THE GOOD SHEPHERD
 
 THE 
 
 GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 BY 
 
 "In dem schoenen Land Tyrol, 
 
 In Tyrol, in Tyrol. 
 Ach, wie ist mir denn so wohl, 
 In Tyrol, im Land Tyrol." 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 9
 
 Third Printing 
 
 January, 1915
 
 TO 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 2138226 '
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 "VERY satisfactory, Kurtz." The Professor lifted his 
 head from the microscope and blinked at his laboratory- 
 servant, who stood waiting by the door. "This last 
 slide's specially good." He bent over the instrument 
 again. Then, as Kurtz did not move, he asked : "Well ? 
 Anyone to see me?" 
 
 ' ' Yes, sir. The ' Herr Mister. ' ' 
 
 "Who?" Professor Schroeder rubbed his tired eyes 
 and put on his glasses. 
 
 "The American. The 'Herr Mister.' Everybody 
 calls him that. His name's too hard to pronounce." 
 
 Kurtz ran his fingers through the long yellow beard 
 that framed in his impassive features and fell over 
 his white hospital tunic. In the operating-theater or 
 in the laboratory of the Surgical Clinic, he was like 
 some stately Teutonic priest presiding over strange sacri- 
 fices. 
 
 "It's about that job in the laboratory," he added. 
 ' ' He '11 be wanting that. But I 'm thinking we wouldn 't 
 work well together, Herr Professor. Oh, he knows 
 enough ! ' ' 
 
 "Too much, perhaps? I've a lot of his latest slides 
 here, and they're quite unusually perfect." 
 
 "He's all for working in paraffine," protested Kurtz. 
 ' ' Paraffine ! And me using nothing but celloidin for 
 twenty years! The Herr Professor knows my work. 
 Besides, them foreigners " 
 
 "He's almost the only one we've got. This isn't 
 Vienna. Show him in." 
 
 I
 
 2 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Kurtz opened the outer door of the Professor's private 
 room and beckoned with one stained finger. Then he 
 withdrew softly, leaving the new-comer standing in front 
 of the Professor's table. 
 
 "Sit down sit down, Herr Kollega," said Schroeder. 
 
 He was peering into the microscope again; but he 
 did not see much of the slide that lay under the power- 
 ful immersion-lens, for he felt exceedingly ill at ease. 
 He was a kind-hearted, very shy man, and he hated 
 disagreeable interviews. 
 
 Several moments passed in silence. Then he realized 
 that there was no escape possible; he must say some- 
 thing. 
 
 He put on his glasses again, and looked across his 
 desk at the American, a tall man with a slight stoop, 
 whose sensitive mouth was at war with the clean-cut 
 outlines of his square jaw, and into whose slaty-green 
 eyes the Professor could never look without a sense of 
 discomfort. Those eyes were fixed on him now. He 
 avoided them, and saw that the hand that rested on 
 the edge of his desk was trembling. 
 
 ' ' I have to thank you for those last preparations, ' ' he 
 began. Then, catching at a straw, "But you don't look 
 well. Overworked, I'm sure: and no wonder. Even 
 in the ordinary course of things a medical student's 
 brain is strained to the utmost, and you do all sorts of 
 extra duty besides. Now that the semester is over, you 
 should rest." 
 
 "I'm not tired, sir," the other answered. His voice 
 was hard and defiant. 
 
 The Professor stood up, and laid a hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "But you are tiring, my young friend. Getting near 
 the line where tiredness begins. Stop before you get 
 there. That's my advice." 
 
 The American's lips parted in a smile. He was like 
 a man constantly in arms against misfortune, but whom 
 kindness strips of his armor, leaving him defenseless 
 and off his guard. 
 
 "But I want to work, Herr Professor," he said.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 3 
 
 "That's why I'm bothering you this morning. I 
 thought, perhaps, Kurtz had told you that I was intend- 
 ing to apply for for " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know. That place as laboratory- 
 demonstrator." Schroeder saw no way out now, and 
 plunged bravely into an explanation that he knew must 
 be painful. "But I need someone at once; and you 
 really look so done up that I hesitate to " 
 
 "I could begin to-morrow, Herr Professor. I've 
 brought my papers." 
 
 "But I couldn't think of taking advantage of your 
 
 goodwill in so selfish a manner. You see, I that is, 
 j " 
 
 Again he stammered, and tugged awkwardly at his 
 short gray beard. 
 
 The American's right hand, that had drawn a sheaf 
 of papers from an inner pocket, stopped and mechani- 
 cally replaced them. The smile faded from his lips. 
 
 ' ' Herr Professor thinks, then, that I had better not put 
 in my application. I understand quite." 
 
 "No you don't, indeed you don't," interposed 
 Schroeder, growing more nervous and unhappy with 
 every moment. "It's got nothing to do with you at all, 
 personally. So far as I'm concerned. But you know 
 Kurtz, our head-servant. He's been with me twenty 
 years. I could never replace him. You know, too, how 
 handy he is. What really brilliant technical work he 
 does. And if he and my assistants don't get on together, 
 why, I I'm put in a very unpleasant position. An- 
 other servant like Kurtz I should never find ; but a suit- 
 able assistant I can pick up any day. So, for the sake of 
 peace, I 've always let my assistants go, when there 's been 
 any friction between Kurtz and themselves. They're 
 usually quite young men, often students not yet quali- 
 fied. I can turn them off without hurting them much, 
 or feeling uncomfortable myself. But, you see, you, 
 you 're somewhat of a scientific man. I don 't know what 
 your American degree in medicine represents; but I've 
 seen the work you've done here in these last four years, 
 and I Why, you wouldn't stand it for a week.
 
 4 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Making sections by the wholesale for theoretical courses : 
 explaining elementary matters to stupid students, or 
 looking after the instruments in the operating-theater. 
 It would be like using a spirited Arab steed to draw a 
 coal-cart. ' ' 
 
 Then, distressed by a new point of view, which threat- 
 ened to make the interview still more embarrassing, he 
 added 
 
 "Or do you do you need the the remuneration 
 so badly? If so, perhaps, if you would allow me, 
 I might " 
 
 The American stood up abruptly. His face was set 
 and hard once more on guard again against misfortune. 
 
 ' ' Herr Professor is far too kind, ' ' he said, with a stiff 
 little bow. "I shall not starve. It isn't the money I 
 want; it's the work. Of course you may say, 'Well, 
 then, work at your books, or in the laboratory, or the 
 operating-room, with the other men.' That's all well 
 enough. I do that so long as the semester lasts. But, 
 now that lectures and courses are over, I want some- 
 thing, some work, that I've got to do. Don't you see, 
 sir, I haven't will-power enough to make work for my- 
 self, all alone in my own room, or alone now in the 
 laboratories. I need a job that makes the work for 
 me; even if it's only cutting sections or rolling up 
 bandages. I I want work. That's all. Work that 
 makes me so dog-tired that I don't lie awake at nights 
 and think." 
 
