Landolin

CHAPTER XXVIII

Landolin tried to sleep, but he soon sprang up again. A man may sleep as much as he likes after he gets home, but now there is not a moment to be lost. He rang the bell, and very submissively asked the keeper to go for his son Peter, for he wanted to find out if the mother had come.

"What mother?"

"Oh pshaw! The mother of-of-of the poor fellow. Ask right out if Cushion-Kate is here. And tell my son to give you twenty marks for the saint's keeper."

"For the saint's keeper? Where is he?"

"Are you so stupid? Or are you only pretending? The saint's keeper is inside of your coat."

The grim keeper chuckled, and said to himself:

"And just think of people saying that farmers are stupid."

He soon returned, and said that Vetturi's mother had not come, but-

"But what? Not my wife and daughter? I expressly forbade that."

"No, not they; but half the village."

"Did the saint's keeper get anything?"

"Yes," chuckled the keeper. The day had brought him a rich harvest, both from those who were seeking to be dropped from the list of jurymen, and had sought his influence with the different counsel for that purpose, and from the people from the neighboring villages, whom he had promised to let into the court-room before any one else.

Landolin was again alone. He visited, in fancy, the various inns of the city, and the beer-garden near the station. He seemed to hear what the people said-how they could hardly wait for the time when they might see him in the prisoner's seat. Nothing is thought of to-day but whether Landolin will be sentenced to death, or to long imprisonment, or will be acquitted.

Something that was almost a prayer passed through his soul, but he did not utter it; for he could not escape the thought that Cushion-Kate was to-day praying to God for his just punishment. He started back. It seemed to him as though she, herself, had run against him bodily.

The prison door was unlocked. Landolin was led through along passage to the prisoner's waiting-room. The doors and the windows of the large court-room were open; bright sunshine streamed in; the room was empty-soon it would be crowded. The two keepers walked back and forth near Landolin. Loud laughing and talking could be heard from the street before the court-house. Who knows what jokes they were making! Men can still laugh though there is one up here whose heart would fain stand still. Landolin's eyes glistened. He said to himself: "After all I was right in despising the whole world."

In the room in which he was now confined he could hear, as he listened at the door, the tramp of steps through the long corridor. He would have been glad to know whose steps they were. A confused sound of voices reached his ear. At length he plainly heard the words "My father!" It was Peter's voice. No doubt he had called so loud on purpose that his father might hear him. Landolin felt as though he were buried alive. He heard voices and could not answer them. His head swam so that he leaned against the door-post.

The door was unlocked, and Landolin was led into the court-room.

CHAPTER XXIX

His eyes fastened on the floor, with measured steps Landolin entered the room. He seemed about to turn to the jury box, but the keeper laid hold of his arm, and motioned him to the prisoner's dock.

When he reached it he straightened himself with a violent effort, and looked calmly around; but he must have felt something like a veil before his eyes, for he repeatedly drew his hands over them. He saw his son Peter, who nodded to him, but he only answered with a slight motion of his head. He recognized men and women from his and neighboring villages; but Cushion-Kate's red kerchief was not to be seen.

He surveyed the jury with a keen scrutiny. He knew them all. They all stared at him, but no one of them gave him to understand, by so much as a motion of the eyelids: I know you and am friendly to you. The miller was not on the jury.

Who is foreman?

Titus. A red and white variegated pink lies before him on the desk. Now he takes it up and presses it to his large nose. The farmer of Tollhof, called the jester, who sits beside him, hands him an open snuff-box and says something. It is evidently, "Landolin is very much changed." Titus nods, takes a pinch of snuff, and sneezes loudly. The host of the Ritter inn, who is seated on the front bench, turns around, and says, "Your health!" and whispers something to the lumberman, Dietler. Who knows that the fickle host has not abandoned Landolin as a dead man, and commenced paying court to Titus! The other members of the jury are most all well-to-do, comfortable farmers-among them Walderjörgli's son, dressed in the old-time costume, with a red vest-have folded their large hands upon the desks, and look steadily before them.

The solemn, impressive ceremony of taking the oath is over; the witnesses are sent out of the court-room; the charge is read. While the reading is going on, the counselor drums with a large pencil on a volume of the statutes before him. It may be he is gently playing a tune, for he keeps perfect time. He is a young man with a heavy moustache, which he smooths incessantly; and an unframed eye-glass, attached to a broad, black ribbon, is fastened on his left eye. There is something in the appearance of the counselor that suggests a soldierly combativeness, and, in truth, he is an officer of the Landwehr. The glance through the eye-glass, which sparkles strangely, is often turned upon Landolin, and Landolin is uneasy under it. He would like to say: "Please put the glass down," but he may not.

