same garb thou art 
 To wear, as on that day, the straw, the kerchief all. 
 And standing, art to hold the vines as when 
 Thou answering, turned to him that afternoon." 
 
 She told them of the orchard scheme — the stock 
 Of vines, and readily Adora gave consent. 
 But Bernardine, all maidenlike, demurred. 
 "That faded dress — the kerchief, and the straws! 
 How could she tie a single stock of vines 
 All the day long? Not one, but many need." 
 
 "Art not to tie the vines, but make pretense; 
 Consider well the liberal offer made; 
 Each hour a greater recompense than earned 
 All day afield. 
 
 How many maids there are 
 Would gladly service give and count it gain. 
 Couldst thou but see how grand is this Salon, 
 A host of pictures, I am told. 
 With eager crowds v/ho thither throng to view, 
 And some to purchase. 
 
 Here comes the Herr. 
 He for himself may speak." 
 
 From the doorway 
 She called, "Mine Herr ! we would have speech with thee." 
 He entering, took the proffered seat, each speck 
 Brushed off from that which dustless seemed before. 
 
 34 
 
The old Adora, grew profuse in thanks ; 
 She babbled of this wood — how great the strain — 
 How she had fretted o'er its bringing home, 
 She prayed for him, God's blessing manifold. 
 
 But Evard termed the obligation his; 
 
 It pleasure was, the slightest thing performed 
 
 For one so good. And then on many themes 
 
 Conversed, and then arose to take his leave ; 
 
 Of that which lay so near his heart, no word 
 
 He spoke, until Adora, mentioned it. 
 
 The orchard studio — with Bernardine 
 
 As model there, were each at his command. 
 
 Then word was spread abroad, how Bernardine 
 Had selected been, the Priestess of the vines. 
 "Ach, Gott ! what honor, frauline thine, 'tis grand !" 
 They cried. 
 
 Ah ! many maids of form and face 
 Less fair, into the wrinkled mirror looked 
 And sighed, and wished she had the chosen been. 
 
 When known where he would work, regret was felt; 
 
 No right had they within the orchard gate. 
 
 To watch its growth, as in the fragrant lanes. 
 
 Yet, when he said, when it completed was 
 
 Would place, for one whole day at school, where all 
 
 Might view, they were with this content. 
 
 35 
 
Part Three 
 
Part Three 
 
 OH, freshness of the crystal hearted morn ! 
 When silvery mists upstealeth to the sun, 
 Whose kiss of joy rests o'er the wakened land, 
 With melody and sweetest music filled — 
 So wild and free, and in the heart of him, 
 ^^'ho goeth forth, an answering melody. 
 Earth hath no dissonance to hearts atuned 
 To nature's harmony, the faintest touch 
 Across her vine strung lute, response brings forth. 
 
 Not yet the dew had left the wooded dells — 
 
 And where the shadow of the orchard lay, 
 
 The grasses bowed beneath its jewelled wealth. 
 
 Long e'er the sun stole 'neath the gnarled boughs, 
 
 Evard his easel placed — the choicest tints 
 
 Of pigment on his pallette spread, and was 
 
 All eager to begin ; yet all imbued 
 
 With radiance of the morn, and such a morn ! 
 
 All bloom and balm, and upward soaring larks 
 
 To greet the day in loftier skies. 
 
 And such divine content his being filled. 
 
 Had stood, one brief uplifted space, alone 
 
 With God. 
 
 And when the sunbeams kissed the leaves 
 That trembled o'er his head, the cottage grew 
 
 39 
 
Astir ; Adora from her lattice drew 
 The faded screen, and friendly welcome smiled. 
 The lifted latch — the door that all atremble stood, 
 Then motionless, as one who hesitates. 
 
 At last, with downcast eyes, so shyly through 
 The rustic porch, 'mid drifting petals from 
 The roses overhead, came Bernardine, 
 In kerchief white — sabots and homely garb, 
 Which the Alsacians wear. 
 
 The sleeves of white 
 Above the dimpled elbows pinned, and in 
 The shapely hand of brown, so lightly held, 
 An apron coarse, which held the dampened straw; 
 She smiled a greeting, radiant as the morn, 
 Yet ill at ease, as every move attests. 
 
 "I ready am," she said, "Yet I greatly fear 
 O'f little service I shall be; the livelong night 
 Hath wakeful been, Y»?ith thoughts of how to serve 
 Upon occasion such as this." 
 
 "And find 
 Thy nerves o'er wrought in consequence; hast been 
 Solicitous, this I appreciate; 
 But better still, that glow of health which sleep 
 Alone can give. But I forbear, thou wilt 
 All this forget as work proceeds, and smile 
 At needless fear. 
 
 Wilt sit thee here, beneath 
 The spreading boughs, and converse hold e'er work 
 
 40 
 
Begin? I am too deep in joy's excess 
 
 For prosy toil; for all the world seems filled 
 
 With breath of roses newly born," 
 
 And there, 
 As side by side, o'er kerchief white, and locks 
 Of brown, through leaves dew sprent, the sunshine wove 
 Its wefts of golden light. 
 
 The while he spoke 
 Of dear home land — its cities — arts and ways 
 So new, to one who ne'er our land has seen; 
 She listening calmer grew. He deftly brought 
 The converse 'round to Alsace of present time, 
 And led the maid to freely speak to him. 
 Of their own life, and customs, too, till all 
 Her nervousness took flight. 
 
 Of picture just 
 Beg^n ; this was to be a masterpiece 
 If care, and faithful work could make it such. 
 How she assistance best might give — 
 It would require a patience rare, 'twould need 
 So many mornings e'er 'twas done — 
 Till all her soul with zeal was filled; then like 
 A fawn she sprang erect. 
 
 "Let us to work! 
 Nor shall I fail thee, till success lift to 
 Thy brow the laurel crown; speak thou thy wish. 
 It shall be done; my very soul at thy 
 Command." And this was his desire. "But wait!" 
 
 41 
 
He said. "Strive first to self forget; then think 
 No more of this lone stock, but all in sight 
 A vineyard vast, the Burgomaster's if 
 Thou wilt, and thou engaged to tie them all; 
 Were such the case, how wouldst thou do?" 
 
 She from 
 The clover raised the vines, the crystal dew 
 In showers fell, as to the stake were brought 
 And quickly wrapped the straws about; 
 She gave them there the perfect twist, and held 
 With dainty touch, for his approval turned. 
 
 The while she waited, roses bloomed afresh, 
 The same light in those glorious eyes as on 
 That other afternoon. 
 
 "Ah, Frauline! 
 Perfection this! Cast all thy needless fear 
 Aside; this doth my fondest hope surpass. 
 Cans't thou this posture for a moment hold? 
 
 Then rapidly the pencil drew, and soon 
 The color in was laid, forgetting self — 
 Forgetting time — as moment after moment sped. 
 Or trying, such position new to her. 
 Poor child! who trembling stood. 
 
 "Forgive!" he said, 
 "My cruel selfishness; I did not note 
 The flight of time, and now the morn is done. 
 Ah, thou art weary, patient soul ! needst pose 
 
 42 
 
No longer; sit thou here and view the work 
 Which we have done, so much accomphshed in 
 This space, that all the figure outlined is. 
 Now note the perfect grace of pose. 
 
 This day 
 No service farther shall require, and will 
 No longer from thy duties now detain. 
 Maybe Adora needs thy care, go console 
 Thou her, poor soul! how ill she seems this morn." 
 
 "She rests not well, so constantly in pain, 
 In death alone is found a sure surcease, 
 For such as she. This spirit beautiful, 
 Earth can not long retain, I trow; so sweet 
 It is to have her here, and still she longs 
 To be at rest, she waits the messenger." 
 
 And then those eyes of heavenly blue were drenched 
 With tears. 
 
 While speaking words which solace brought. 
 He noted well the tender, tear dimmed eyes — 
 How beautiful they were — a longing felt 
 To paint her thus. Doth ought escape the eye 
 Of artist true ? 
 
 The sunlight paled for space 
 So brief, what time she turning left his side; 
 Went toward the porch, but 'neath the roses turned 
 To him, and bade him call should aught require ; 
 Then smiling waved adieu. A shower softly fell 
 Of petals, from the roses gentl}^ stirred, 
 And she was sfone. 
 
 43 
 
Nor whistled Evard for 
 The nonce, so all absorbing grew his work, 
 Was scarcely to himself recalled, as from 
 St. Blasien's ivied tower the Angelus 
 Was rung; thought only how his work progressed. 
 While, faithful those of Bettlach stood, in home. 
 In field with bowed head. Felt keen reproof 
 As there he saw Adora, humbly bowed, 
 With clasped hands, where she beside 
 The lattice prayed; then bowed his head, and stood 
 All reverent, till so softly some one spoke 
 His name, and 'neath the roses fair stood Bernardine. 
 
 "Will you come in? Adora has a wish 
 To crave, that you our attic occupy, 
 And store the picture safely there, such time 
 As not engaged thereon." 
 
 He stood again 
 Beneath Adora's humble roof ; he took 
 Her hand, with many tender words of cheer. 
 Then as she made her wishes kindly known, 
 Accepts the proffered room. 
 
 Bernardine, 
 To lead the way, flits like a fairy up 
 The stairs — flings wide the door — and on 
 Its threshold waits for him Avho followed on, 
 But slower climbed the broken stair; when gained 
 At last, he found the room a studio 
 Unique; the rough hewn rafters from the wood 
 Showed blending rare of thatch and tile. 
 
 44 
 
A window lone, in gable quaintly set, 
 
 Let in the softened rays of light, which fell 
 
 Through small, round, leaded panes of glass, as still 
 
 Are seen in gables old, or cornice odd. 
 
 He there the picture quickly brought, and all 
 
 That glorious summer afternoon, hung bits 
 
 Of ancient armor there, and made the place 
 
 With all his sketches bright; op'ed wide 
 
 Ihe sash, and let the fragrant roses in, 
 
 Which clustered 'round the casement old. 
 
 Through days 
 O'f wind and rain, he read, or dreamed the hours 
 Away o'er book and good cigar, so when 
 Adora asked the place to see, he brought 
 Her in his strong arms up, and set her there, 
 And smiled, well pleased to see her deep delight. 
 And many hours in that old room they sat 
 And talked, till twilight fell, and silvery stars 
 Through casement shown. 
 
 Through golden, August days, 
 Each morning found them busy there within 
 That shadowy orchard old ; the while he with 
 A rapid pencil drew our Bernardine 
 Into position fell, of calm unstudied grace. 
 Of tying still the single vine; she gazed 
 At him with unconcern, as they conversed 
 On many themes ; or she some ancient lore 
 Repeated o'er, which Bettlach's elders still 
 Believe. 
 
 45 
 
Sometimes when lengthened shadows lay- 
 Athwart the fields, she led by devious paths 
 To places which historic are, or hath 
 A legend all its own, and there repeat, 
 The old-time tales, which gave them zest. 
 
 One day they roamed across the vale, 
 
 They climbed the height to Rothberg's ruin grand ;^^ 
 
 Though but a fragment still remains to speak 
 
 The grandeur which hath been. One tower rears 
 
 Its battlement above the crumbling pile 
 
 Of stone a dreary dungeon was, with but 
 
 An entrance at the top; nor any light 
 
 Hath pierced its walls, by e'en the smallest trace, 
 
 O'f loop-hole there ; here Rothberg prisoners lay. 
 
 And when they with exploring wearied were, 
 Within some deep embrasure sat, and from 
 The window viewed the charming scene below. 
 Which there was spread; far, far as human eye 
 Can see, one sweep of ripened, waving grain — 
 Of nestling roofs, umbrageous orchard crowned, 
 And breadths of shadowy water, calm and still. 
 