 He picked up his hat and hurried towards the door. 
 Here he faced about, clicked his heels together, and made 
 the astonished Professor the customary reverence. 
 
 "Ich habe die Ehre, Herr Professor." 1 
 
 "Ich habe die Ehre, Herr Kollega." 
 
 Then, interrupting himself in the midst of this me- 
 chanical formula, Schroeder hurried after his depart- 
 ing visitor. 
 
 "No, no, you mustn't go like this. It won't do, my 
 dear boy, won't do at all." He took the American by 
 
 i "I have the honor," that is, "to wish you good-day." The 
 usual shortened form of salutation among men in Austria.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 5 
 
 the shoulders and shook him reprovingly. "Nerves 
 overworked breakdown. We can't have that. Go off 
 somewhere and take a rest. Skip a semester, this com- 
 ing summer-semester, if you like. What good would 
 you be in the operating-room with a hand like that? 
 Get it firm and steady. Then come back to me and I'll 
 give you work: not tread-mill work either. You helped 
 us last summer, didn't you, in our out-patient depart- 
 ment? Well, you can do that again. And once you've 
 got your Austrian degree and I can legally allow you to 
 operate, I'll find a place for you somehow. Until you 
 want to go home. . . . Why don't you go home for the 
 summer?" 
 
 The Professor stopped short. Something leaped up 
 in the depths of the other's eyes and made him uncom- 
 fortable. 
 
 "Journey too long, I expect," he added gruffly. 
 
 The American said nothing. It was very embarrass- 
 ing. Professor Schroeder walked back towards his 
 microscope. 
 
 "Herr Professor," said the American's voice at last 
 from the doorway, "I must work three semesters more 
 before I can come up for my degree. A year and a half. 
 That's a very long time. A lot of days, and nights. 
 But I'll do my best. I'll " 
 
 A door, communicating with the neighboring room, 
 opened suddenly and a youngish-looking man hurried 
 in. Between his fingers he held a number of test-tubes, 
 sealed with wads of cotton-wool. 
 
 "Got 'em this time," he cried. "Just look at this 
 culture ! ' ' 
 
 Then, noticing the American's presence, he stopped 
 impatiently and made a slight bow in his direction. The 
 American stiffened ; he bowed to both professors. 
 
 "Ich habe die Ehre, Herr Professor ..." 
 
 "Hab' die Ehre," nodded Schroeder with a smile. 
 
 " die Ehre," added the younger man carelessly over 
 his shoulder while lifting one of his test-tubes towards 
 the light. 
 
 "Do come and look at this," he said, as the door closed
 
 6 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 on the American. "That'll make our kind enemies sit 
 up, I take it. Serve 'em right for the way they treated 
 your work so many years ago. Now they'll have to eat 
 their words. I'll see to that." 
 
 But the elder man did not respond. He stood at the 
 window looking out on the garden that surrounded the 
 Surgical Clinic, where the patients in their hideous red- 
 and-white-striped dressing-gowns were passing to and 
 fro. The sun struck in through the high window-panes 
 and flooded the room with radiance. Schroeder held 
 out his hand so that the light fell directly upon it. 
 
 "And he's in the shadow," he said out loud. 
 
 "In heaven's name, what's wrong?" demanded the 
 other. Laying his test-tubes carefully on the desk, he 
 came hurrying across to the window. His voice soft- 
 ened. "You're not unwell, are you? Come, you might 
 tell me." 
 
 The Professor turned suddenly, slipped his arm 
 through that of his companion, and walked with him 
 back to the table. 
 
 "Doesn't the light bother you?" asked the other. 
 "Shall I pull down the blind?" 
 
 "No, no. I like it. We're in the sun, you see, 
 you and I." 
 
 "The confounded sun will ruin my cultures. And 
 where will all our work be then? I thought you'd be 
 so interested to see what I'd got at, and now you're 
 not paying the slightest attention to a word I'm say- 
 ing." 
 
 "The cultures will keep for a few moments," an- 
 swered the Professor, smiling up into the other's disap- 
 pointed face. "No, I'm not ill either. I've been think- 
 ing backwards a little, that's all. Hans, how old were 
 you when I married your sister?" 
 
 "How old? Why, let's see. It was my last year at 
 the Gymnasium. I was nineteen. Lucy must have been 
 twenty-five. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Bit of a risk, wasn 't it ? " nodded the Professor. ' ' I 
 mean, my marrying a woman so much younger than my- 
 self. But we haven't done ourselves so badly, have
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 7 
 
 we? Five years for your medical studies at the Uni- 
 versity; three more as my assistant. Then your book, 
 that made you 'Privat-Dozent.' And now, you're 
 assistant-professor at thirty-five. Not a bad record. 
 And Lucy has been happy, I think. If only 
 
 "Never mind," interposed the other gently. ''Chil- 
 dren aren't always a blessing." 
 
 "And I have you." 
 
 The old man's face brightened. He went to the win- 
 dow, stood in the sunlight, and spoke over his shoulder 
 as if half ashamed of himself. 
 
 " 'Tisn't every man in my position who has a brother- 
 in-law, a son, and an heir to his dearest scientific work 
 all rolled into one. In the old days I was always too 
 busy as a surgeon to go hunting for technical proofs of 
 my various theories. How I was laughed at then ! An 
 unpractical dreamer. So people used to call me." 
 
 "They won't laugh now. It's a big chance this offer 
 of Carrel's to take on those two chapters of his new 
 book. And I'll show the whole world what a genius 
 you were to get at all you did so many years ago. Good 
 Lord, it will be a treat. I'll make the idiots lick your 
 boots." 
 
 "We'll spare them that." The old man turned 
 briskly from the window, settling his glasses firmly on 
 his nose with a gesture of finality. "By the way, does 
 Lucy really want to go to Liebenegg for Easter? It 
 will be very cold there." 
 
 "She's tired of Innsbruck, she says. Wants to get 
 into the country. I'd like a few mountain-climbs my- 
 self. I'm somewhat over-trained. Then, Aunt Ellie, 
 you know, mother's younger sister who married an 
 American, she's asked Lucy to do something for a 
 friend of hers who's been spending the winter in Italy. 
 Lucy thought of inviting her to Liebenegg. ' ' He looked 
 down at Professor Schroeder, who was holding a test- 
 tube listlessly between his fingers. "You can't see the 
 culture at all if you hold it like that. What is up with 
 you this morning? What started you thinking about 
 Lucy, and and me ? "
 
 8 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Sun and shadow. That poor fellow who was here 
 with me when you came in. The American. We're 
 in the sun, aren't we? You and I and the wife. While 
 he What do you know about him anyway?" 
 