Landolin's lawyer has risen to his feet, and leans on the railing of the prisoner's dock. His hands are thrust in his pantaloon pockets. Sometimes he turns his head and exchanges a few brief words with Landolin.

The charge is manslaughter.

The witnesses are called; and before the first one appears, the lawyer for the defense announces that he has telegraphed for the district physician, for the purpose of obtaining his professional opinion regarding Vetturi's frailty.

CHAPTER XXX

Landolin sat perfectly still, and looked at his hands. They had grown soft and white in prison. Only when a new witness was called, he raised his eyes and watched him narrowly.

The witnesses in favor of the accused spoke hesitatingly. They had seen Vetturi fall on a heap of paving-stones, but whether the stone that had been thrown had gone past him, that they could not say with certainty. The blacksmith, from the upper village, was the only one who was sure that he had seen it quite plainly.

"Take care you don't commit perjury," called out the prosecuting counsel. The lawyer for the defense arose in great excitement, and earnestly protested against this intimidation of the witness. Even the jurymen put their heads together, and whispered to one another. The presiding judge said politely, but with marked decision, to the youthful counselor, that he must leave such matters to him. The counsel for the defense did not let this incident escape him; but made quite a point of it, and it was some little time before matters moved on in their usual quiet way. When Anton was called, Landolin's counsel asked to have the district physician heard first, as he was obliged to leave immediately. But the doctor's testimony proved to be of no importance. Then Anton was called, and all eyes were fastened upon him.

The iron cross on his breast rose and fell, as he breathed deeply and rapidly.

To the preliminary question, as to whether he was related to the prisoner, he answered in a tremulous voice, but in well chosen words, that at the time of the accident he was betrothed to the daughter of the accused.

At this the government counselor moved that Anton should not be sworn, but the counsel for the accused insisted that he should be. The judges retired for consultation. They soon returned, and the presiding judge announced that Anton Armbruster was not to be sworn. He added, however, with impressiveness, that because of Anton's high character for honesty, he should confidently expect him to tell the truth, and the whole truth, with a clear conscience.

"That I will do," said Anton. Every one held his breath, and Landolin clutched the railing of the bench with both hands. Plainly and readily Anton said that it was his conviction that Landolin had not intended to kill Vetturi. Still, he could not say that he had seen the occurrence distinctly. He had just stepped through the gate, holding his betrothed's hand, and had no eyes for any one else.

He drew a long breath, and paused. The counsel for the defense asked him if he did not remember what he had said to Landolin, on his return from the unfortunate man's house. Anton replied that it was Landolin who had spoken, not he.

With soldierly precision he answered each question, and ended by saying that it could not be imagined that a man like Landolin, that a father, would willingly kill a man on the day of his daughter's betrothal.

Without looking toward Landolin, Anton returned to his seat, and when there, he did not look up. His eyes glistened, and his face burned.

When Tobias was called, he came forward with long strides, bowed to the judge, to the jury, and most deeply to his master. He then said, with the utmost assurance in his manner, that he would not have believed that the good-for-nothing Vetturi, who was too lazy to lift a sheaf of grain, could have been able to throw such a stone; but as good luck would have it, the stone had fallen just at his master's feet. Otherwise Vetturi would have been sitting in the prisoner's dock, and his master lying in the grave.

The government counselor tried to drive Tobias into a corner with questions, but he seemed prepared for everything, and gave smiling answers; and at last, even said pertly, that he, who had been there and seen it all, must know what happened better than the counselor.

Fidelis was then called. Some discussion arose as to whether he could be sworn; as he had been Landolin's servant at the time of the occurrence.

Landolin made a good impression by saying that Fidelis was a good fellow, and would say nothing against him out of spite.

At these words of his master, Fidelis seemed disconcerted for a moment, but he soon gave his testimony, briefly and succinctly; that Vetturi had not bent over and picked up a stone, but that his master had thrown one, and that it had seemed to him that it would hit his own head.

The counsel for the defense inquired if any one had spoken to the witness regarding what he had seen. Whereupon the government counsel rejoined that, if such questions were to be allowed, he should put the question whether Tobias had not endeavored to persuade Fidelis to testify otherwise.

"Must I answer?" asked Fidelis.

The presiding judge replied that he need answer neither question.

The examination of witnesses was now closed, and a pause ensued, during which there was a final arming of the forces upon both sides.