 There where a broken hearth remains, he saw 
 L;. M., these letters deeply graven in; 
 Of Bernardine, their meaning asked. 
 
 "Ah! 'tis 
 A legend centuries old, of fair Clarice, 
 Of Rothberg house, and Leon Montrifiel, 
 Who dwelt in Lands Krone castle yon, which crowns 
 
 46 
 
The height beyond the 111. Anton Rothberg, 
 
 A feudal lord, once claimed all these wide lands; 
 
 'Twas he this castle built, and he parent was 
 
 Of fair Clarice, whom Leon loved; but when 
 
 The young knight wooing came, and won her heart, 
 
 Then of this lord her hand he craved, the stern 
 
 Old tyrant loudly swore that ne'er a child 
 
 Of his a Montrifiel should wed until 
 
 He had his laurels won in war ; and bade 
 
 Him hence, and when could show a wound, or two, 
 
 Or goodly scar, then come, but not before ! 
 
 Then might he claim the lady's hand, and she 
 
 Would wed with him, no fear! She'd faithful bide, 
 
 A Rothberg she. 
 
 When Leon came one eve, 
 Farewell to say ; for Saxony, that night 
 He rode, where rankled still some ancient feud. 
 
 And as they lingered o'er adieus, and talked 
 Of what the future held, when he from wars 
 Returned, should claim her hand; then some fine day 
 A pageant grand should ride to Lands Krone hall, 
 Where every homage should be paid to this, 
 The fairest lady in the land ; that life 
 Henceforth all joy should be. 
 
 This boon she craved, 
 That he upon the lintel there would his 
 Initials carve; 'though no reminder did she need 
 Of one so brave. 
 
 47 
 
He drew his poinard from 
 Its sheath and deeply graved the letters there; 
 The while the weapon brightly gleamed, where fell 
 The flashing firelight on the steel, as swift 
 The yielding stone was cut. "While this remains 
 I will be true!" he said, then kissed her hand, 
 And rode away. 
 
 Clarice, each morning hung 
 Fresh blossoms there, and fondly kissed the stone; 
 Each eve she whispered there, "Good Night!" and sent 
 A prayer across the gloom, and loving thoughts 
 For her brave knight, till slowly, lagging days 
 Grew into months; and then they numbered years; 
 And still returned he not. Each night Lands Krone 
 Gave signal thus : "No news !" till hope died out. 
 
 Now, sir! this Rothberg dungeon held a knight — • 
 A Saxon prisoner long immured, and he 
 Was ill, and nigh to death, his keeper said. 
 The baron swore he'd ne'er relent, till war 
 And dungeon did its work, to wipe from earth 
 The hateful horde; gave orders strict, then rode 
 To war. 
 
 One night, in dreams, beside Clarice's 
 Couch an angel stood, and gravely pointed to 
 Far Saxony, then disappeared, and in 
 Its stead the Saxon knight, who whispered low, 
 "I'll find your prince!" Then she awoke; she 'roused 
 The jailor from his rest. 
 
 48 
 
"Go bring the knight," 
 She said. "Do not demur! My father? He 
 Will think him dead, and I will shield thee; have 
 No fear, but do my bidding ; do it now !" 
 
 O'erhead the windlass loudly creaked, as he 
 The hempen ladder swift unwound, and to 
 The rush strewn bottom fell. They from the stones 
 Upraised the feeble knight, and bore him safe 
 To blessed air so long withheld; thence through 
 The starry night to turret high, and on 
 A silken couch was laid; nor rest, nor peace 
 Knew fair Clarice, until she brought him back 
 To health and strength; and then all blindly, and 
 Alone, his heart had from his keeping gone; 
 He loved Clarice, he told his love, and plead 
 His cause right gallantly. 
 
 Unfolded then 
 This maiden's heart; she freely showed him all 
 Was treasured there; told, too, her dream, again. 
 She heard his words, "I'll find your prince!" 
 
 Then forth 
 He rode in earnest quest, to castles went. 
 And sought through many countries strange and new. 
 Alas! 'twas but a hopeless quest; all sad 
 And discouraged to his home he went; chanced 
 One day, in gossip, such as servants will, 
 He overheard a young, Alsacian knight. 
 As hostage held, was nigh to death, they said. 
 And then he knew it was the lost Leon. 
 
 49 
 
He swift unto that dungeon hied, and brought 
 
 The dying Leon forth, but tried in vain 
 
 To nurse this patient back to health. 
 
 "There was no hope," physicians said, and so. 
 
 One radiant day, when earth lay hushed in calm 
 
 Of Sabbath rest, they started forth. 
 
 So tenderly, those henchmen tried and true, 
 
 On litter strong, bore him o'er hill, bore him 
 
 O'er sunlit dale, all under truce, to home. 
 
 In Alsace land; he there enfolded in 
 
 His love's dear arms — his weary head upon 
 
 Her gentle breast, this brave young knight passed on 
 
 Into the silence of the dreamless rest. 
 
 And worthless then to him were wounds and scars. 
 
 One day there wound to Lands Krone's lordly halls 
 
 "A pageant grand," in solemn robes bedight. 
 
 Pale as a lily — like the lilies pure. 
 
 This Clarice rode beside the flower wreathed bier; 
 
 In wide-eyed sorrow, still one picture saw, 
 
 A vision which her youthful dreams had wrought — 
 
 In years that long had flown. 
 
 Then days went by, 
 With sun and gloom — with seasons' silent change. 
 Until the years in passing numbered four. 
 Peace brooded o'er this Rothberg's stately towers, 
 All hates forgotten now. 
 
 The Saxon sued 
 Again ; she sighed, but did not say him nay, 
 
 50 
 
Part Four 
 
Part Four 
 
 THIS radiant morn, though all in nature smiled, 
 The shimmering air with balm o'erladen was — 
 While overhead were skies of deepest blue. 
 Between our two was silence and restraint, 
 As when some sorrow presseth on the heart, 
 Or anxious care lays finger on the lip 
 O'f joy. 
 
 'Though Bernardine still held the vines 
 And feigned to smile, as fleet her smile as sun 
 Chased shadows are; within her glorious eyes 
 Were hid a world of tears unshed. A sigh. 
 Suppressed, then Evard knew her heart 
 O'erburdened was. 
 
 All tenderly, as if 
 To grieving child, her hand he took and led 
 Her forth, to where a glad stream sang its lay; 
 There sat them down awhile; no words were said, 
 This silent sympathy its solace brought; 
 And when her smiles more steadfast grew he spoke : 
 
 "My Frauline, wilt tell me this? So long 
 Have wished to know, yet feared to question thee, 
 Why thou about St. Blasien's picture keep 
 The sainted lilies wreathed." 
 
 53 
 
For briefest space 
 A silence reigned, and o'er her eyes of blue 
 The white lids trembled down, then lifted were 
 All glorified with trust. 
 
 "I'll tell thee why," 
 Said Bernardine. "When first the picture came 
 The tender, pitying face appealed to me. 
 And as of old, He drew the humble folk — 
 Who left their all to follow Him, so was 
 I drawn, until this blessed, thorn-crowned King 
 A living presence seemed. 
 
 Oft, when methought 
 My heart must break with weight of woe oppressed- 
 Too heavy grew to bear — I oft have in 
 The holy silence knelt and told it all ; 
 Saw pity in that tender face — all blent 
 With anguish there portrayed — greater far, 
 Than mortals e'er can know; my burdens of 
 Such little moment seemed — my sorrows fled — 
 And I to duty have returned all light 
 Of heart, with hope renewed, and life once more 
 Seemed grandly beautiful. 
 
 One day I left 
 A fragrant lily there, it faded not; 
 So on the morrow others brought, until 
 It seemed the thing to do. 
 
 Belief hath come — 
 It follows me persistently — that through 
 This picture, help will come to mine and me; 
 But how, I do not understand ; still it 
 
 54 
 
Hath certain comfort brought, my heart grows light- 
 The while I tell my sorrows o'er and weave 
 The scented blossoms there. 
 
 Doth smile at me?" 
 "Not I, indeed! It humbleth me to think 
 That I the privilege have of comforting 
 E'en one o'erburdened heart. The Father dear ! 
 Still helping me, will greater assistance prove. 
 And if at any time should deem that I 
 Am worthy of such confidence, and thus 
 Thou wouldst in me confide, this sorrow which 
 Oppresseth thee, speak only when, and what 
 Thou wilt, and I will hold it sacred trust." 
 
 "A thousand thanks, kind sir ! yet not to-day 
 
 Will trouble thee with that which blitheth all 
 
 My life. I greatly fear that even thou 
 
 Cans't naught avail to change stern fate's decree." 
 
 In lifted eyes of blue was sorrow's guest, 
 
 And welling tears brimmed o'er — in showers fell. 
 
 "To-morrow morn begins the hamlet's fest, 
 It is a sacred day — when to St. Blasien come 
 From hamlets far — in pilgrimmage — with song — 
 And prayer — and masses at each altar read ; 
 Thanksgiving 'tis for precious harvest home. 
 That the dear Father! storm withhold from those 
 Ungathered still. Wilt please excuse? And may 
 We hope to see thee there ?" 
 
 Long mused Evard 
 When she had gone. He gazed upon his work — 
 
 55 
 
Her picture there — that fair, girl figure 'mid 
 The vines, whose trusting eyes looked into his. 
 And in that face. Madonna-like, saw naught 
 Save purity immaculate. Wave after wave 
 Of tender pity swept across his soul. 
 
 And Bernardine rejoiced, now from her heart 
 A burden was removed ; sped down the road, 
 St. Blasien ward, to tell her joy before 
 The Ecce Homo there. 
 
 The early morn 
 Our Eivard found within St. Blasien's walls; 
 And soon across the sun-kissed vale they came — 
 A gaily, bannered host; first priest and acolyte. 
 Then followed faithful ones, and in their m.idst 
 The maidens clad in robes of snowy white — 
 In wreath and veil — the blessed Virgin bore. 
 The monotone of prayer came faintly on 
 The scented wings of zephyr, borne to him; 
 And as the shrine they neared, he knew it was 
 The Rosary. He entered, too, within the shrine 
 And humbly knelt upon the broken floor. 
 
 The service done — the banners homeward borne— 
 And sitting there upon the mouldering wall — 
 Which Gotte's acre, there enclosed, Evard 
 Drank in the melody of happy song, 
 Still by the truant breezes brought to him, 
 Till fainter grew the sound, and all was still. 
 Out from the hamlets 'mid the hills glad bells 
 Rang out their welcoming to rest, to home. 
 
 56 
 
That morn, in blissful idleness, those two 
 Sat 'neath the shade. "Too indolent for work," 
 Thus E^vard said, and laid his pallette 'mong 
 The clover blooms, and in his hand his brushes 
 He idle held, while Bernardine and he within 
 The cooling shadow sat and converse held. 
 As on that morn so long ago. 
 
 Adora, where 
 She from the lattice forth smiled on those two. 
 And playful shook her head of silver gray, 
 And pointed to the easel oft, and vines. 
 Which 'mid the clover lay ; of no avail. 
 They smiled, as sometimes wayward children will. 
 But idled still. 
 
 In accents low and sweet. 
 Our Bernardine told then the story of her life. 
 'Twas filled with such exquisite tenderness, 
 This earth no sadder hath. 
 
 'Twas much the same 
 As this we know% the housefrau, told so long 
 Ago at twilight hour ; with pathos all 
 Her own, spoke of Emile, how he had toiled. 
 The while denied himself of comfort all. 
 The mother might not w^ant, till now his health 
 Was gone. 
 