 Assistant-Professor Egger grew impatient. He had 
 important work to do, and his chief insisted on wasting 
 time on such insignificant matters. He answered 
 
 sharply. 
 
 "Nothing much. And there are three major opera- 
 tions waiting for you this minute." 
 
 "I know. I'll change at once. Don't go." The 
 Professor slipped out of his coat, and dragged from a 
 closet the white duck trousers and the white tunic that 
 he wore in the Clinic. "But you might answer my 
 question. Didn't he work with you last year?" 
 
 ' ' The American ? Yes. All summer. He came every 
 day and made the eight o'clock visit in the wards with 
 me. The assistant-in-charge used to let him bandage 
 and do odd jobs. He's very quick with his fingers. 
 Doesn't seem to hurt the patients much." 
 
 "Anesthetic hands. Well, anything else?" 
 
 "Oh yes, one curious thing. He's a tremendous 
 woman-hater. To give him experience I changed him, 
 in the usual course of our routine, into another ward, 
 the Septic Women. At first he came regularly. But 
 after a week he stopped coming. Said he couldn 't stand 
 it. Couldn't look at the patients objectively, as mere 
 cases, you know. Yet the women liked him; were quite 
 strangely interested in him, in fact. And he couldn't 
 abide 'em. Funny." 
 
 The Professor whirled round, his tunic half buttoned. 
 
 "Not at all, not at all. Not a woman-hater at all. 
 It's because he feels too strongly. Women attract him 
 so that he's afraid. Afraid. That's it. Now I under- 
 stand. He has been hurt; badly hurt. And he goes 
 in fear of getting hurt in the same place again. It's 
 cancer-patients he makes me think of. I couldn 't place 
 it before. Cancer-patients, who have had an operation, 
 and who aren't yet sure that the malignant growth has 
 been entirely removed. They're always waiting for a
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 9 
 
 fresh attack of the old pain, knowing just where it will 
 hurt, wondering when it's coming, and sometimes hop- 
 ing that it won't come at all. But they don't dare to 
 hope much. So they live in terror." 
 
 "Perhaps he has got something wrong with him. At 
 any rate he challenges female curiosity. Even Lucy 
 got to bothering me about him ; once she 'd happened to 
 see him in the Clinic. She actually wrote to Aunt Ellie 
 in St. Louis. Thought she might know something about 
 the chap's family." 
 
 "She ought not to have done that." The old man's 
 voice vibrated with distress. "We have no right to pry. 
 You never can tell what a letter like that may set going. 
 I must speak to Lucy. Remind me." 
 
 "Don't worry. She won't let him come to any harm. 
 She says he's the kind of a man that every woman 
 wants to protect. He makes them all sorry for him 
 somehow. I suppose it's because he has such a way 
 with children. Would have with the women, too, if he 'd 
 let himself go. You'd be interested to watch him in 
 the children's ward. There's a little gutter-snipe there 
 now a factory kid. A big weight fell on him in the 
 machine shop. Dislocated two vertebra. We put him 
 in extension, a big tug at his feet, bigger one at his 
 head. And he lay there and screamed. It got on every- 
 body 's nerves at last. I skipped out. An hour later 
 when I turned up again the ward was quiet. And the 
 American was sitting by the imp's bedside, holding his 
 grimy paw in one hand, and with the other setting up 
 tin-soldiers on the kid's chest. The boy was in lots 
 of pain, too. Sweat ran off him in streams. But he 
 grinned now and then. Yes, he did." 
 
 "You can't do that, Hans. I think I could have 
 once." 
 
 "I've better, more important things to do. Do you 
 know what his nickname is in the Clinic? An assist- 
 ant once pointed him out to me in a corner of the 
 garden. Two cases of coxitis were playing on the 
 ground at his feet; a nasty scrofulous spondylitis was 
 leaning on his knee; and, looking over his shoulder or
 
 10 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 crowding together on his lap were three or four other 
 charming specimens girls and boys fractures, tuber- 
 culosis, septic cases the maimed and the halt and the 
 mangled. It looked just like a picture out of a cheap 
 Family Bible. I said as much to the assistant. 'Yes,' 
 said he, with a chuckle, 'we call him "The Good Shep- 
 herd." ' Aren't you going to look at my cultures after 
 all?" 
 
 The Professor smoothed down the front of his white 
 tunic. 
 
 "Later, Hans. Those operations are waiting." 
 
 "Confound it! The cultures won't be half so fine 
 in a few hours' time. It's all the fault of that idiotic 
 American. I wish he and the like of him 'd stay at 
 home. And so they would if there wasn't something 
 wrong with 'em all somewhere. Just look at this par- 
 ticular one. His eyes, I mean. It's as if he'd been 
 given a peep into hell and couldn't forget it." 
 
 "Hans," said the Professor softly, his hand on the 
 younger man's shoulder, "he's looking into hell all the 
 
 time. That's the reason I But what's the matter 
 
 with your thumb?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing much," interposed the other, hastily 
 gathering up his precious test-tubes; "I got a bit poi- 
 soned yesterday at a 'post-mortem.' A septic case we 
 lost last week. Of course I had to go poking my nose into 
 it, and scratched my thumb on a ragged rib. I had a 
 touch of fever last night. But the swelling has gone 
 down. It '11 be all right in a day or so. And I 'm wear- 
 ing gloves in the laboratory. Do come along. I must 
 get my cultures back into the thermostat or they'll be 
 utterly ruined."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 As the American passed the lodge that guarded the 
 main entrance to the whole complex of hospital build- 
 ings, the fat Bohemian porter thrust a letter into his 
 hand. The American glanced at it without interest. 
 His personal letters were never left at the lodge. This 
 was merely some circular or medical advertisement. 
 The address, however, seemed to amuse him. It was 
 always a mystery to him why his name should have 
 become such a stone of stumbling to everyone who tried 
 to use it. This cheap greenish envelope was addressed 
 to 
 
 "Dem Herrn Mister Edwards-Southerlands, Charles." 
 
 His name happened to be Charles Southerland Ed- 
 wards. 
 
 But if you had asked people in Innsbruck for Herr 
 Edwards they would not have known whom you meant. 
 Letters directed to "Mr. Edwards" would have been 
 returned to the sender; just as the famous French 
 communication addressed to "M. le Maire, Innsbruck," 
 was returned by the postal authorities, with the remark 
 that there were plenty of "Mayers" and "Meiers" in 
 Innsbruck, but no "Mayer" who spelt his name 
 "Maire." 
 
