29. XXIX.
Let us follow the flight of the devoted Rodolph.
The poor youth fled madly to his home. In desperation,
upon the bosom of his wife he poured
forth the whole dreadful narrative. A silent horror
seized upon her. She was dumb; she was
stupified with dread. She knew of but one resource,
and she called upon God! She implored
her husband to kneel with her before the same
altar, and he did so; but when, like her, he strove
to call upon God, a wild yell arose from the floor
beneath him — a yell of fiendish derision — that
drowned all supplication. At the same moment,
a fierce implacable glare shot out from two eyes
behind the altar, that seemed like dim and baleful
stars, looking forth amidst the gloomy and sudden
gusts of September. Rodolph sank fainting upon
the floor, and Bertha, prostrating herself upon his
body, prayed fervently to heaven for the succor
and the safety of the doomed one!
The night passed — a night of horror. The
day came and passed — a day of increasing horror,
as it was one which contributed in a thousand
ways to the hopelessness of Rodolph.
“Let us fly,” said the devoted wife; “let us
fly, my Rodolph, into other countries. We shall
then be beyond the reach of these people. You
can then be at peace, and happy.”
He embraced her, and they determined upon
flight. In secrecy he prepared money and jewels
for use in a foreign land. His horses were in
readiness, a faithful retainer intrusted with the
secret only, and every arrangement was made
for a start at midnight. It came, and stealing
forth with his infant son in his arms, and his wife
clinging to his side, Rodolph, when all were
asleep, descended to the porch where the carriage
was in waiting. They entered the vehicle, and
departed; but as they drove through the portals,
they heard voices calling them back, and then a
chuckling laugh, which seemed like that of Conrade.
They reached a deep wood, when suddenly
the sky became overcast, and they could no longer
find their way. A storm of lightning came up,
and the horses grew frightened. Strange cries,
as of men in battle, reached their ears from the
distance, and as they drove forward desperately,
the horses sank back in terror from some object
which lay in their way. Provocations like these
had aroused all the courage of Rodolph. He
alighted from the carriage, and approached the
object which had so alarmed the horses. The
distinct outline of a man's body, which seemed
lifeless, lay in the path. A groan reached his
ears. He stooped to the body, to feel if life were
yet in its bosom. The figure stretched up its
arms, as if to embrace him. At that moment, a
sharp flash of lightning showed him the face of
Conrade Weickhoff, the head nearly severed from
the body. He dashed down the bloody carcass;
leaped again into the vehicle; while shrieks of
demoniac laughter seemed to run and gather in
the air, pursuing all around him. With his own
hands, nerved by desperation, he drove the careering
horses over the carcass, and heedless of the
road, made his way forward.
“Whither so fast?” cried a strange voice, in
front of him. “Would you cross the river in
such a freshet, when the bridge is swept away?
Turn, instantly, or you must perish.”
It was a sort of instinct that prompted the next
movement of Rodolph. The horses were wheeled
round, and, driving without an aim, he drove till
daylight. At dawn, the extensive and beautiful
domains of a fine castle lay before him.
“Where am I?” he demanded of a peasant.
“At the castle of Baron Rodolph of Steinmyer,”
was the reply.
Rodolph was again at home.