 She, too, had helped all that she could 
 From early morn til! dewy eventide; 
 Had toiled afield ; but what one mark per day, 
 On which they two must live? Since he had come 
 
 57 
 
His largess had so many comforts brought, 
 And, too, Emile, could now be warmer clothed. 
 
 "Oh, sir!" with pleading hands she turned to him; 
 
 "Doth know what 'tis to hunger day after day. 
 
 And hunger still for but one glimpse of face — 
 
 One little glimpse! of one that's gone; with such 
 
 Desire, woulds't gladly give life's fullest years, 
 
 For that one glance so brief; or for the tone 
 
 Of dear remembered voice, through lagging years, 
 
 Till burden hath too heavy grown — must still 
 
 Be borne? 'Twas then this picture came, and from 
 
 The first, 'twas heaven sent to comfort me. 
 
 But the Adora, patient soul ! hath not 
 This comfort of your picture had. Her son, 
 With ardent longings, she desires to see 
 Once more; poor hungered heart!" 
 
 "Oh! would that ] 
 Had earlier known of this, no obstacle 
 Too great had been; we should have found a way. 
 Emile shall come! Bring his address; I'll write 
 At once, and bear the missive o'er the line 
 To Switzerland." 
 
 He wrote. "Thy mother old 
 Is longing for her son, and she is ill. 
 Cross thou the line, needs't have no fear! I'll meet 
 Thee 'mid the larches on the hill ; the hour 
 Is six on Thursday eve, so do not fail." 
 
 58 
 
Then Bernardine her signature affixed, 
 
 Of authenticity a guarantee; 
 
 He gold enclosed, and bore it safe across the line. 
 
 And then the mother must be told the joy 
 
 In store; o'erjoyed was she. 
 
 "Emile, Emile ! 
 And I shall see my child once more ? Dear God ! 
 Too much of joy this is." Then as a babe 
 She prattled on — what she would say — what she 
 Would do; then came a change. 
 
 "What this portend? 
 Maybe, it was bringing him to prison or 
 To death! What would not they, those Gendarmes, do? 
 No, no! he must not come; oh, stay him now! 
 'Tis not too late! and yet — and yet — I want 
 My boy." Evard, to this dear mother's heart 
 Assurance brought; at last, in higher hands. 
 She rested all, to wait this coming home. 
 
 A broad highway, across the fertile fields, 
 To Linchdorf leads, a hamlet in the vale; 
 This way is bordered, too, with wheat, o'erarched 
 With fruitful boughs, with here and there beside 
 The way a tangle wild, convolvuli, 
 And fragrant vines; in whose unfathomed depths 
 Of loveliness one might a shelter find 
 From storm and wind. 
 
 Here crucifixes, too, beside 
 The way, amid the wheat are set; en mass 
 
 59 
 
Are blue forget-me-nots, and purple thyme, 
 With which crude inscription is o'ergrown — 
 Which one must put aside if they would read ; 
 And then the shimmering air is rife with balm. 
 
 A lonely road ; one ne'er might stranger meet, 
 Outside this hidden, sleepy town, set 'mid 
 The fields, knee deep with grass and bloom — 
 And spreading orchards old; and 'tis so like. 
 To Bettlach, too, one scarce would know 'twas not 
 The same, or maybe fragment broken off, 
 A lodgment found within the valley fair; 
 Or, better still, a peasant child gone by 
 Itself, to play awhile, in quiet there. 
 
 The same old homes in disarray, the same 
 Carnations massed in bloom; a merry stream 
 Comes leaping down, its purpose picturing 
 As it goes; the wheel of olden mill. 
 It turns, then lazy lies 'neath willow shade. 
 Where on the polished stones, an old, old frau, 
 Her homespun linens wash; the while you pass 
 She gives "Good day!" and smiles, then bends unto 
 Her task again ; but in her eyes one reads — 
 "Would I, like thee, might have a holiday." 
 
 Amid the fields, outside this drowsy town, 
 
 The most pretentious house of all is kept 
 
 As Inn, and there, above the door, a sign 
 
 In iron wrought, of two crossed keys, swings in 
 
 The breeze ; here dwelt Johannes Habiteur, 
 
 60 
 
And sister Bertha, still unwed — a vixen, she! 
 In scanty measure is her meanness shown ; 
 She grudges e'en the wine the kreutzers bring 
 Which she rakes in, and grumbles loud should one, 
 Perchance, but linger long o'er pipe and mug. 
 
 And yet she as a shining angel is 
 Beside Johannes; he hath with much intrigue, 
 And hoarded gold, full many a trusting maid 
 Ensnared, who mistake saw, too late, alas ! 
 And wealth ill-gotten, too, is his, of which 
 No one has ever known, for graves speak not. 
 And they have lain for years in Tsessor wood. 
 
 All wrapped in self Johannes was; still to 
 His credit be it said, he truly loved 
 Our Bernardine with all the ardor he 
 Possessed; he followed her persistently 
 With proffers of his name ; but Bernardine 
 Would naught of him. or of his wealth, and well 
 He knew who came between him and desire. 
 
 And thus beside the hedge row oft he hid 
 And kept an eye on Bernardine, and tried 
 To catch what they might say, beneath the bougns 
 Of laden, orchard trees; a sentence caught — 
 Sometimes a word, when winds were right; alas! 
 That they too freely spoke of Thursday eve. 
 And whom would come ; in frantic glee he sped 
 Away, and yet he had not heard it all. 
 
 6i 
 
One dweller there in Bettlach was Maurice; 
 A poor, demented one who dwelt alone 
 In hovel rude, where want stood sentinel. 
 "This world is out of sorts," he said; it was 
 His task to right the wrong, but there were ghosts. 
 That came between ; full many nights, in vain, 
 He spent to oust them from this hovel old. 
 Ofttimes was seen his taper's gleam, where they 
 In loft a lodgment found, or in the stalls, 
 For refuge sought and grinned at him, till night, 
 All shuddering was with curses loud, and yet — 
 Like Hamlet's ghost, they would not down. 
 
 To him, 
 Evard unwelcome was ; the picture which 
 He worked upon was, too, a ghost, and oft 
 A missile slyly hurled fell close, until 
 Evard, no more would he endure; he then 
 That ghostly precinct entered in, and then 
 He soundly shook Maurice, who filled with fear. 
 All promise made, became an abject slave 
 Unto Evard. This Thursday afternoon 
 Of which we write, Evard had met Maurice, 
 And to him did this secret plan unfold : 
 At dusk, Maurice should 'neath the tangles creep. 
 Which lay beside the Linchdorf way, and there 
 Till midnight sleep, when ghosts were out ; then would 
 Evard arouse Maurice, who fleeing down 
 The dim highway, should circle once about 
 The vines, the Burgomaster's vineyard there; 
 
 62 
 
That he must utter ne'er a word, though pressed 
 Most close ; then home to bed, when ah the ghosts 
 Would loose themselves, so trouble him no more. 
 Maurice a faithful promise made. Evard 
 Well knew he would not fail. 
 
 A broad highway 
 Of Roman make, lies boldly 'crost this fair 
 Alsacian land ; 'twas built in time of Christ, 
 So legend saith, can still be plainly traced, 
 In woodlands where great fir trees grow, but in 
 The fields encroaching plows reduce this width. 
 
 Late on this Thursday afternoon a man. 
 
 Still young, of medium height, drags o'er 
 
 This Roman way ; this peasant wears the garb of France. 
 
 Since early morn o'er many leagues through France 
 
 Hath come; he rests him oft, where friendly screen 
 
 Of odor'us boughs shut out the view ; but walks 
 
 With nervous haste across the meadows brown 
 
 And sere, until the larches gained at last. 
 
 Exhausted sinks upon the moss, o'ercome — 
 
 Nor wakes until the signal whistle thrice 
 
 Is given ; then cautiously the boughs unclasp — 
 
 A swift inquiry speaks from eye to eye ; 
 
 Then hand meets hand, and thus forever more 
 
 There is a bond of friendship sealed. 
 
 The while 
 The one of food partook, this plan Eivard 
 Did there unfold : "Soon as night's mantle wraps 
 The plain, proceed thou to the domicile ; 
 
 63 
 
Till midnight thou art there secure. I with 
 The guards a watch will keep in Tsessor wood ; 
 When we return at midnight hour, if all 
 Is well, will whistle bar of 'Home, Sweet Home.' 
 But should a shriller whistle hear, then fly ! 
 Beyond the orchard hedge, a tangle lies ; 
 Within, a space prepared, one may securely hide. 
 I'll meet thee there. I to mislead the guards 
 Have planned ; have not a fear, leave all to me." 
 
 "'Tis day, so long ! oh, will it never end ?" 
 Adora questioned many times, the while 
 She said her Rosary, to fill the hours 
 Which still must pass e'er he for whom 
 She yearned could come. 
 
 And Bernardine, she, too, 
 Oft westward turned. Was lingering sunset e'er 
 Like this ? There low on the horizon's rim 
 The golden orb stood still, as if command 
 Of second Joshua had bid it stand. 
 
 Like joy and sorrow, each must have an end — 
 The sun went down ; still fondly lingered day 
 In crimson west. 
 
 Still on the streets, in groups 
 The social peasants stood and smoked their pipes, 
 And gossiped late; another eve they long 
 Ere this had been abed. The children, too, 
 Were shouting at their play ; they should have couched 
 
 64 
 
At set of sun, or like the lambs at eve, 
 
 Had hurtled to the fold ; and still they played, 
 
 And shouted loudly at their hare and hounds. 
 
 This night they in a luxury indulged ; 
 
 Long e'er the light had paled in western sky — 
 
 The taper gleamed — for she would see his face, 
 
 Adora said, the instant he might come. 
 
 Belated toilers, home returning saw 
 
 The feeble light, and told their waiting wife : 
 
 "Adora must be worse," they said, "The cot 
 
 Seemed all ablaze with light." 
 
 Worn matron said, to conscience ease, the morn 
 
 She'd send a bowl of broth, or flask of wine, 
 
 To strengthen her ; then fell asleep. 
 
 As hand 
 In hand they in silence sat — those two 
 Lone watchers there, intent to catch the first 
 Faint sounds of coming steps of him they loved. 
 The lagging moments brought no faintest sound. 
 
 "He will not come!" Adora said, and then 
 The silent teardrops coursed their way and fell 
 Upon the clasping hands. "Patience, dear heart!" 
 Said Bernardine, "He'll surely come!" 
 
 "Nay, nay! 
 The hour grows late ! the letter failed to reach 
 Him there ; maybe they have arrested him ! 
 Dear God! be Thou merciful," aloud 
 Adora prayed. 
 
 65 
 
"Do not despair, there no 
 Commotion was. upon the street, we should 
 Have heard ! And, too, the Herr has not returned— 
 He said he would — Emile not there." 
 
 "Oh, Hst! 
 A footstep now! Go to the lattice, love!" 
 When Bernardine into the darkness peered, 
 Saw only gloom — and caught no sound, save chirp 
 Of cricket lone, out in the night and gloom. 
 
 Night's tender clasp stole 'round the sleeping world; 
 Then velvet darkness 'mid the larches fell — 
 Where screened amid the odorous branches stood, 
 Emile, refreshed. He watched the landscape fade 
 In night; now may he safely venture forth. 
 Soft from St. Blasien's rang the Angelus — 
 They rung it late that night. 
 
 Then struggling up 
 The steep ascent, the sound of loaded wain — 
 That into distance softly droned away. 
 Then as a benediction, voices came, 
 In accents low, "Schlaf wohl, schlaf wohl I" stole up 
 To him, like cadence of an organ's tone. 
 