 Unfortunately, the "cultivated classes" of the little 
 University town had once studied English history, and 
 many of them remembered ' ' Edwards " as a royal name, 
 a Christian name. They supposed that in writing him- 
 self "C. Southerland Edwards," the American had 
 adopted the common local custom of putting the Chris- 
 tian name last. So all those who prided themselves on 
 their knowledge of English called the young man 
 1 ' Mister Suuu-der-landt. ' ' But after all they were few : 
 mostly junior professors and their strenuous wives,
 
 12 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 And yet had you asked almost anyone for the "Herr 
 Mister" you would have had no difficulty in finding 
 your way to the small room, opposite the hospital, where 
 Edwards had lived and worked, and where he had not 
 slept much, for over three long years. 
 
 "It's a sort of a symbol," he often told himself. "I 
 have lost my old name here, my old identity. All I 
 have learned in these last years has no connection with 
 my past life. I'm cut off from all that. It's like being 
 a child of three when you've really thirty years some- 
 where behind you. ' ' 
 
 And very often he felt as helpless as a child, and as 
 lonely. 
 
 People had been kind to him. He used often to won- 
 der at their open-heartedness, their good-fellowship. 
 Yet he knew that he was to them an outsider, and would 
 always remain so. "Der Herr Mister" "Der Amerik- 
 aner." The deadliest insult that one Tyroler can fling 
 in another's face is to call him "Sie Zugereister," 
 an untranslatable word, meaning everything from 
 foreigner and stranger to escaped convict and tramp. 
 And Edwards had never forgotten his first semester 
 and the jealousy with which his younger colleagues 
 often regarded him, constantly on the watch lest he 
 should be given some advantage in the dissecting-room 
 or the laboratory, in which they, the native-born, had 
 not had their proper share. Only gradually had this 
 distrust disappeared. Now he was accepted by the 
 others as an anachronism, but a not unpleasant one. 
 They sometimes called him "Sie Zugereister" still, but 
 they laughed when they said it, and slapped him on the 
 back. 
 
 The sunlight was streaming over the gate beyond 
 the porter's lodge, and Edwards leaned against the iron 
 bars. He did not want to go back to his dreary room. 
 Lectures were over; the laboratories and clinics closed 
 to him. And though there was work enough to be 
 done, books enough to be read, yet he had not energy 
 enough to begin. Spring was early this year; such 
 warmth at the end of March was unusual. And spring
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 13 
 
 was always for him a time of torment. Perhaps it was 
 because Innsbruck had no spring that he liked the place 
 so much. It rained and snowed and was cold, often into 
 May. Then it was suddenly hot summer. But this 
 year it seemed as if he were not to be spared his torment 
 after all. 
 
 To the left of the hospital gate was the big black 
 notice-board, dotted over with squares of white; an- 
 nouncements of vacant practices or clinical appoint- 
 ments. He had read them all so often quite hope- 
 lessly. For always the first condition was that the ap- 
 plicant must be an Austrian subject ; and the process of 
 naturalization would cost five hundred crowns. Not 
 that he ever thought of it seriously. In the depths of 
 his heart he clung to his American birthright. Yet he 
 must get something to do, he must, for the work's 
 sake. A small monthly draft, his share in his great- 
 grandmother's property, made it possible for him to 
 live without working. He often wondered why he 
 labored so conscientiously. He might have sought out 
 some place in Italy or Dalmatia where he could have 
 lived in idleness, and, if it were cheap, quite decently. 
 But something within him some uneasy demon drove 
 him on. He felt as if he had lost something that he 
 was working to recover. "What he had lost he knew 
 quite well. But he was often quite as sure that it was 
 not worth recovering. 
 
 "Hello, you, Herr Mister," called a cheerful voice 
 behind him. 
 
 A slight, under-sized young man, with a straggling 
 black beard that had never known the razor, short- 
 sighted, beady eyes, and the general appearance of a 
 Polish Jew, came hurrying along. He stopped in front 
 of Edwards. 
 
 "Got your lecture attendance-book signed up yet? 
 I've got mine. Schroeder's just put his fist to it. He's 
 the last. And he made me wait almost half an hour. 
 He was doing a craniotomy. Made me come in and 
 watch. Shall I tell you about it? I've got five min- 
 utes."
 
 14 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Edwards nodded. This was one of his friends, a 
 man who interested him because his appearance did 
 so strangely belie his name and lineage, for he was a 
 Freiherr von Atems, from South Tyrol, a member of 
 one of the oldest country families, whose aversion to 
 the Hebrew is so intense that they prefer never to 
 dwell on the fact that the founder of the Catholic reli- 
 gion, which they profess with such devotion, was him- 
 self a circumcised descendant of the house of David. 
 
 Edwards only half listened as von Atems made rapid 
 explanatory sketches in the gravel with his stick. But 
 he caught a few sentences here and there. 
 
 "Say what you like, Herr Kollega, old Schroeder's 
 got a lot of class and 'chic' still, for all his sixty 
 years. . . . Yes, it was idiotic for these chaps to go off 
 ski-ing in the mountains after such a sudden warm 
 break in the weather. Of course there are avalanches. 
 . . . When they got help and dug the lot out, three 
 were dead smashed pfutsch! One wasn't hurt at all. 
 T'other was dotty. He had a soft pushed-in spot over 
 his right temple. He was brought to the Clinic yester- 
 day. 'No operation yet,' said Schroeder; 'we'll wait.' 
 . . . This morning the man was unconscious. Pulse 
 slow getting slower. Schroeder got all his assistants 
 on the jump. The patient on the table. . . . My God, 
 it made me jump to see the old man make that big in- 
 cision along the ear and away up. He opened almost 
 the whole side of the chap 's head. He found the squama 
 of the temporal bone all smashed into six or seven little 
 bits. They were pushing into the brain. He pulled 
 'em out with pinchers, one by one. Then he tidied up 
 the brain-surface underneath. Wasn't much harm done 
 there. But the 'dura mater.' My God, it was all in 
 
 rags. What was he to do ? Well, what did he do ? 
 
 guess." 
 
 The surgeon in Edwards woke somewhat; he began 
 to pay closer attention. 
 
 "Down he goes to the right thigh. Skin disinfected, 
 all that, quick too. Cuts out a good square chunk of 
 the fascia lata and claps it over the brain, where the
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 15 
 
 dura was in rags. Then he trims off the rough edges 
 of the dura, sews the piece of fascia on to it, lays the 
 splintered bits of temporal bone over the hole in the 
 skull like fitting a puzzle together it was and stitches 
 them together under the periost. Closes the wound; 
 makes a sort of round protecting cap for the chap's 
 head out of the top of a thick cardboard box; band- 
 ages up. All over in twenty-five odd minutes. And 
 all that time, his old hands never made an unnecessary 
 movement, never did anything but exactly the right 
 thing at exactly the right time." 
 
 "And the patient?" 
 
 "Pulse not so slow. Better symptoms all round. 
 Schroeder says he'll get well. And he knows, he does, 
 the wise old bird." 
 