It had grown dark and candles were lighted in the court-room. They lit up first the judge's desk, then the jury, then Landolin and his counsel, and at last the spectators, of whom not one seemed to be missing; indeed their numbers had apparently increased.

It was damp and sultry in the room. The battle began.

CHAPTER XXXI

The counselor's eye-glass glistened and glittered, but his speech was plain and quiet. He seemed studiously to avoid any approach to vehemence. He began with a strong statement of the unruliness and presumption which characterized the servants of the present day; and of their frequent dishonesty in the present instance. The jury nodded assent. He was sorry to say that the guilt of the accused was very plain. The pretext of self-defense he materially weakened, by showing carefully and clearly that the defendant had only hit upon the subterfuge as a last resort, when he could find no other. It was more than strange that the stone thrown by Landolin, which was bloody and easy distinguishable from others, had so soon been made away with; while the one said to have been thrown by Vetturi had been found, where no doubt it had been placed for that very purpose.

At these words Landolin shook his head violently. The counselor paused for a moment, then continued composedly, that, as only justice should be done, he would recommend a verdict of guilty of manslaughter, with mitigating circumstances.

When he had finished, Landolin leaned forward to speak to his lawyer, who rose and proceeded with persuasive eloquence to set forth the perfect innocence of the accused. When he depicted Landolin's uprightness and influence, Landolin cast down his eyes. It made a strong impression when the lawyer raising his voice cried: "Gentlemen of jury! The accused was chosen as a juryman for this session of the court. He should be sitting among you, and not here; and I expect from your straightforward honesty he will soon be with you, shoulder to shoulder; for he belongs with you. The one of you that feels himself exempt from outbursts of anger which, against his will, might result in an unhappy accident; the one that feels himself free from all natural faults, let him throw the stone; the stony word, guilty. By the authority of the accused, I refuse 'mitigating circumstances.' That is merely disguising the deadly missile. I call for the verdict 'Not guilty.'"

A murmur ran through the mass of spectators, so that the presiding judge threatened to clear the court-room if such disturbance were heard again. In the profound silence that followed he gathered up the pros and cons, and laid them in the scales before the jury. When he had finished he asked Landolin if he had anything to say.

Landolin arose and bowed. He moistened his dry lips, and began:

"Your honors! Gentlemen of the jury! I-I am guilty!" Again a murmur ran through the room; but the judge did not repeat his warning. He was himself too much astonished at the words; and even Landolin's lawyer involuntarily threw up his arms in despair. The counselor's eye-glass sparkled more brightly than before, and his face had a triumphant expression. When silence was restored, Landolin continued:

"Yes, I am guilty. I deserve punishment, just punishment; but not for that of which I stand here accused. I deserve punishment because I was so soft-hearted and compassionate that I did not prosecute the miserable fellow for his theft.

"Gentlemen of the jury! You twelve men! It is terribly hard that such men as you should be taken from the harvest-field to sit here through a long, hot day! And why? Because of a miserable servant-man, whose life is not worth twelve hours' time, of twelve honorable men like you. I will not speak of myself, of my having to stand here. I only say I should not have been so tender-hearted. Through that I have become guilty of making servants ungovernable. For that, I deserve punishment, for nothing else. Should I have quietly allowed him to kill me? And is it likely that I, who forebore so long with him, sought to kill him? Was I likely to place my wife, and my children, my honor, my house, and my lands in peril for such a one as he? I will not abuse him; he is dead." Landolin's voice trembled. He seemed unable to continue. His counsel whispered to him: "Don't stop there. Say again that you are guilty." And Landolin cried again: "I am guilty in not having prosecuted the thief. Of that I am guilty, of nothing more."

Landolin sat down, and covered his face with both hands. He seemed to be weeping.

The judge handed the foreman of the jury the list of points for their consideration. They all arose, and Landolin was led to the room set apart for the accused. On the way out his son pressed his hand; they could neither speak a word.

"Keeper," asked Peter, "can I go with my father?"

"Certainly."

"But I want to be alone," interrupted Landolin sharply, and the door closed behind him.

"He would have let Thoma in, but he does not want me," said Peter to himself; and as other evil thoughts linked themselves to this one, he grated his teeth.

CHAPTER XXXII

The court-room and the long corridor were filled with people, eagerly discussing the expected verdict. Some thought it well-advised, others thought it fool-hardy, that the accused and his lawyer had declined to accept a verdict with "mitigating circumstances." They all agreed, however, that Landolin's speech was a surprise, such as they would probably never live to see again. There were some even who tried to set a money value on it, and asserted that they wouldn't have missed hearing the speech for such or such a sum. No one had dreamed that Landolin was such an orator and actor.