 Along the highway peered Emile ; no one 
 
 In sight ; he crouched beside the thyme-fringed banks, 
 
 Then like a shadow sped adown a path — 
 
 All hid amid the evergreens ; how well 
 
 He knew ! he'd roved it oft with Bernardine. 
 
 66 
 
And then upon the startled night a sound 
 Of footsteps fell; supine 'mid heather lay 
 Emile, till sound of sabots died away: 
 'Twas but the late return of one who toiled; 
 A weary gatherer of wood. But why, 
 This night of all ? 
 
 Then upon winged feet, 
 He fled the wood, then home, and peering through 
 The lattice there, he saw the two who sat 
 In silence tense; 'twas then to Bernardine 
 The mother spoke ; she to the lattice went 
 To look; he raised the latch and entered in. 
 
 A joyful cry, the three were clasped in bond 
 
 Of perfect bliss — ^with kisses warm — and glad love light- 
 
 Which looked from joyful eyes, through tender tears, 
 
 And found an answering gladness there expressed 
 
 In other eyes. Hath yonder home, with all 
 
 Its glory told, a statelier joy than this? 
 
 67 
 
Part Five 
 
Part Five 
 
 THE genial guards were Evard's warmest friends, ^^ 
 Oi his own age; ah! many a jaunt had they 
 In field and wood; full many hours they whiled 
 Away in sheltered hut of woven boughs, 
 Amid the screening evergreens safe hid ; 
 Where through the vistas they might view the far 
 Highway, and pounce on all who passed ; mayhap ! 
 A smuggler 'mid the lot; none ever came! 
 But, should they chance to capture one, it meant 
 Full forty marks be added to their meager 
 Pay. 
 
 They begged of him that he would go 
 With them this Thursday eve on early watch, 
 In Tsessor wood; he faithful promise gave. 
 If not too wearied with his task, and well 
 He knew he would not be, he'd meet them there; 
 The hour was eight, he would the usual 
 Signal give, two whistles low, prolonged. 
 
 Thus, when he parted with Emile he took 
 His way across the field, and loitered as 
 The long day slowly waned, to time the hour, 
 At Tsessor wood; arriving there he gave 
 The signal twice; forth from the wild wood stole 
 
 71 
 
The guards to welcome him ; then questioned they 
 
 If he their officer had seen? He gave 
 
 A negative reply; they hied them to 
 
 The wayside Inn, and merry made o'er rich, 
 
 Old wine, with which Evard their glasses filled. 
 
 But when the hour drew on toward ten. 
 Betook them then with stool and plaid within^^ 
 The wood, and dozed until a footstep stole 
 Along the road, and then the guards were all alert. 
 "Ach, hist! bide here whilst we investigate." 
 Then forth they fared into the road, where low 
 The trio conference held ; but Evard, 'mid 
 The shadows hid, bits of their converse caught. 
 "Across the line! Adora's house!" and then! 
 He knew Emile betrayed. 
 
 He flung their plaids, 
 Far in the gloom ; and when all eager they 
 Returned, they searched in vain, so must 
 Resort to flint and steel, while Evard slept, 
 Or feigned, and when aroused he questioned them. 
 "Was it midnight, and must they home?" 
 
 "Ah, no! 
 But urgent business called them there." Then out 
 Upon the white highway, and thus toward home — 
 Through holy, starlit night they went, Evard 
 Was ill at ease; he greatly feared some one, 
 Had careless been — a light, maybe? Nay, nay! 
 They had more sense than that ! 
 
 72 
 
Some wild bird in 
 Her nest disturbed, made bitter plaint. Evard, 
 With whistle shrill, disturbed her more; 'twas but 
 A ruse, for as Adora's cot they neared 
 A bar of light lay 'cross the road. 
 
 And then, 
 Another note — 'twas gone; but Henning sprang 
 Toward the door, and Seiter, clearing at 
 A bound, the paling at the rear, and those 
 Within were prisoners. 
 
 "In heaven's name, 
 What doth this mean?" he asked; they simply said, 
 "A renegade." 
 
 "Who's there?" from Bernardine within. 
 "Evard ! Delay not, but ope the door ; no harm 
 Shall come to thee; 'tis some mistake!" The bolts 
 Withdrawn — the door stood wide — a light — and there, 
 In plainest sight was Emile's hat. Evard, 
 With cloak in rapid swish, that light lay on 
 The floor. "Oh, pardon, Henning!" Evard said. 
 The flame renewed, he taper gave, and then. 
 Telltale hat in corner, 'neath mantle was. 
 
 They searched each nook in vain, Emile had gone. 
 In pretense, Evard ever led the way — 
 More eager searched than they; soon shouted, "Here 
 He is !" aroused Maurice, who frightened fled — 
 Toward Linchdorf, adown the road ; the two 
 Gave chase, loud clanked their sabers as they ran. 
 
 73 
 
Eivard sought out Emile, lo waiting ones — 
 
 Bade him return. "Art safe till three, then cross 
 
 The line, there safety lies." The sly Maurice 
 
 Soon sought his couch — the two that vineyard searched 
 
 Till dawn, and Eivard watched beside the door; 
 
 Emile, in Switzerland, asleep, so near 
 
 To Bettlach border 'tis, dreamed o'er the hours 
 
 Which just had passed. 
 
 Those three united ones 
 Had sat in sweet converse, and planned 
 For future days. The good Adora gave 
 Consent that France, henceforth, should be her home. 
 And he would soon be well again, beneath 
 A mother's watchful care ; their home would be 
 A vine-wreathed cot, Emile knew of the very one. 
 Then life would be unbroken joy. 
 
 And they 
 Would go, Adora said, as soon as snow 
 Was gone; yea! when the earliest daffodil 
 On Alsace's sunny meads appeared ; 'twas then 
 The whistle sounded shrill, and converse died. 
 
 As when the passing of an argosy, 
 
 A peace and silence settles o'er the deep ; 
 
 So in Adora's home the same routine 
 
 Of life went on. Again the mornings found Evard 
 
 At work beneath the bending orchard boughs ; 
 
 And Bernardine still tied the vines; but in 
 
 74 
 
Her eyes so beautiful, a strange, new look, 
 Of hope restored, was there; and all in vain 
 Did Evard strive to reproduce that light 
 So glad. 
 
 That which God paints upon the heart, 
 Shall man with pigments crudest fix upon 
 A canvas woven from the earth? 
 
 "He works 
 Upon the texture coarse of peasant garb," 
 Thought Bernardine, and thus forgetful quite 
 Of self, she walked in fields Elysian oft; 
 The while Evard, despair at heart, strove there 
 To paint that light divine. "This shall not thwart 
 Me now," he thought. "But to my will it must 
 Subservient be; this light shall reproduce. 
 Or trying never cease." 
 
 At last upon 
 The canvas there it stood transfixed. Hath seen 
 The winter boughs bend 'neath their snowy weight? 
 And then the genial sun with touch divine — 
 And lo! the drooping boughs are lifted all — 
 Till forth it stands — with greater strength because. 
 This weight it bore. 
 
 And lifted now this weight 
 Of deep despair, his surcharged heart leaped forth — 
 In loftier joy, than had desired results. 
 With usual effort gained ; now stood they there, 
 The living and the pictured one; if each 
 Had spoken, no surprise had brought. 
 
 75 
 
"Wilt come, 
 My frauline, now and see?" Back from her sweet 
 Day dreams she came; down slipped the vines amid 
 The dew, quick to his side she drew, and was 
 Surprised no change to find, and asked if aught 
 Were wrong, or finished quite? Could see 
 No changes made. 
 
 "The eyes! my dear frauline! 
 Hath noted them?" Then wonder grew — then speech 
 At length, "Hath eyes of mine a look like this?" 
 
 "Not now ! but they have had since that glad eve 
 
 Emile was here, and I have striven sore 
 
 To fix it on the waiting canvas here. 
 
 And thus would I all homage pay to Him 
 
 Who crowneth worthy effort with success. 
 
 Be victory what it may, 'tis heaven sent." 
 
 The picture its completion neared; this morn 
 Was to have been the last, but vigil held 
 Beside the couch where good Adora lay; 
 As she was starting, journey far, but not 
 For France. 
 
 Resigned was she — ^sent tender word, 
 To her Emile, and blessed our two, who there 
 So tearful knelt; with hand on either head 
 She passed away. Death, death, how beautiful 
 Thou art when coming thus ! 
 
 76 
 
With tender tears 
 Laid her to rest amid the blooms beside 
 St. Blasien's ivied walls ; and o'er the mound 
 O'f freshened earth an iron crucifix 
 They reared to her, and left her with her God. 
 
 Now at this time, Johannes found it oft 
 
 Convenient most to cross the fields where some 
 
 Of Bettlach's toilers were; of harvest and 
 
 The weather spoke — then of Adora passed 
 
 Away. "Did know what Bernardine would do? 
 
 Now quite alone was she." An interest in 
 
 The picture feigned. "Was finished yet?" he asked. 
 
 "They had his wishes for success; but did 
 
 They think it quite the thing for one so young 
 
 As Bernardine with man so intimate 
 
 To be, and let him paint her as he would ?" 
 
 Then oft some plain faced matron said, "She wished 
 She might this chance have had ;" held serious face 
 'Neath smothered laugh. 
 
 And sometimes wrinkled dames. 
 With tears, spoke the blessing that this had been ; 
 That Bernardine could earn while caring for 
 The suf'ring one. This gold had comforts brought — 
 And luxuries, to them unknown before, 
 Had smoothed Adora's pathway to the tomb. 
 Thus meager satisfaction gained, he would 
 
 77 
 
In shame — ^^with hanging head, go on his way ; 
 But in his heart, ambitious still to her 
 Possess e'en 'gainst her will. 
 
 At times he found 
 Success among the males — who jested oft — 
 As some men will — they guyed relentlessly. 
 
 Thus fancy o'er judgment gained control. 
 To natures such as his, the possible 
 Stood proven facts. The Burgomaster one 
 Day led him on, till he committed stood; 
 Thus, what insinuations were before 
 Now stood in words expressed. 
 
 And then a sound 
 Berating he received. "Thou vulgar wretch!" 
 The Burgomaster cried. "Dost know our maidens chaste 
 As altar lilies are, or stainless snow ? 
 And she, the orphaned one, is purest of 
 Them all ; one need but look within her eyes 
 To read the angel there, and give thy words 
 The foulest lie. For shame ! Thy words give o'er 
 Or, by the gods, come in our midst again 
 And thou shalt rue it; dost thou hear?" 
 
 And this 
 Sufficed, he evermore in public held 
 A silent tongue. Ah! there are those who that 
 Assail which they themselves have naught to lose. 
 
 Still in his heart it rankled sore ; he then 
 Laid cunning wait for Bernardine, and forced 
 His loathsome presence oft — with proffers she 
 
 78 
 
So oft had spurned; all this annoyance keen 
 To her who sorrowed o'er her recent loss ; 
 And knew that in the future near there still 
 A parting sad must come; softly apace 
 The warning shadows fell. 
 
 No more they worked; 
 The picture grand within the schoolroom stood 
 Complete, and opened to the public view; 
 And soon, alas! the restless seas would roll 
 Between, and sunder far, this helpful friend. 
 
 At last the longed for gala day had come; 
 There in the school the finished picture hung. 
 In rich, warm hues of olive draped, such as 
 It value gave; and then from early Mass 
 The eager peasants gladly came and stood 
 About the door, all wonder-eyed, or sat 
 In silent groups and viewed this gem of art 
 As there displayed. 
 
