8. CHAPTER VIII.
MONNA BARBARA.
Monna Barbara, after the departure of her
ill-tempered elder son, continued for some time
to hobble about the interior of the hut, engaged
in bestowing the platters and wine bottle into
some mysterious receptacle near the fire-place.
Apparently, her good intention in regard to
counting her beads, was in a fair way of contributing
its quota of pavement to a place which
we need not specify; for, on concluding her
domestic bustle, the crone betook herself to the
stool on which Berthold had been seated, and,
resting chin on hands and elbows on knees, the
most approved fashion of ancient dames, whether
they be witches or not, she seemed to lapse
into entire forgetfulness of all things that were
about her.
Nevertheless, Monna Barbara's thoughts were
not sunk in apathy, as was apparent presently
from certain occasional twitches, that imparted,
if possible, greater ugliness to her withered features,
and an uneasy shifting of her hands from
side to side of her bird-like eyes, as their gaze
looked straight forward with a vacant stare. In
truth, the beldame was in a mood for reflection,
and memory busied itself in presenting to her
mind events and images that had for long years
been banished from her waking life.
She recalled a wild but picturesque mountain-region—
in its midst a lovely cavern, wherein
the setting sun's last beams darted a yellow
light. Upon a rude couch of dry forest-leaves,
lay the form of a wounded man, garbed in the
gay habit of an outlawed mountaineer, but writhing
apparently in grievous pain. Beside him
knelt a woman in the prime of life, her countenance
handsome, but stamped with the lines that
unchecked passions write so legibly upon the
human face. In the woman's features, through
the misty shadows of her vision, Monna Barbara,
beheld her own lineaments ere time and grief had
marred their freshness. This female knelt beside
the mountaineer, binding his wound with
linen, and soothing him the while with words of
love. Without the cavern, two children, a boy
and girl were innocently playing, whilst on a
rocky shelf, overlooking the cave, the bayonets
of soldiers gleamed in the crimson sunbeams.
These soldiers descended unseen and noiselessly
from the heights—they reached the spot where
the unconscious children sported—the female
child, terrified, fled shrieking away, while the
intruders rushed into the cavern. Then there
was another shriek, a struggle, and the wounded
brigand, bound with strong cords, was dragged
from the embrace of his wife and the boy who
clung affrighted to her garments.
Monna Barbara moaned fearfully, as this picture
of past life flitted before her vision; and,
throwing her withered hands forward imploringly,
she cried, in piteous accents:
“Mercy! mercy! For the love of heaven,
leave him to die with me!”
But the vision changed. Its shifting light revealed
a landscape beautiful as dreamland—a
proud castle towering on a lofty eminence, watching
warder-like the vale beneath—a vale luxuriant
with gardens, and smiling with dimpled
brooks and laughing in silvery cascades; on
either side, sloping hills, clad with blossoms and
fruitage; high above all, great mountains girdled
with glaciers, and afar, the king of mountains,
Blanc, diamonded with ice, and sitting throned
in stern magnificence and changeless pride.
Again the vision was filled with terror—a
scene of wild confusion usurping the quiet of
that peaceful landscape. Rough men, strangely
attired, and armed with murderous weapons,
descended from the hills, rushing to and fro,
wounding and slaying the flying dwellers of the
vale. Anon the lofty castle appeared wrapped
in lurid flames, its massy walls and graceful
galleries, arched gates, and carved windows,
and embattled turrets, all girded by the fiery
elements that swept in terrible grandeur over
every defence; still, crumbling in fierce heat, the
structure sunk to earth a ruin, smouldering beneath
great clouds of gloomy smoke. And foremost
amid the fierce incendiaries, foremost among
the murderous band that smote the peaceful
valley, the shuddering crone recalled one face—
one female form. O, woe for her! the face and
form were Monna Barbara's.
Terrible were the workings of the dreamy
woman's soul. The beaded sweat stood coldly
on her ashen cheek—her voice sounded strangely
hollow and unnatural, as she moaned aloud:
“Thus—thus Monna Barbara avenged her
husband!”
The echo of her own voice awoke the beldam
from the dream-like retrospect of past events.
She shuddered, and rose from her seat, her tottering
limbs feebly obeying her stronger will.
As she gained her feet, a sudden flash of red
gleamed from the dying embers on the hearth,
and as it illumined for a second the obscurity of
the hut, the old woman's glance was attracted
by some brilliantly shining object lying near the
door. She approached the spot, with faltering
steps, and stooping to the ground, groped in the
gloom until her fingers closed upon a hard substance,
which she immediately bore to the fire-place.
Then, hastily throwing a dry branch
upon the coals, she waited a moment till a
blaze rose from the ignited wood, and then proceeded
to examine her prize.
It was a small cross of jet, with a golden
heart in the centre, attached to a plain silken
braid. Upon the golden heart was a simple inscription
in German letters. There was nothing
remarkable about the ornament, nevertheless, no
sooner did Monna Barbara's glance rest upon it,
than an extraordinary change came across her
countenance; her eyes dilated into a fixed stare,
her breath was choked, and the corners of her
mouth quivered convulsively, and then grew
rigid.
Thus for a few moments, the crone remained,
steadfastly gazing at the cross of jet. Again the
visions of memory rushed athwart her soul; again
the past gave up its phantoms. At length, a low
murmur came from the old woman's lips:
“It was he—surely the dead walk!”
Once more Monna Barbara scrutinized the
little emblem. Long and fixedly her eyes dwelt
upon it, and as they did so, the hard look which
was habitual to them seemed to vanish; they
grew soft and moist, and at last—O strange
visitor to Monna Barbara's eyes! a tear dropped
from them upon the golden heart. The crone
dashed her hand across her brow, as she felt the
unusual tenderness; but the long pent waters,
haply unsealed by heaven's mercy, now found
their channel from the woman's heart. Monna
Barbara struggled a moment against her rising
feelings, and then, burying her withered forehead
in her hands, still grasping the cross of jet, she
flung herself prostrate on the floor of the hut,
and gave vent to all the violence of an uncontrolled
nature overpowering itself with its own
emotions.
Long did the old woman sob and moan, and
sway her shattered body to and fro, upon the
hard ground; but at last the paroxysm subsided,
giving place to calmer grief. Then, indeed,
Monna Barbara felt a strange change working in
her soul—a change that seemed to crush her
abjectly in the dust, and yet uplift her higher
than she had ever risen before—a change that
made bare her heart, with all its evil secrets, and
yet appeared to cast about its nakedness a mantle
that shielded it from outward harm. Monna
Barhara rose again, with much of the darkness
of her mind enlightened. Her features seemed
not so ugly as before, and something soft and
human had taken place of the querulous and
weird expression which so lately marked her
countenance.
Once more the crone looked at the jet cross,
with its gold heart shining in the firelight.
Then she moved to a shelf in the dark nook
where she was wont to sit, and took down from
it a string of beads, broken, and dusty with long
disuse.
And then Monna Barbara knelt beside the
stool, and in the gloom and solitude of her hovel,
began to pray to that God whom she had long
forgotten—the God of the poor as well as of the
rich—of the outcast and contemned as well as of
the exalted—of the sinner as well as of the saint.
And her prayer was “Have merey upon me!
God who forgivest!”