 Edwards was used to his friend's quick, excited man- 
 ner, but it began to be borne in upon him that von 
 Atems was more excited than usual. 
 
 "You seem to be rather high up in the air," he 
 ventured to remark. 
 
 "Why, of course, man," answered the other, his face 
 gleaming with contentment. "I'm going home, after 
 being in this God-forsaken city for wellnigh three 
 months, shut up in a little stuffy room, or in the lecture- 
 theater, where it's too hot for us students with our 
 clothes on and not hot enough for the patients with 
 their clothes off. Naturally, I'm up in the air. But 
 forgive me," he added hastily; "you won't understand. 
 Never been in Vintschgau, I suppose. Well, then, 
 you can't know what it's like, my home. Besides, you 
 Americans are always knocking about the world so con- 
 stantly that you can 't have much love for any particular 
 bit of earth. Our people stick too close to the soil: 
 it makes us narrow and all that, I admit makes us 
 vilely unhappy anywhere except on our own little patch 
 of ground. I simply couldn't live away from home very 
 long. Come down south and see me. No? You aren't 
 going to stay on here in the city ? Well, I suppose you 
 know best. I'm off leaving this evening, and to-mor- 
 row I'll be home. Think of it."
 
 16 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 He calmed down abruptly as if ashamed of his en- 
 thusiastic outburst. 
 
 "Ich habe die Ehre, Herr Kollega," he said, click- 
 ing his heels together; "I wish you very pleasant holi- 
 days." 
 
 And he almost danced out of the hospital gate, twir- 
 ling his stick and whistling between his teeth. 
 
 Edwards looked after him, after this man who loved 
 his home, and who was going there. Mechanically he 
 made his way to the long green bench beside the en- 
 trance of the porter's lodge, sat down and covered his 
 face with his hands. And he saw what he so often saw 
 in dreams. 
 
 A stretch of New England road that climbed a short 
 hill and then dipped down into a valley filled with 
 trees; and, in the distance, above the trees, a square 
 Norman tower, the chapel tower of his old school. 
 The other buildings were hidden from sight, but he 
 knew where they all lay oh, so well so well. 
 
 If he could only walk that road again once. 
 
 Doubtless the place was quite changed; the build- 
 ings and grounds all altered. No one would remember 
 him. Yet it was home, or a part of it. And he wanted 
 it so. 
 
 Then he had another clear vision: the corner of a 
 street in a small American city. You had come up a 
 steep side street, now you turned to your left, and be- 
 fore you stretched a quiet park, bordered by a single 
 line of houses. In the third house from the corner was 
 a bay-window. 
 
 He could look up and see someone standing there. 
 His mother, watching out for him when he came back 
 from the office. Or his little sister, flattening her nose 
 against the pane. 
 
 All gone, long since. The house sold, torn down, 
 perhaps; the people who had lived in it, and had loved 
 him, scattered or dead. Yet he longed for a sight of it. 
 That was home. 
 
 Then he remembered the days when he had to pull 
 himself together as he rounded that corner, lest his un-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 17 
 
 steady gait should betray him to the eyes that watched 
 from the old bay-window. And the last time he had 
 walked down that street, away from the house, out of 
 his past life, knowing that he should never see it 
 again. 
 
 The May breeze had wafted him the warm smell of the 
 flower-beds in the park, of the lawns, especially of the 
 blossoming syringa bushes. He could smell the syringa 
 now. 
 
 "I want to go home I want to go home," he mut- 
 tered, like a lost unhappy child. 
 
 A timid, heavy hand touched him on the shoulder; 
 he looked up into the face of a typical Tyrolese country- 
 man. A face such as one sees in masses among the pic- 
 tures, in the war museum on Berg Isel, of the men who 
 followed Andreas Hofer in 1809 when he fought the 
 French. Hard, rough-hewn features, heavy lips, and 
 childish kindly eyes, surrounded by a tremendous, un- 
 kempt beard. The type has not changed in a hundred 
 years. Nothing changes in Tyrol much. 
 
 ' ' Griias Gott, ' ' x the countryman said in a harsh gut- 
 tural voice. "Be so good as to tell me where I must 
 take the mother." 
 
 Edwards jumped up. His first thought was to point 
 to the lodge. Why should he do porter's duty? But 
 the helplessness of the farmer touched him. Besides, 
 the porter was a Bohemian; and this man spoke in 
 the country dialect. He would surely have difficulty in 
 making himself understood. Edwards had "both lan- 
 guages," German and the dialect; in his heart he was 
 proud of this knowledge, the result of years spent as 
 a boy in the Bavarian highlands, and was never dis- 
 inclined to use it. So he walked out to the dusty 
 wagon that stood near the hospital gate. 
 
 On the front seat sat an old woman, leaning back 
 with closed eyes, whose face had the sunken lines and 
 ashen shadows that betray the presence of some malig- 
 nant intestinal growth, even to the dullest of medical 
 
 1 "God's greeting to you" the common form of salutation 
 among the country people in Tyrol.
 
 18 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 students. Yet, for form's sake, though it was none of 
 his business, Edwards asked 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 "It'll be 'the wasting sickness,'" the farmer an- 
 swered, fingering his beard. ' ' It be two years now since 
 it begun. In our valley it's a true cross, that same. 
 Even the healthiest-looking women, they begin to get 
 thin; they can't eat. The smell of good meat cooking 
 makes 'em sick. And then they have pains, so they 
 say. And can't do much work. By-and-by they can't 
 work at all. And then they're no use or help about the 
 house any more." 
 
 "And when they're no more use," Edwards flashed 
 out, "you cart them in here to the hospital to die." In 
 his anger he dropped into harsh, broad dialect. He 
 pointed to the almost unconscious woman. "Don't you 
 know that if you 'd brought her here two years ago, when 
 she began to have the pains and couldn't eat, we might 
 have made her well? But of course you didn't bother. 
 She was able to drudge and slave for you still; so you 
 kept her going till it was too late. 'Pains so they say !' 
 If you 'd had one-hundredth part of her pain you 'd have 
 sent for all the doctors in the country. ' ' 
 
 The farmer stared stupidly at Edwards. But the 
 sound of his own dialect gave him confidence; he lifted 
 one thick, grimy finger and wagged it beneath Edwards' 
 nose. 
 
 "Na, Herr Doktor, na-a-," he said. "Since you speak 
 like us you 11 be knowing how it is where we live. We 
 ain't got no doctor in Thiersee. Though we've been 
 asking for one these last five years. We're so deep in 
 the valley. And we're poor. So is the land. I've 
 been three whole days driving in with the mother. And 
 do you think she'd have give up her work and let me 
 bring her all the way here to see a doctor when she 
 was first took sick? Not she. She's been a good 
 mother; none better. But we've both got to work 
 hard, work till we just can't work any more." 
 