 "Ach, Gott! 'tis Bernardine 
 Herself!" one said, then ran this whisper through 
 The throng, that she before a background stood — 
 Had hung the draperies to deceive; and each 
 One owned it was a clever ruse ; then each 
 Face wore a knowing smile. 
 
 When Bernardine 
 Stood in the door, they looked again, amazed; 
 One asked Evard how thing like this might be. 
 That pigments crude were flesh and blood? 
 Declared the picture breathed, he knew it did. 
 
 79 
 
Each looked their fill, and went their way, but came 
 Again, and each time found some beauty new. 
 Then word went forth; from near and far they came, 
 By twos and threes, as children come when school 
 Is done. 
 
 Each fresh arrival brought some kin, 
 To whom must all be pointed out again, 
 Until Eivard, as one who keepeth guard, to hold 
 Them back — so close they pressed, e'er horny hands 
 Destruction wrought. 
 
 He then explained it all, 
 Till e'en the denser ones of Bettlach knew 
 The all there was to learn, of technique — tone — 
 O'f color — ^value, too; most pleased was he 
 When day was done; they locked the door and left 
 It there. The next day saw it on its way 
 To' gay Paris. Then laid aside all work 
 And care; EiVard would rest a week or so 
 Before he said adieu. 
 
 For Bernardine 
 He would provide e'er he should go. Each door 
 For her a welcome held ; she much preferred 
 This cot she long had called her home. They found 
 An old and homeless one to share this cot 
 With Bernardine; it was the first, in years 
 And years, Sophia knew the meaning true 
 Of "Home, Sweet Home," that word to hearts most dear. 
 
 80 
 
'Twas midnight hour, when wrapped in slumber most 
 Profound the hamlet lay. Aroused from sleep 
 By one who at his casement called his name, 
 So gently came, "Evard, Evard !" it with 
 His dream was blent; he peering forth beheld 
 His friend, who stood beneath. 
 
 "Forgive," he said, 
 "The night so glorious is, wilt care to come 
 On watch with us?" And soon within the low, 
 Old room of Henning's home, they stood within 
 The glow of blazing twigs, whilst they partook 
 Of coffee hot and strong e'er they set forth. 
 
 Fantastic figures, born of flame, rout all 
 
 The darkness from each nook, while 'gainst the wall 
 
 The shadows grotesque of giants tall, 
 
 The faces bronzed, wore deeper dye; it shone 
 
 On sabers there; its brief life o'er it left 
 
 In deeper gloom the place. 
 
 They sallied forth 
 In night, through silent wood — by secret paths — 
 As silent they — with every sense alert, 
 The faintest sound of trodden twig to catch, 
 Should any outlaw chance to be abroad. 
 
 Through drooping boughs, so softly interlaced, 
 Lay woven patterns on the velvet moss; 
 While here and there, in open glade it lay 
 In patches calm and broad. 
 
 8i 
 
The beeches all 
 So motionless, were dreams, yea! symphonies 
 In white were they; as if a Phidias 
 Had graven them in marble pure. 
 
 But soon 
 A highway lay before; and when it neared 
 The border line they turned aside beneath 
 The firs, where all the shadows of the wood 
 Were keeping tryst; their plaids upon the moss 
 They spread, and soon the guards were fast asleep; 
 And lost to care which irksome duties brinsf. 
 
 ^&' 
 
 Against the lichened bole of ancient fir 
 A lounging place for Eivard made; and there 
 He yielded him to peaceful, dreamy thoughts. 
 Which came and went at their sweet will; e'en as 
 The flick'ring moonbeams played across the face 
 Of sleeping friends, and wove their wond'rous weft 
 In dreams of far homeland — of youthful hope — 
 And manhood strangely blent; and through it all 
 There smiled one face — the face of Bernardine. 
 
 Then in transcendant glory's flash this stood 
 Revealed : he loved the orphaned Bernardine. 
 His heart leaped forth in extatic joy. 
 Which filled each sense in bliss. "My Bernardine ! 
 My Bernardine!" 
 
 Transformed, this universe 
 Otie crystal orb of light appeared, where he 
 Henceforth should walk all hand in hand with this 
 
 82 
 
Sweet woman of his choice. All that which mars 
 The perfect peace — the beauty of this life — 
 Afar had flown, and in its stead there stood 
 The smiling angel of abiding joy. 
 
 As in dissolving views one sees the hues 
 Swift changing with the changing scene, the eyes 
 Which looked in his were brown, and in the face 
 A look of pain as one who suffers much. 
 This face is of his friend Emile, framed in 
 With larches cool and dim as on that night 
 Upon the hill. The shock of this awakening rude, 
 Keen as a dagger thrust it came, and bowed 
 His soul in deepest grief, the while he fought 
 A conflict sore — fought out in dry-eyed woe; 
 At last he stood a conqueror. 
 
 Should he 
 Unto another yield this wealth of bliss ? 
 Its import unto each the same. This all 
 Absorbing love unsought had come to him; 
 Its regal growth had been a subtle thing 
 Of tender germ he naught had known until 
 It stood as fragrant bloom uplifted to 
 The sun. 
 
 And loving her, it duty was 
 From want and woe to shield her evermore; 
 To fill her days with plenty's richest store 
 And cherish her until the end. 
 
 And what to him Emile, this peasant one? 
 Why yield this rarest prize? It certain was 
 
 83 
 
That one must lose, why not Emile? 
 For all his life had hardship been, and one 
 O'f want and disappointment sore, and thus 
 To sorrow be inured. 
 
 Emile should have 
 His chance; the odds against him this he knew, 
 For he ne'er yet had failure met in that 
 He undertook; nor should the feelings of 
 A common peasant bear the slightest weight 
 In such matters of the heart. 
 
 But how would she 
 Receive this knowledge, when he told her of 
 His love? As 'twas with him, a waking glad — 
 Like glorious light of heaven breaking through 
 The mists of earth ? Or would in sorrow from 
 Him turn, and cling unto her earlier love? 
 
 Nay, nay ! such thoughts, he would not harbor them ; 
 And why perplex him o'er a future dim? 
 Its hidden store, it would reveal. All bright 
 The love lit present was. 
 
 He musing watched 
 The moonbeams, o'er the sleeping Henning's face, 
 In softened, silver splendor come and go; 
 In vain all earnest strivings were to reach 
 That well beloved face, which came through all 
 His earlier visions smiling, with its rare 
 And girlish grace; instead, this other came. 
 With all the pathos of its pleading shown — 
 A silent pleading, all its own. 
 
 84 
 
Then his 
 Better nature — self asserting 'rose, 
 And pointed with unerring finger to 
 His faultless past; and spotless there were all 
 The pages spread ; dishonor ne'er had known — 
 Had yielded not in thought or deed ; should he 
 Become its plaything now? Or swerve he 
 From his chosen path? Nay, though the heavens o'er 
 Him passed away ! 
 
 There 'round him fell 
 The shadow of the yearning, summer night ; 
 Beside him, too, his friends still soundly slept 
 And dreamed, unconscious of this conflict sore ; 
 Nor knew the friend who sat beside them 
 Wore on his brow the purple diadem 
 With which stern sorrow crowns his victims all. 
 
 And still they slept, their softened breathing made 
 
 A rhythm in the night, yet he felt alone 
 
 And lonely, as one from the world withdrawn. 
 
 And his hopes, erstwhile so buoyant, lay 
 
 Like ancient shattered lute, o'er which the dust 
 
 Of fallen years lie gray. Well, let them rest ! 
 
 Life hath its waking, care and duty close 
 
 Allied, which speaks with voice we cannot still; 
 
 Till life grows fevered with endeavor, yet 
 
 We leave unfinished and unsatisfied 
 
 The tasks before us set. 
 
 Toward Emile 
 His heart grew tender now. To suffer makes 
 
 85 
 
Us all akin. Should, then, he add one tithe 
 
 Of grief to this o'erburdened heart? whose guests, 
 
 Grim want and hardship, stood beside him close? 
 
 And thus at last he 'rose victorious. 
 Triumphant over self and wrong desire. 
 The shimmering moonbeams o'er him wove 
 Of light an aureole. 
 
 Think what this means! 
 For one brief hour to know the rapturous dream — 
 The blest effulgence of full orbed day — 
 Of all absorbing joy, when heaven seems 
 Through all the bending, azure dome to break. 
 Here at thy feet the rose lit vistas spread, 
 And at thy side, thy heart's ideal, sent 
 From God above. 
 
 Clasp close this pure, 
 White lily to thy heart, drink its perfume, 
 'Tis thine, 'tis thine forever more! life holds 
 Its fullest largess now, nor can there be 
 Desire more. 
 
 Then yield this treasure up; 
 To watch all beauty — brightness fade away — 
 The light die out — a sudden darkness fall 
 Where day erstwhile hath reigned. 
 
 This sad earth still 
 Hath its Gethsemane, where we alone 
 Must agonize, for there are none with us 
 To watch one little hour ; such he had known. 
 
 86 
 
Could ever life be as it was before? 
 
 Or aught to ease this heart, with its new woe 
 
 Oppressed? For souls like his but once with love 
 
 May burn. When love hath vanished, and sweet hope 
 
 Is dead, it cometh never more. Oh, years! 
 
 Long years, which spread so desolate before. 
 
 To such as he when duty's way is plain — 
 Or task however difficult is set. 
 He followeth unswerving, 'though its course 
 Most devious may be. 
 
 Thus never once. 
 By word or sign, would he betray this friend, 
 Whose most implicit trust was his. This gem 
 Of beauty rare, as shrined within his heart 
 For aye; and memory's stainless lilies white 
 Would wreath about it there; and she of all 
 This world most dear — his soul's affinity — 
 His Bernardine, ne'er must she know, and not 
 One thought must e'er disturb her life's serenity. 
 Had he not deemed her ever, as unto 
 Another wed, its consummation he 
 Would hasten, and their waiting have an end. 
 And still, his heart cried out in anguish sore, 
 "My Bernardine, My Bernardine!" 
 
 Through all the night's soft, silver silence, sung 
 In moonlight far away, came night birds' notes, 
 With its entrancing melody, and yet, 
 We name it pain, and wounded memory. 
 
 87 
 
Heart be still ! in silence bear thy woe ; 
 
 Art not alone. 
 From other lives the light and joy hath flown, 
 Souls there are, who keener anguish know 
 
 Yet make no moan. 
 
 Heart be still! yield not in thy despair, 
 
 These may abide. 
 E'en though desired gift hath heaven denied, 
 Mayhap in these had found some base alloy, 
 
 And pleasure died. 
 
 Heart be still ! yeild not in thy despair, 
 
 Is hope effaced ? 
 What though thy life be as a desert waste? 
 For roselit dawns, and golden eves are there, 
 
 And moonbeams chaste. 
 
 Heart be still ! our Father knoweth best. 
 
 Shall puny man 
 The wisdom question of His perfect plan? 
 Heaven alone hath peace, and perfect rest, 
 
 Trust thou again. 
 
 Then came the angelus, from out the vale. 
 
 So softly stealing 'cross the wood, awoke 
 
 The sleepers from their dream, and starts them up — 
 
 All wonder eyed, "Tis morn ! and have we slept ? 
 
 How stupid this ! and thou Evard ?" 
 
 "Ah! I 
 Have dreamed, and I have wakened," answer made. 
 
Their plaids were rolled, and sabers buckled on, 
 They took their homeward way across the fields. 
 Where folded blossoms slept in glittering dew. 
 Uprose the sun, and lo ! the songsters roused 
 The echoes of the wood. 
 
 Up from the vale 
 The blue smoke curling told the hamlet was 
 Astir, as to their labor peasants haste, 
 All life to them one round of toil. 
 