During this time, Landolin stood at the open window of the prisoner's room, grasping the iron grating with both hands. The keeper brought wine. Landolin did not drink it, but he poured some on his hands, and washed them with it; then turned again and started out into the starlit night.

Although he felt the triumph that he had gained by his last words, his knees were weary as if he had climbed over a high mountain, and now, as it seemed to him, he was compelled to walk over a grave, yonder by his home-

A meteor shot across the heavens. Ah! if one could only believe that that is a good sign!

The prisoner's room, and that in which the jury was locked till they should agree upon a verdict, were only separated by one thick wall. Have they been there long, or only a short time? From the towers of the city twelve o'clock was tolled. "Twelve strokes of the bell! The voices of twelve men!" said Landolin to himself. Yonder, through the black night, comes a monster with two red eyes, ever nearer and nearer. Landolin knows very well that it is a locomotive, but nevertheless he starts back from the window in terror, and sits down in a chair. Hark! A bell rings. It is not outside; it is here. The jury are ready. A heavy trampling is now heard in the corridor, followed by an unbroken silence. Landolin is sent for. With a firm step he mounts the stairs to the prisoner's dock. He stands still; for he is saying to himself: "They shall never say they saw me break down." He looks at the twelve men, but their faces seem to him to be swimming in a sea. Now, as though emerging from the waves, they rise. The foreman, Titus, lays his right hand on his heart, in his left a sheet of paper trembles and rustles.

Titus first reads the points that have been submitted to them. Oh, how long that lasts! Why this repetition? Why not immediately say, Guilty; or, Not Guilty? Now Titus draws a deep breath, and says:

"The accused is pronounced not guilty, by six voices against six."

A blow is heard to fall on the statute book which lies on the counselor's table. His glistening eyeglass falls down, and twirls around on its broad, black ribbon, as if astonished.

The judges hold a whispered consultation; and the president rises, and after reading the passages of the law bearing upon the case, says:

"The accused is not guilty. Landolin! you are free."

Landolin sees gathering about him his lawyer, his son, Tobias, and several jurymen and old friends. He sits on the bench, nods silently, and tears that he cannot keep back roll down his cheek.

"Father, don't weep; rejoice!" cried Peter. But in a moment a different cry is heard. The spectators had crowded noisily out of the building, and announced the verdict to the many people waiting in the corridor, on the stairs, and in front of the court-house. And now one could hear loud cries of "the murderer's released!" then yells, whistles, and threatening exclamations from the keepers and guards.

"Wait until the mob has scattered," said the host of the Ritter, who was one of the jury, "you will put up with me. I have ordered a good meal to be prepared for you and your guests."

Landolin had regained his self-command, and answered in a clear voice: "Yes; serve as good a meal as you can, and invite all the jurymen. The other six are not my enemies. I-I will never have another enemy in the world."

"Father, I would like to give Titus a special invitation."

"Do so. Didn't I say that for the few years I have yet to live, I will be nobody's enemy?"

"And I will send a telegram to mother."

"Do so, and say that I am all right."

The electric spark flashes over the wire, knocks at the station of the little town where the stationmaster is still awake, and soon the brother of the "Galloping Cooper" ascends the hill.

CHAPTER XXXIII

On this still summer night a current of fresh air streams through the valley and over the hilltops. The ripe blades of wheat sway to and fro as they draw their last breaths. All nature is silent, save the river which rushes through the valley. The men are all resting from the hard work of the harvest, to begin again with renewed strength at the first glimmer of the morning sunshine.

Up the white mountain road moves a man who often presses his hand to his breast pocket, as if to convince himself that he had not lost the dispatch.

In Landolin's house a light is still burning. Thoma sits at the table, and stares at the candle. Her features are changed by bitterness and pain, and the lips that once so sweetly smiled, so warmly kissed, are tightly compressed. Will those lips ever smile again; ever kiss again?

Her mother reclines at the open window, and looks out into the night.

"Mother," said Thoma, "you must go to sleep. It is past midnight; and the doctor thought that the trial would scarcely be finished in one day."

The mother barely turned her head, and then looked out again. Is Cushion-Kate awake, too, thought she.

Yes, she was awake, but she could not afford a light. Perhaps, at the same moment, she was thinking of Landolin's wife. "She has not deserved such misery; but neither have I; and I have no one else; nothing but this gnawing sorrow."