 "Well, drive her to the Surgical Clinic," said Ed- 
 wards. Unnecessary suffering always roused him; his
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 19 
 
 former mood of hopeless inaction vanished in an in- 
 stant. "The assistant on duty will give you a paper. 
 Come back with that to the porter 's lodge here ; get the 
 other papers filled out ; and then you can leave her. I 
 suppose you'll be wanting to get back." 
 
 "I was a-thinking of it. There's no one at home but 
 the hired man ; and he 's a born thief. ' ' 
 
 "Better bid her good-by now," suggested Edwards, 
 as the farmer began to lead his horse through the 
 hospital gate. 
 
 "We been a-saying good-by all the way here, mostly. 
 'Twas a long drive. And she's been a mighty good 
 mother. ' ' 
 
 The old woman in the wagon opened her eyes. The 
 thin, bluish lips parted in a ghastly smile over stumps 
 of decayed teeth. 
 
 "I'll be making thee another pair of socks, agin next 
 winter, while I'm here, Kassian," she said. "And 
 maybe I'll soon be well again. I made a vow to the 
 'Sieben Nothelfer.' " l 
 
 Then, turning to Edwards, she bent down from her 
 seat in the wagon and added in a lower voice 
 
 "He's been a good son. But I'd rest quieter if I 
 knew he was on the road home. It's the 'schnaps.' 
 That's what makes his hands shake so. But what will 
 you? He was once 'prenticed to a mason. And all 
 masons drink spirits. Go along, Kassian. I'm ready." 
 
 They turned a corner of the buildings and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 Edwards began to walk up and down in the patch 
 of sunlight just inside the gate. His whole soul was 
 up in arms against disease and death. According to 
 this countryman, here was a community of people in the 
 midst of a civilized land that could not get a physician 
 to live among them that sickened and died as men must 
 
 1 "Sieben Nothelfer" "The Seven Helpers in grievous need" ; 
 seven particular saints, to whom the country people pray in times 
 of great trouble. "Alle Sieben Nothelfer" is also used as a con- 
 versational phrase, to express astonishment or to affirm Home 
 statement.
 
 20 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 have done in barbarous times like beasts. "Worse even 
 than beasts, for the lives of cattle were valuable, and 
 had, no doubt, the care of a veterinary surgeon. He 
 could imagine what life must be at Thiersee. Scattered 
 red houses, not more than fifty, at the end of a narrow 
 valley. A long unbroken winter ; a thankless soil ; men 
 and women old and withered long before their time; 
 the children thin and deformed. He knew T how untrue 
 to actual conditions is the current ideal of the "healthy 
 country population, growing to perfect strength near the 
 heart of nature." 
 
 In Thiersee there would be no drainage; but there 
 would be typhoid and enteric enough; diphtheria, too. 
 A mother would work until the last moment before 
 the birth of her child. If she happened to be strong, 
 if the one or the other of a hundred possible complica- 
 tions did not occur, the baby would be somehow rushed 
 into the world. Otherwise the woman would die. 
 Without help. And in what agony ! 
 
 Then, cancer. The farmer had said that it was com- 
 mon among them. When an early diagnosis might be 
 of vital importance, there was no one to make it. 
 
 And tuberculosis, perhaps. Surely, all sorts of acci- 
 dents. A foot chopped with a rusty axe; blood- 
 poisoning; in a few days, death. Falls in the moun- 
 tains avalanches 
 
 And all without help, without help. 
 
 His vivid imagination painted the picture in its crud- 
 est colors. 
 
 Still more appalling was the hopelessness of the situa- 
 tion. A young physician must live; he could not be 
 expected to exist in a community unable to supply him 
 with a living wage. And even if there were no money 
 difficulties, who would be willing to bury himself alive 
 in such a remote corner of the mountains? 
 
 Of course, Thiersee must be an exception. The Gov- 
 ernment would certainly never allow such conditions 
 to exist for long. 
 
 Curiosity drove him now to cast a glance at the notice-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 21 
 
 board that hung on the wall beside the lodge. Were 
 there really communities who were applying for resi- 
 dent physicians and not getting them? 
 
 He glanced through twenty odd applications. 
 
 No. What they offered was enough for a man to 
 live on. The neatly typed notices, from the mayor's 
 office in villages all over the country, had a look of 
 well-to-do stability. Thiersee and its needs must be a 
 myth of a drunkard's imagination, who had been only 
 seeking some excuse for his patent neglect of his suffer- 
 ing mother. 
 
 Then, far down in one corner of the board, Edwards 
 caught sight of another document. It was written, not 
 typed; badly written and with many blots. At first 
 he had supposed it to be one of the many notices posted 
 by students who want to sell some of their medical 
 books. Now he saw that it was pasted on to a larger 
 sheet of paper, headed with the address of the Dean's 
 Office, and preceded by a short statement to the effect 
 that the following petition had been received in three 
 copies, one of which was here, duly and according to 
 law, posted on the Academic Notice Board. 
 
 Edwards read it through slowly, word for word. It 
 was not easy to decipher, and the spelling was peculiar. 
 
 At first he smiled; then the smile faded, for the sim- 
 plicity and childlike directness of the language im- 
 pressed him. The petitioners seemed so sure that the 
 high powers of the University, which they were address- 
 ing, could and would send them all they asked. Ed- 
 wards, who eagerly collected such interesting literary 
 specimens, took out his notebook and began to translate 
 the notice. But what had sounded so simply impres- 
 sive in German was in English ridiculous. 
 
 "We, the Undersigned, do most humbly and on-our- 
 knees-fallingly beg the Most-Praiseworthy, Learned, and 
 Honorable Medical Faculty of the Royal and Imperial 
 University in Innsbruck to pardon us, of its great kind- 
 ness, if we allow ourselves, humbly and on-our-knees-
 
 22 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 fallingly, to make it known to the Most-Praiseworthy, 
 Learned, and Honorable Faculty of the said Royal and 
 Imperial University, that there ain't no doctor here. 
 
 "We could give, from the communal treasury not 
 much. Perhaps, 400 crowns a-year. But the doctor 
 shall have lodging free. And all the wood he wants. 
 And we would sell him everything else at cost-price. 
 Maybe for less if he is a very useful doctor. 
 
 Our climate is not so very bad. But not so good that 
 people do not get sick. We have a parish priest. A 
 schoolmaster for six months in the year. Also, this 
 summer, we are giving our once-every-five-years Passion- 
 Play. 
 
 Most Praiseworthy, Learned, and Honorable Medical 
 Faculty of the Royal and Imperial University in Inns- 
 bruck, we, the Undersigned, pray you most humbly, on- 
 our-knees-fallingly, to send us a doctor. 
 