 89 
 
Part Six 
 
Part Six 
 
 ACROSS fields, where pale the stubble gleams, 
 With ruthless feet sere autumn calmly walked; 
 Belated blossoms drooped their heads and fell 
 Asleep, drew near the resting season of the year ; 
 And as the snowy daisies, each had dropped 
 Their petals, one by one, so silently 
 The moments passed till all the peaceful days 
 Were numbered quite — the last of Evard's stay. 
 Had come. 
 
 That morn the postman, hastening on 
 His daily round, a letter brought which bore 
 The stamp of France. Emile was ill it said. 
 He long had ailing been — had managed still 
 His task; now since his mother's death 
 His health had given quite away, and he 
 Must to another yield his place. As he 
 Was friendless quite, would Eivard kindly to 
 This case attend ? 
 
 Beneath the embowered porch 
 Sat Bernardine alone ; no roses were 
 In bloom, their fragrant petals, every one. 
 Had with the summer's bloom and sweetness flown ; 
 The sprays which drooped above her wore 
 The autumn's changing hues. 
 
 93 
 
All flowerlike 
 When autumn frost hath kissed, she seemed. 
 The filmy lace which from the needles fell, 
 Was jewelled thick with tears. As moments passed 
 Of this the saddest day of all to her, 
 Must each be filled ; both hand and brain must now 
 Be taxed, or else the surcharged heart must break ; 
 Evard, with missive, found her thus. 
 
 Her tear wet eyes she raised to him. "Not yet?" 
 She said, "Say not the hour hath come to bid 
 Farwell." 
 
 "Nay, Bernardine ! but thou 
 This letter read ; 'tis of Emile," and as 
 She read, the present sorrows all were drowned 
 In anxious fear. 
 
 "Take heart, my dear ! we shall 
 Find means to succor him." 
 
 Then briefest space 
 He pondered deep; at length he asked, "Could not. 
 We bring him here? Where mid his childhood scenes 
 He sooner must regain the health that's failed ?" 
 All eagerness was Bernardine at once. 
 With hope restored, the brightness to her eyes 
 Returned ; and in her face the rosy hue 
 Amid the lilies brightly bloomed again. 
 
 "This very day, for him we'll go !" she said, 
 
 "This hour, at once we'll start ! we'll bring him here, 
 
 And he shall have his mother's room, where she 
 
 94 
 
So often prayed for him ; while we, in love, 
 Anticipate his every want and wish ; 
 And speedily shall we his health restore. 
 Oh, say! cannot we go for him at once?" 
 
 "Nay ! bide till morn, of preparation there 
 Is need e'er we can leave ; the cot must first 
 In readiness be placed, its guest to hold. 
 For I may not return; shall see thee safe 
 With Emile across the line ; toward home 
 Then haste thy steps, for I have lingered all 
 Too long." 
 
 They sat to work; soon 'neath their hands 
 The cot all spotless was, and on the walls 
 The burnished copper gleamed, and everywhere 
 The linen white and cleanly odor breathed. 
 The trailing vines and rich autumn blooms, 
 With clustered berries red, made bright that room ; 
 So trifling is the touch that brightens homes 
 Which meager comfort hath. 
 
 All was in readiness 
 For him, whose second coming meant a rest 
 And health renewed. The long day waned from sight — 
 The broad fields faded quite, and Bernardine 
 Thanked God the weary day at last was done. 
 
 Again amid the gloaming shadows sat 
 
 This little band, about guard Henning's door- 
 
 Where they so oft, in converse sat, with song 
 
 95 
 
And cheer, through golden, summer eves now flown. 
 They ne'er again shall gather thus through all 
 The years to come. 
 
 As one, who wandermg through 
 The woodland ways, finds in October late 
 A bloom, one lone, frail violet — to know 
 Twill be the very last of all the year. 
 How tenderly he gathers it , drinks in 
 Its' fragrance, and rejoiceth more than o'er 
 All springtime violets. And thus to these 
 Fond friends this last sad eve more precious was 
 Than all that went before. Mirth died on lips — 
 And voices grew subdued, as converse took 
 The retrospect, and then recalled those days 
 Just gone ; what they had been — what they had held, 
 Ah ! ne'er again could summer hold so much 
 Of joy for either one. 
 
 'Twas then Evard 
 Bethought him of Emile. "Oh, by the way ! 
 My friends ! Emile is ill, poor lad ! he has 
 Been ailing long, still managed he his share 
 Of toil. Now since his mother's death he hath 
 His courage lost, the shock has been severe 
 And he has taken to his couch, and so 
 Must be removed to where he can receive 
 The proper care; at morn, with Bernardine, 
 I leave for France, and she will bring him home. 
 If tender care can ought avail he'll soon 
 Be well again. What thinketh thou of this ?" 
 
 96 
 
"That thou without thy host hath reckoned; here 
 Emile must suffer an arrest, immediate, 
 Were he to cross the line ; his lot with France 
 Was cast, and ill or well must by this choice 
 Abide." 
 
 "If such the case, I must at once make haste 
 To Bernardine, our present plans to change. 
 Poor soul ! a disappointment this, most sore, 
 Will be. And thou my friends ! say, shall I see 
 Thee e'er I go ? Or art off to duty e'er 
 I wake." 
 
 "We're off for Tsessor wood at break 
 Of day. Farewell ! Farewell !" Then hands unclasp, 
 To touch, ah ! nevermore, through all the years. 
 
 A stillness falls on all the night ; a peace 
 
 Most precious to soul of Bernardine, 
 
 As there she sits alone and dreams sweet dreams 
 
 Of what the morn may bring. There's not one thing 
 
 That's left undone — the final touch hath all 
 
 Received. 
 
 Outside a step — the lifted latch — 
 Then Habiteur steps boldly in the room. 
 A light is brought, and then she sees who this 
 Intruder is ; 'tis not the first since she 
 Alone hath been. He knows how hopeless is his case- 
 One trial more, and each to be the last ; 
 Persistent still he came? "Thou Habiteur? 
 Canst say what dost thou here, this hour so late?" 
 
 97 
 
"Came once more thy hand to crave ; thou wilt 
 To love me learn, my sweet f rauline ! my life 
 Without thee hath no charm for me. See ! all 
 My wealth I pour it at thy feet — with all 
 These gems I deck thee now. Gold, gold ! take all; 
 And I thy slave will be. If thou wilt with 
 Me wed, thou ne'er another hour of care 
 O'r toil shall know — each wish be gratified. 
 Oh ! say not nay." 
 
 And oh ! so gently then 
 Did Bemardine bid him retain his gold. 
 "It tempts me not," she said, "My heart — my hand 
 I pledged long years agone to my Emile; 
 And in this heart for other loves there is 
 No room ; and knowing this, if I should wed 
 Or sell myself to thee for gold and gems, 
 Couldst thou still hold me in respect, were I 
 A thousand times thy wife ? nay ! false were I 
 To my Emile, could I be true to thee? 
 With this be satisfied ; it cannot be. 
 In God's dear name, no more annoy. 
 
 Silence 
 Fell, a hopeless look Johanne's face o'erspread — 
 Till arch fiend whispered at his ear, and then 
 Despair gave place to cunning thought. "Emile, 
 If safe removed, vv^ould there be hope for me?" 
 
 "What meanest thou?" 
 
 "Well, only this! Emile, 
 So long from thee away hoth lost his love 
 
 98 
 
For thee ; and other maidens found who most 
 
 Congenial are, and so would gladly be 
 
 Well rid of thee. Tis nought, all men are thus ! 
 
 Now if thou lovest him as thou dost claim, 
 
 Would gladly grant him his release, and for 
 
 His happiness this sacrifice would make. 
 
 Do this, and I will him at once endow 
 
 With many thousand franks, that he may dwell 
 
 Abroad; then we will wed, my Bernardine!" 
 
 "This tempts me not, nor will I Emile release 
 
 Unless perchance he bid me thus to do." 
 
 She noted well the triumph gleaming in 
 The face of Habiteur. "Nay, nay !" she said. 
 But I must hear it from his lips, nor will 
 A written word suffice." 
 
 "Deluded thou ! 
 Not for one moment think Emile with thee 
 Will wed. Dost know what people speak of thee ? 
 That all hath not been well 'tween thee and this 
 American ; and here thy chance is lost. 
 What sacrifice I make with thee to wed !" 
 
 "Discuss not farther, pray, this subject now. 
 Depart in peace ; may heaven's blessings rich 
 Bestrew thy way. Good night ! and farewell ! 
 With Herr Evard I go to meet Emile." 
 
 This homely room, Adora, oft by prayer 
 Made holy place — resounded now with oaths, 
 
 LofC. 
 
 99 
 
And curses deep. "Remember, this, I say ! 
 What I have seen " 
 
 A warning hand she raised, 
 "Yes thou hast seen ! and I have oft been told 
 That ever thou wast hidden 'neatli our hedge. 
 Had I this fact but mentioned to Herr Evard 
 Then thou hadst left the place with broken head. 
 Yes thou hast seen ! and doth not this suffice ? 
 Thou knowest best how false thy accusations are, 
 So I will leave this matter in the dear. 
 Kind Father's hands. The door ajar ! Now go !" 
 
 Once more alone ; and standing there was she 
 With meekly folded hands ; she breathed a prayer 
 For help, and strength to bear this cruel thrust. 
 "E'en this shall not disturb the calm — the joy 
 Of my full heart, which hath such royal guests. 
 My God, and my Emile," this she resolved. 
 And then as if to cleanse each lingering trace, 
 Sang sweet and low, this German air. 
 
 "Sei stark mein hers, ertrage still 
 
 Der seele tiefes leid; 
 Denk, dass der Herr es also will 
 
 Der fesselt und defreit. 
 
 Und trauf dich seine hand auch schwer 
 
 In demuth nimm es an; 
 Br liegt auf keiner schulter mehr 
 
 Als sie ertragen kann." 
 
The while she sang, she went about the dear 
 Old room, with here and there a dainty touch, 
 O'r flower rearranged, where all perfection was 
 Before; with touches light her lips she pressed 
 Upon the pillow's snow, and thought his head 
 Would rest in comfort here. "Good night !" she said. 
 Her voice in peaceful silence drifts away. 
 
 Ervard beheld the light as he approached. 
 
 And heard the words, "Sei stark mein herz," sung low. 
 
 Like music played in organ loft above. 
 
 And thought how blessed he who hath, till life 
 
 Is done, such music in his home. Such waves 
 
 Of keen and sad regret swept o'er his soul. 
 
 When words and music ceased, then Evard on, 
 The casement gently tapped. A silence fell, 
 He softly tapped again, and called so low : 
 "Oh, Bernardine!" Unto the door she came; 
 Above the heart the hands she pressed as if 
 To stay its beating wild. 
 
 "Come in ! I thought 
 It news of my Emile. Would it were morn , 
 That we might start at once." Then in his face 
 The pity saw. Oh ! speak I pray if aught 
 Hath heard." 
 
 "Dear heart ! tis of Emile I came 
 To speak." Evard told then of what the guards 
 Had said. "A cruel nation's rigid law !" 
 He said. "Oh, hush — h, it is forbidden thus to speak; 
 
And walls have ears." said Bernardine; and then 
 All crushed, and helpless sat, nor spoke a word. 
 The clasping and unclasping hands told of 
 A struggle fierce within. 
 
 "E'en this shall not 
 Deter us now, so grieve no more; we leave 
 Tomorrow as we planned ; the early dawn 
 Shall see us on our way — and thou shalt care 
 For thy Emile, in France as well. We leave 
 The cot in Sophia's charge while thou art gone. 
 