 Even a not-yet-doctorated young man would do. 
 
 "We have the honor to remain, Most Praiseworthy, 
 Learned, and Honorable " 
 
 A large grimy forefinger appeared over Edwards' 
 shoulder and rested on a corner of the strangely worded 
 notice. 
 
 "That's us," said a voice. 
 
 As Edwards turned, he caught the sharp odor of 
 "schnaps," the heavy white "Brantwein," that the 
 common people call "Swine-Belly," so vile is it. Be- 
 hind him stood the farmer from Thiersee. 
 
 "The Biirgermeister wrote that paper," he went on 
 proudly. "He copied it out three times three times 
 last December it was." 
 
 Edwards looked closer. At the bottom of the notice 
 he read: "Thiersee, Unterinnthal. " So it was no 
 mythical place after all. 
 
 "We ain't had no answer yet," he heard the farmer 
 say; "I was a-thinking of asking the porter to ask 
 the Dean's servant if the Dean had heard anything. 
 Perhaps perhaps, the Herr Doktor himself knows of 
 somebody who might come to us. Not a fine gentle-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 23 
 
 man like you. I mean, someone that's sort of been left 
 over. ' ' 
 
 "What have you done with your mother?" Edwards 
 demanded. 
 
 "Oh, she's all right." The man's hand wandered 
 mechanically towards the inside pocket of his ill-fitting 
 coat. "The sister's putting her to bed. And I've come 
 to the porter for the other papers. ' ' 
 
 "You've had a drink." 
 
 "Only a mouthful. I got my bottle filled on the 
 way into Innsbruck. The mother saw me. ' ' 
 
 Edwards' hand dived down into the other's pocket 
 and drew out an old tin flask covered with rough stained 
 cloth. He held it to his ear ; there was a good half -liter 
 in it still. 
 
 "Now, look here," he said to the countryman, whose 
 swimming eyes were fixed on the precious flask, in dread 
 of losing it. "You do as I tell you. And I'll speak to 
 the Dean myself about your doctor. Understand?" 
 
 "Gracious sir gracious sir, God will reward you. 
 God and all the 'Sieben Nothelfer.' ' 
 
 "Do you know what a Cinematograph is? Moving 
 pictures? You've heard of them, of course. Well, 
 there's a show on now. In the Maria-Theresia strasse. 
 Go and see it. See two shows if you like. Only leave 
 this flask with your mother. She'll give it to you later. 
 Then, when you've seen the pictures and had some- 
 thing to eat, come back here. Tell your mother about 
 the show. That'll cheer her up. Promise to take her to 
 see one as soon as she's well. Then bid her good-by. 
 She'll give you your schnaps-bottle, and you can start 
 for home at once. Never mind if you have to drive all 
 night. Only promise that you won't buy any more 
 schnaps here in Innsbruck. Will you?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, gracious sir. I promise. And you'll 
 speak to the Dean for us ? Really?" 
 
 "And I'll write you a letter about what he says." 
 
 "May God make it good to you, here in this world, 
 in heaven above and in the fires of Purgatory, ten thou- 
 sand thousand times."
 
 24 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Don't forget your promise. And remember that 
 your mother's going to get well. Hope you'll enjoy 
 yourself. Good-by." 
 
 "Ach, gracious Herr Doktor," persisted the country- 
 man, clinging to Edwards' hand, that had restored the 
 schnaps-bottle to its owner's pocket. "If only you 
 would come to us. If you " 
 
 He stopped, confused, ashamed, and wiped his fore- 
 head with his sleeve. 
 
 "I'm getting flies in my brain-box. Excuse, Herr 
 Doktor. But Herr Doktor speaks our language; and 
 an idiot like me gets quickly talking nonsense. Excuse 
 that I suggested Herr Doktor 's coming. It was a mad 
 thought. But if Herr Doktor would really speak with 
 the Dean, and perhaps write. My name is Zumptobel- 
 Kassian, auf Innenhof. In Thiersee Herr Doktor 
 in Thiersee." 
 
 Edwards took the man's huge chapped hand in his. 
 There was in all these big men something of the believ- 
 ing child that appealed to him. Heaven knew that their 
 lives were hard and dark enough. Yet they themselves 
 were neither dark nor hard. 
 
 "Well, Herr Zumptobel," he said, and his smile was 
 so spontaneous that it brought an answering grin to the 
 bearded face that looked up at him, "Well and why 
 not? But remember no more schnaps. " 
 
 He turned, passed quickly through the gate, and out 
 into the street. Zumptobel-Kassian, gazing dumbly after 
 him, saw him push his hat jauntily on one side of his 
 head, and heard him begin to whistle. 
 
 ' ' Das ist aber ein f einer Herr, ' ' 1 muttered Kassian. 
 
 And Edwards, as he walked whistling towards his 
 lonely room, felt his evil mood drop from him, felt the 
 warm sun on his face and hands, felt the touch of spring 
 in the air. 
 
 "Well," he kept repeating to himself; "well, and 
 why not?" 
 
 1 "Ein feiner Herr" means more than "a fine gentleman" ; "Fein" 
 is the countryman's expression for everything in the city that he 
 admires and desires to possess.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Two weeks later, Edwards sat at the table in his dis- 
 mantled room, tearing up old letters. Most of his books 
 were packed, together with his microscope and such few 
 medical instruments as he possessed. He had no proper 
 outfit for any sort of a general medical practice ; but the 
 whole thing appeared to him as such a preposterous risk 
 that minor difficulties had little or no significance. 
 
 He heard steps in the hall. And his landlady ushered 
 in Professor Schroeder, glorious in a dark-blue uniform 
 with gold-embroidered trimmings, and more than usually 
 ill at ease because of his sword and plumed cocked-hat. 
 
 "Feel like a jackass," he explained, as he shook hands. 
 "But it's the Emperor's birthday, you know. And the 
 Faculty has to be represented at the usual functions. 
 It's no joke being Dean." 
 
 "Lucky for me, sir, that you are," answered Edwards, 
 dusting off a few square inches of the table for the 
 Professor 's cocked-hat. ' ' Nobody else would have helped 
 me as you 've done about this Thiersee business. ' ' 
 
 "I don't approve of it at all." The Professor sat 
 down carefully. His uniform-trousers, made thirty-five 
 odd years ago when he had his first audience with the 
 Emperor as a newly-appointed Professor, were now very 
 tight. "And that's one of the reasons why I've come 
 to-day. I want you to understand exactly what you're 
 doing. You're taking big risks. Just let's consider a 
 few of them. 
 