 "Will trust it all to thee, and follow thy 
 Advice ; thou noblest, truest earthly friend ! 
 What shall we do when thou art gone ? my friend !" 
 Said Bernardine, tears in her voice, tears in 
 Her shining eyes. 
 
 "Hath all in readiness ? 
 Then seek thy needed rest. Good night ! Dear heart ! 
 Goodnight!" 
 
 In hush of holy night, outside 
 Where all nature listening seemed, 
 With lifted hands, Evard prayed blessing on 
 Those orphaned two, Emile and Bernardine. 
 
 One was, to whom Johannes' movements were 
 Unknown ; his sister Bertha, ugly one ! 
 The ogress of his home, and well for him 
 That such the case. Yet ofttimes closely comes 
 
 I02 
 
A retribution in the steps of wrong. 
 Thus with Johannes. That night, on reaching home, 
 There something in his manner was which him 
 Betrayed; which Bertha of the falcon eye 
 Detected instantly. 
 
 To greedy soul 
 There came such thoughts, of bargain poor — 
 Or loss of wealth, perhaps, to cause such state 
 As this ; and so she nagged unmerciful 
 Until from desperation sheer he told 
 Her all ; how Bernardine again refused. 
 Now all for him, alas ! was lost, and life 
 No further charm. 
 
 For once she was of speech 
 Bereft, such wond'rous power amazement hath. 
 The while her anger gathered force, then burst. 
 
 Among his unshorn locks her fingers twined, 
 And sharply 'gainst the wall his head she rapped, 
 Then into corner forced him quite, where he 
 Abject and cowering sat. 
 
 Then loudly shrieked. 
 "What! did he mean to bring another there? 
 A jade, this wealth to share? which she 
 Had toiled so hard to gain. Would he add to 
 Her care, with more to feed and wait upon ? 
 She always thought he was a dunce ! but now 
 He was demented quite ! his proper place 
 With Maurice was, such hovel, far too good 
 For one dissatisfied with home like his. 
 
 103 
 
What! bring another woman here?" and then 
 She rapped his head again. 
 
 All cautiously 
 Around she peered, that none were near, then tO' 
 A ghostly depth her voice she sent. "Let her 
 Such doings farther hear ; Gendarmes she'd call 
 And clearly state his case — she'd show the graves 
 In Tsessor wood — and 'neath their privet hedge 
 Of evergreens, the jewels hid." 
 
 Pale as the dead 
 In winding sheet, and quite as powerless. 
 Was he, but managed in a voice most weak 
 To plead for leniency; oh, spare! and he 
 Would err no more. 
 
 Yet, still like fate she o'er 
 Him stood, with tirade of such vengeful threats — 
 Until his horror knew no bounds ; and then. 
 With sundry rousing cuffs, she silent points 
 To loft above — and bed, and glad was he 
 For such release. 
 
 Upon his couch he threw 
 Himself clothed as he was, and shivered there 
 As with an ague chill — while faces leered — 
 Or seemed to leer — from out the darkness of 
 The room ; where every object swam, and then 
 He deemed that death was near, and hoped it was ; 
 With Bernardine forever lost to him. 
 So hard — so dominant was Bertha's will , 
 He yielded all, there was no choice. 
 
 104 
 
And still 
 He was afraid to die. He knew where they 
 Would bury him, beside Jacobin close ;^'* 
 And they, at enmity had been. He'd wronged 
 Jacobin, this he owned. Ah ! he could see 
 The freshened mound — the rusty crucifix 
 Awry — now wished that he had set it straight. 
 
 What if those crosses, two, hobnobbing leaned? 
 
 He'd have a crucifix, he knew he would — 
 
 The dead each had! with R. I. P. plain writ 
 
 Thereon. How could he rest. Jacobin near? 
 
 He thought he must quite suffocate, and, as 
 
 One buried quite, should chance to wake from trance — 
 
 Clutched in the darkness at his throat, aloud 
 
 In terror shrieked his sister Bertha's name. 
 
 She, springing up the creaking stair, burst in 
 The door upon him there, and bade him hush ! 
 When told how near death's door he was — if not 
 Already dead — then as with trembling fear 
 She was — made holy sign, and threw herself 
 The ground upon, and groveled there^ — called on 
 All Saints, and promise made, if only this 
 Dear soul, was spared — called all endearing names, 
 And fondled him, until he then forgot 
 His fears. But when all feebly ventured he 
 That he with Bernardine might wed — would she 
 Consent? flounced out the room, and slammed 
 The door. 
 
 105 
 
Part Seven 
 
Part Seven 
 
 BESIDE his lowly couch knelt Bernardine, 
 And gently dried the falling tears; his head 
 She pillowed on her breast, and soothed him as 
 A child. Though travel stained, and weary she, 
 Yet would not brook the least delay; herself 
 Forgot, for him she loved; spoke words of cheer 
 And smiled the while her heart all breaking was. 
 Had scarcely known him, if in other lands 
 They'd met, so was he changed. 
 
 As one who feels 
 His feeble grasp slip from the spar, where he 
 Has held through weary days of drifting lone, 
 Feels timely hands reach out, and pluck him from 
 A watery grave, takes no more thought but rests. 
 Thus with Emile, now they had come, felt from 
 His heart a load removed ; in childlike faith 
 He gladly trusted all to Bernardine. 
 
 Evard a consultation held with one 
 
 Most noted for his skill. "Yes, 'tis the dread 
 
 Disease," he saith, "All seated deep; a year 
 
 Or two thou hast thy friend, and mayest remove 
 
 Him where thou wilt." 
 
 He waited message from 
 A friend in far Paris, and when it came 
 
 109 
 
The trio soon were on their way. They found 
 Some quarters snug in Rue Chapon. For him 
 The journey proved too great — though broken oft. 
 The strength which buoyed Emile gave way; all weak, 
 And helpless he became; foremost skill 
 He had, until triumphant nature was. 
 
 Soft amethystine haze subdued, and veiled 
 The ardor of the golden days, such days ! 
 All filled with sweetness of content were they; 
 For peace and joy, twin angels fair, were guests 
 At every simple feast, where Bernardine 
 As household Priestess was — in stranger land, 
 Which hath no word for comfort, or for home. 
 
 There Bernardine, Pomona viewed, hung 'mid 
 The treasures of the world. How far away 
 Those summer days beneath the orchard shade. 
 And daily viewing thus the dear home vale, 
 Such memories came — a treasure rich indeed; 
 A comfort was amid surroundings strange. 
 
 Emile earned manv a franc in studios near, 
 Where soon his history was known ; then life 
 Took on a tinting new — the future then 
 Such hopeful prospects held. They were content. 
 
 When winter days had fully come, it found 
 Them at a cosy home in Brittany; 
 Evard on orders worked through sunny days; 
 "The day dream," this picture was, and Bernardine 
 In Breton garb sat on the rocks, sun crowned. 
 
The folded hands lie idle in her lap — 
 The knitting unheeded, fallen to the sand — 
 While she with rapt and thoughtful face looked out 
 Across the sunlit sea; the same light in her eyes 
 The former picture showed. 
 
 The silver sands 
 All girt with splendor of the fleece like foam — 
 With sparkling light^ and laughter of the sea — 
 With whispering melody in every breeze; 
 Such days as these hath deathless memory. 
 Nor questioned the vast unknown, but grasped 
 The present blessings of each passing hour; 
 Could each this lesson learn, then life would hold 
 Far less of care, and men might lose regret. 
 
 Above the peaceful slumber of the hills 
 The queenly summer smiled again, and all 
 The land with fragrance — sweet sun harmonies 
 Was filled. Our trio still found happy home 
 In Brittany; a tiny cot was theirs — 
 All wreathed about in snowy clematis; 
 Wisteria, too, hung purple banners there, and 
 The bordered ways, with roses bloomed, where at 
 The door a little court was set, all massed 
 With blossoms pure and bright; while at the rear 
 A garden smiled. 
 
 Here Bernardine, through all 
 The day made fair the garden ways. Emile, 
 Upholstered sat in sunshine's genial glow. 
 
"Wilt come to mc? my Bernardine !" he called, 
 And when she came, he said, "Wilt with me for 
 A space, our places change? So hard it is 
 To idle here, whilst thou art delving in 
 The soil. I am not ill ! methinks it is 
 But indolence. Worthless fellow I ! 
 That I must burden thee. God grant that all 
 Thy life be not thus sacrificed for me." 
 
 With kisses warm, his farther words she hushed; 
 "Nay! rather for God's mercies grateful be — 
 Our friend Evard — our cosy home — with means 
 Supplied for future needs; oh, think of these! 
 Dear God! what shall we do, when he hath gone- 
 So far! with seas between us, and our friend?" 
 
 "Methinks my heart must break, when I behold 
 His face nO' more; this friend so true and good! 
 Such gratitude my poor heart holds — would yield 
 Earth's dearest joy, yea, life itself! for his 
 Dear sake — and count it joy ; yet naught can do, 
 So weak and worthless I," sobbed poor Emile. 
 He little knew Evard for him had put 
 Aside life's dearest joy, fair Bernardine. 
 
 E.vard his preparations made for home. 
 
 At last the parting came. They earnest plead 
 
 "Just for to-day, remain — go not until 
 
 The morrow comes." Nor dreamed how loth he was 
 
To leave such earthly paradise, 
 
 And Bernardine. Ah! he must hunger, this 
 
 He knew, for daily sight of her dear face. 
 
 She had no hint of his great love, her heart 
 Held only her Emile; and he the thought 
 Which filled her days. She lived for him. 
 
 And oft 
 He watched her thus, with ministrations bend 
 Above Emile, while in her heavenly eyes 
 There shone a light — the light that's not of earth. 
 
 'Twas thus he painted them; the picture would 
 A comfort be when far away. 
 
 Farewells 
 Were said, and as Emile clung to Evard 
 He whispered low, "I'll not last long; when I 
 Am gone our Bernardine will be alone, 
 So lone! Evard, wilt thou not care for her?" 
 
 Then sorrowing he turned away, nor could 
 Endure to see him go. 
 
 And Bernardine, 
 Ah! little dreamed his whole heart dwelt in that 
 One tender, parting kiss which Evard gave; 
 Then went his way, his heart in Brittany. 
 
 The autumn found Evard at home once more — 
 In grand New York. His friends all found in him 
 
 113 
 
Such change — had grown reserved ; beyond the sea 
 His treasure was — his Bernardine. 
 
 The one 
 True comfort which was his, the letters sent 
 Him by those two, in far off Brittany. 
 
 Now it the vintage season was; clusters 
 The rarest for him were put aside. Then 
 Winter days had come, and boughs bent low 'neath 
 Stainless snow, reminding them of his dear heart, 
 So pure it was. 
 
 The roses smiled again, 
 One spray alone held thirty-four, a rose 
 For each year of this life he'd known ; across 
 His pillow lay the spray; Emile slept there 
 The night, of Evard dreamed. He seemed so near! 
 Oh! would he come again? They missed him so! 
 The sunshine seemed less bright with him away. 
 
 Emile, a marked improvement showed, and delved 
 In garden spot, for briefest space, they hopeful of 
 The future spoke. Thus one by one the years 
 That passed had numbered four. 
 
 Emile 
 Had weaker grown, till he must keep his bed; 
 And then they knew there was no hope; these were 
 Most precious days of all — a benediction seemed. 
 Within his face the angel shown while still 
 Enshrined in earthly clay. For such it is 
 Not hard to die. 
 
 114 
 
Long had he lain, and gazed 
 At Bernardine, through half closed eyes. She at 
 His bedside sat with some light work; the while 
 Her fingers deftly at the fabric wrought, 
 She softly crooned an abends lied. He loved 
 Her thus, and thus she oftimes sat. 
 
 He sleeps. 
 She thought, and still sang on in fading light. 
 
 "My Bernardine!'' he whispered low, "Come near, 
 
 My love! Thou hast my good angel been — made all 
 
 The brightness life hath known. Dear heart ! one wish 
 
 Remains — so precious, it seems for me 
 
 The universe to fill; and this it is,. 
 
 When I am gone, and thou art lonely, dear ! 
 
 Perchance, should brother Evard come, and crave 
 
 Thy hand, give him thy heart as well; 'tis he 
 
 Of all the world, is worthy such as thee. 
 
 When I am laid to rest, let our dear past 
 
 Be as a dream most beautiful. I am 
 
 So weary! Kiss me good night." 
 
 So fond 
 On lip and brow her kisses fell. "Schlaf wohl! 
 Schlaf wohl!" And Bernardine was all alone. 
 
 E'er yet 'twas morn, Evard in his far home 
 The sad news read, and soon beneath the waves 
 Of restless sea this message sped. "Bide where 
 Thou art, and I at once will come to thee." 
 
 "5 
 
Conclusion 
 
 AND there Evard found Bernardine, 
 All outward calm; her grief too sacred was 
 For show. She'd done all human love could do 
 For her Emile; their past was as a poet's dream. 
 His grave, a sacred fane, 'round which she wreathed 
 The lilies fair, as in St. Blasien's long 
 Ago she twined about the pictured Christ. 
 
 Again, Sophia had home with Bernardine. 
 Evard was there, and life with them moved on 
 With calmest flow. 
 
 And Bernardine still trimmed 
 The garden ways, while Evard busied with 
 His art. Peace came again to hearts bereft; 
 Till Bernardine sang at her tasks. 
 
 'Twas then 
 Evard told his great love, and when he craved 
 Her heart and hand, she did not say him nay. 
 
 [Finis.] 
 
 117 
 
Notes 
 
Notes 
 
 The characters in this Idyl are all real, and friends of the author. 
 Bemardine, an adopted daughter of Bettlach's Innkeeper, Franz Steh- 
 lin, is now Mrs. Ray. The house frau is Mrs. Stehlin. Johann 
 Sieter and Otto Henning are Coast' Guards, of which there are four in 
 Bettlach. The Gendarmes reside at Ollingen. The author was at one 
 time arrested by those famous Gendarmes, while making a sketch of a 
 wayside shrine; they mistook him for a French spy, and as he entered 
 Alsace without a passport, had considerable trouble proving his iden- 
 tity. 
 
 Adora was a Mrs. Boll, now deceased, an estimable old lady, but 
 dwelling in great poverty. Fmile is teacher in Bettlach, Emile Welter; 
 Maria is his sister, a lady of many rare virtues. The Burgomaster, Mr. 
 Simeon Isadore. Maurice, Draier, a poor demented fellow living by 
 himself, in a miserably poor old hovel; he makes night hideous with 
 his curses, as he vainly tries to dislodge the ghosts which are constantly 
 about him. He possesses innate cunning, however; he remembers all 
 the peasants' mistakes and failings, and has a habit of calling them 
 out at the most inopportune seasons. 
 
 The Inn of tbe "Crossed Keys" stands just upon the outskirts of 
 Linchdorf, its host and hostess, brother and sister, honest, hard work- 
 ing people, highly esteemed. The name Habiteur is a name found upon 
 an old tombstone, in the little Gottes acre, at Hagendale, Alsace. 
 Fvard is the Author. The principal facts are all those of his own exper- 
 ience, mth the exception of the love affair. 
 
 No. 1, page 7 
 
 "O'er arched with laden bough of fruit, and nut." 
 
 Nowhere in the world are the highways better kept than in Alsace. 
 Bordering tlie road on either side are great trees of fruit and walnut. 
 Woe unto the person who shall touch one of them, although those that 
 have fallen may be freely gathered. This fruit is the property of the 
 German Government, and is sold to the highest bidder, the proceeds 
 belonging to the government. 
 
 No. 2, page 8 
 
 "A quaint old church, St. Blasiens. here hath stood." 
 
St. Blasien's record dates back to 1496; beyond that it is lost. The 
 Author has in his possession a stone head of exquisite workmanship, 
 representing the Christ, set up by the Crusaders in the eleventh cen- 
 tury, in a shrine near St, Blasiens. The church must have stood then. 
 
 No. 3, page 11 
 
 "Glad harvest home." 
 
 I was broken of my rest until far into the morning by a family 
 making merry over the harvest home; there was an accordeon accom- 
 paniment to the German song they sang. Happy people, rejoicing over 
 the one load of wheat, safely garnered to-day. The load was decorated 
 with garlands, and green boughs from the forest, upon which the entire 
 family rode, singing and shouting through the hamlet. 
 
 Author's journal, Bettlach, Aug. 10, 1895. 
 
 No, 4, page 11 
 
 "The ripened grain on sacred altar lain." 
 
 This morning the children covered the side altar at St'. Blasiens 
 with tiny sheaves of ripened wheat. The finest heads are selected. The 
 sheaves were decorated with roses and streamers. The Priest blessed 
 the grain, then it was taken home, where it will be carefully preserved 
 until Spring, when those heads will be threshed, and those kernels 
 mingled with the seed sown. 
 
 Author's journal, Bettlach, Aug. 17, 1895. 
 
 No. 5, page 16 
 
 "Yon, a mighty army lay, 
 And long besieged with hunger, perished." 
 
 Here spreads out a beautiful plain where ripened harvests are 
 waving, above which the tenderest skies of blue are smiling. Once upon 
 a time, tradition saith, an army, long besieged, perished miserably; the 
 dead were found with grass in their mouths; had vainly tried by this 
 means to appease the ravages of hunger. 
 
 Everywhere by the roadside and in the forest are crucifixes, mark- 
 ing the spot where some accident has occurred, or some apparition has 
 appeared. The land is filled with legends of ghosts, in all conditions, 
 in which Bettlach's elders believe still. 
 
A few miles from Bettlach, in a narrow defile in the mountains, is 
 a tortuous cave, which tradition saith, in the year A. D. 610, was 
 the habitation of a strange race of people, said to be Brownies, who 
 only sallied forth at midnight to supply their wants, from the gardens 
 and orchards in that vicinity. The inhabitants of Pfiert frequently 
 scattered meal at the entrance of the cave, and ever at morn there was 
 the imprint of tiny feet. 
 
 Here upon an Alsacian hillside, gushes a spring of cold, crystal 
 clear water. It is recorded that during the 30 years' war, St. Walberga, 
 driven from her convent, was seeking refuge in France, her virgins, 
 who accompanied her, became famished on the way. St. Walberga 
 thrust her staff in the sod, and at first oil and then water gushed forth. 
 
 In 1862, an invalid, following the instructions of a dream, bathed 
 in its waters and was healed. He built a memorial shrine upon the 
 spot; it is a dingy old place, with mildewed walls and broken floor; a 
 rare old altar, and upon the walls a hideous representation of the cruci- 
 fied Savior. 
 
 In yon wood 
 Three graves of Martyrs, mark a place for prayer." 
 
 Deep in the forest are the graves of three martyred Virgins who, in 
 1106, were accompanying St. Ursula upon her pilgrimage to Rome. 
 They were crossing Alsace from Basle, by way of the old Roman high- 
 way, built in the first year of the Christian era; they were captured and 
 put to death by the Hunns, and hastily buried in the woods. 
 
 When they became missed, and search instituted, their grave was 
 discovered by a pure white lily with a dash of blood at its heart, grow- 
 ing above them. Since then the graves have been a shrine, contain- 
 ing many effigies and relics of miraculous cures performed in answer 
 to prayer. 
 
 There is a legend connected with these "holy graves" in the 13th 
 century. The pious people of Wenswiller, a hamlet of Alsace, exhumed 
 the bodies, and with imposing ceremonies had them interred in con- 
 secrated ground; immediately a terrific storm of hail and lightning set- 
 tled over the hamlet, and never abated until the bodies were again 
 placed in their wildwood graves. 
 
 123 
 
No. 6, page 16 
 
 "St. Blasien's picture." 
 
 The Ecce Homo, in St. Blasiens, was painted by the Author. Dur- 
 ing the Lenten season, and on the fast day, it occupies a position upon 
 one of the side altars. The lilies wreathing it are placed there as 
 offerings. 
 
 No. 7, page 18 
 
 Or as on eves 
 Of Sabbaths restful, they blithely sang their German airs." 
 
 It is the custom of those peasants, with their families, upon Sabbath 
 eves, to gather at the Inn, where in little groups about the tables, over 
 pipe and mug, spend the evening in social converse; while the young 
 people sit outside, grouped about the doorway, and sing their happy 
 German airs, until curfew is rung. There is seldom an intoxicated 
 person among them. 
 
 No. 8, page 20 
 
 "Some wald recht monarch has succumbed." 
 
 The forests of Germany, consisting of many thousand acres, are 
 the property of the Government from time immemorial; the finest, most 
 vigorous tree of all the forest has been selected as Monarch of the 
 Forest'. A little shrine, containing an image of the Blessed Virgin, is 
 fastened against the tree. To this tree is extended waldrecht, the right 
 of the forest, and is not interfered with, although it may last a hundred 
 years. But should it' die, the shrine is transferred to a younger tree, 
 usually beech or oak, which in turn possesses waldrecht. 
 
 No. 9, page 27 
 
 "Was loyal to his France." 
 
 At the close of the Franco-Prussian war, to all Alsacians was given 
 the choice with whom they would cast their lots. Those whose inter- 
 ests and property were in Alsace, rather than have their possessions 
 confiscated, chose Germany. Those whose lots were cast with France 
 dare venture across the line only at rare intervals, and only at night, 
 while anxious friends are stationed to watch for any appearance of the 
 Gendarmes. A few hours are thus spent in intense fear, then the morn- 
 ing light finds them again across the line in France. 
 
 124 
 
No. 10, page 33 
 
 Landskron. An exquisite bit of ruin crowns a promontory near 
 the Swiss border, was built A. D. 536. The walls are of an immense 
 thickness. The Baron who constructed this Castle was a severe task- 
 master, forcing tlie peasants to perform the labor gratuitously. The 
 material had to be brought from a great distance. This ruin is being 
 preserved by the Government, as a relic of feudal times. 
 
 No. 11, page 46 
 
 Rothberg Castle was built in 1196, is at present little more than a 
 heap of stones. Still the tower mentioned is intact, the initials L. M. 
 are cut upon a stone above the old fireplace. I have never learned if 
 there is a legend connected with them. There seems to be very little 
 known regarding the history of Rothberg. 
 
 No. 12, page 71 
 
 The Coast Guards have curiously constructed huts, of woven 
 boughs, screened among the evergreens, close beside tlie secret paths of 
 the forest, where they can keep a watch upon all passersby and also 
 to protect them from night dews and inclement weather. 
 
 No. 13, page 72 
 
 The Coast Guards are permitted to carry at night, together with 
 their sword and rifle, a camp stool, and a plaid, as protection from the 
 dampness of the forest. 
 
 No. 14, page 105 
 
 In Alsace, tlie land is considered so valuable that the few rods 
 enclosed in the little God's Acre, is used again and again. Beginning 
 at one side, the dead are buried, not in sections or by families, but 
 promiscuously, youth and age, friend and foe, as the case may be, as 
 in this instance Jacobin's had been the last interment, had Habiteur 
 died, he would have occupied the ground beside Jacobin. 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 Detroit, Mich., 1904. 
 
 125 
 
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