 "Risk Number One. You've an American degree in 
 medicine. But the Austrian law permits no one to prac- 
 tise here who has not made his doctorate at an Austrian 
 university. You might be Metschnikoff or Carrel him- 
 self, yet you'd have to go through your examinations 
 with us in due course before you could legally lance 
 
 25
 
 26 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 your first bolt. Legally, that's the point. Of course 
 there are a lot of quacks in the country, not such stupid 
 fellows either by the way, to whom the farmers go, and 
 in whom they have more confidence than in a regular 
 practitioner. It's a dangerous abuse; the law does all 
 it can to stamp it out ; but these men are careful to im- 
 pose silence on their patients. It's hard to prove that 
 they have ever given medical advice for money. If the 
 law does catch them, though, it comes down hard. Now, 
 you're putting yourself on the same basis with these fel- 
 lows. You've no legal right to murder given you by an 
 Austrian medical faculty. And you're going to prac- 
 tise openly, not carefully and in secret. In a town where 
 there were other physicians, who would at once inform 
 the police, you'd be arrested within a week. And if the 
 medical head of the district in which Thiersee lies wants 
 to make trouble, even though he knows how badly Thier- 
 see needs a doctor, he can shut up your shop in no time. 
 But I don't see why he should hear much about you ; and 
 I'll try to square him, anyway. But this isn't the chief 
 danger. That will come from your own Thiersee people. 
 Oh, I've worked out the whole situation. I'm a fool to 
 let you try it. Only I can't stop you, I'm afraid. 
 Come in!" 
 
 The frowsy landlady knocked and admitted a ' ' Dienst- 
 Mann," laden down with several large boxes. 
 
 "Set 'em down somewhere and get out," commanded 
 the Professor, as he paid the man and dismissed him. 
 Then, turning to the astonished Edwards, he went on 
 
 "Don't mind these boxes now. We're counting up 
 the risks. Number Two. In Thiersee, you '11 surely find 
 some local quack. He must not know, nobody need 
 know, that you're not a properly qualified man; and 
 even if he does find it out, he won't be able to do any- 
 thing so long as you make no mistakes. Eemember that. 
 ... I don't know how much practice you've had, but 
 out there you'll be expected to do good work in every 
 branch of the healing art. It 's a big contract ; mistakes 
 are easy to make; and then there's always the element 
 of chance in all these things. Suppose you do make a
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 27 
 
 blunder, or have bad luck. Tyrolese farmers are hard- 
 headed people. If they pay you ever so little, they'll 
 think they had a right to be made whole, absolutely. If 
 you lance a boil too hastily and the man gets a slight 
 Lymphadenitis and can 't work for a month and has hell- 
 ish pains besides, or if he loses the use of one finger, 
 he may, and probably will, bring the whole business 
 into the courts. They love the excitement of a lawsuit. 
 And once their claim for compensation against you is 
 filed, you're done for, young man, done for. Heaven 
 only knows how topping a fine you 11 get ; and if you can 't 
 pay it, imprisonment. All of which is fatal, in case 
 you want to come back to this or any other Austrian 
 university, finish your medical work, take your degree, 
 and settle down here. Is it worth the risk? In a little 
 over a year you'll be legally qualified. Why not wait? 
 Then you can go to Thiersee if you like. But now " 
 
 "But now people are suffering and dying there," 
 Edwards answered doggedly. "Of course they've been 
 doing that for hundreds of years. I suppose they might 
 go on for a few years more. But I won't have it. I 
 can't bear it. Besides, all these risks will make things 
 exciting. Work, and excitement in the work! What 
 more can any man ask 1 ' ' 
 
 The Professor gazed fondly at his cocked-hat and 
 stroked the green feather in its plume. 
 
 ' ' Hum-m-m-m-m, yes," he assented. "So much for 
 dangers to your honor and personal liberty. How about 
 your health and life? Risk Number Three. 'Tisn't 
 much of a climate out there in that valley. The winters 
 last long. If the farmers get you, they'll think they 
 own you. You'll have to go endless distances on foot or 
 on horseback. They'll send for you without adequate 
 cause, just for the sake of having the luxury of seeing 
 'their Herr Doktor' under their roof. And unfortun- 
 ately, so far as work is concerned, you yourself have no 
 sense of proportion. You'll go till you drop. And your 
 life is of some value, I take it." 
 
 "To whom? Not to me," came the bitter retort. 
 
 The Professor moved uncomfortably. A certain stiff,
 
 28 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 theatrical tone in this bitterness disturbed him; it was 
 like the unnaturalness of an actor who cannot shake 
 himself free from some oft-played favorite role. 
 
 "But of value to us," he answered, lifting his eyes to 
 the other's face. "You have made many friends here 
 during these last three years. We should not care to 
 lose you; nor would you wish to lose yourself. Per- 
 haps you don't quite catch what I mean. In that prec- 
 ious little valley, that draws you so, you are cut off from 
 the world in which you have lived all your life. You 
 will have no single soul to whom you can speak of the 
 things that fill your mind. The parish priest and the 
 schoolmaster will be the only people who might have 
 the slightest sympathy with your intellectual interests. 
 And they will doubtless be exactly the two men who 
 will annoy and hamper you most. For we doctors can 
 often get along better with people of no education at all 
 than with others whose so-called culture is nothing but 
 a misshapen mass of undigested facts. You say you 
 have been lonely here. What will you be out there? 
 And the ultimate result? Perhaps the blunting of all 
 your finer susceptibilities, a falling to the common level 
 of the life around you. Or else, some disturbance of 
 your nervous or mental balance. More dangerous still. 
 In either case you will have lost yourself. No, no; the 
 whole scheme is utterly impossible. Better give it up." 
 
 Edwards rose and went over to the corner where 
 the ' ' Dienst-Mann ' ' had piled the three mysterious boxes. 
 
 "Would you mind telling me, sir," he asked, "just 
 what these things are?" 
 
 The Professor stood up awkwardly and fell over his 
 sword. 
 
 "It was a mistake," he stammered. "That fool of a 
 'Dienst-Mann' was told not to deliver them until later, 
 
 when I'd had my little talk with you. The fact is " 
 
 He hung his head as if detected in some shameful deed. 
 "The fact is, lieber Herr Kollega, I couldn't let you 
 go without, so to speak, filling out the chinks in your 
 your armor. Forgive me for interfering. But we've 
 such a lot of instruments we don't need at the Clinic j
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 29 
 
 old-fashioned things, but solid, solid. And I knew 
 you'd probably no idea of what you'd be needing for a 
 general country practice. So I so I just had a few 
 things thrown together that I thought might be useful. 
 As for that box there" he gave the largest of the cases 
 an apologetic kick, "that's the old 'Household Chemist' 
 I had when I started practising in the country forty 
 years ago. You'll do me a favor by taking it away. 
 It's been lying round my house, cumbering space. I 
 I had a few of the drugs and mixtures freshened up. 
 It was a liberty to take, I know. I hope you don't 
 mind." 
 
 Edwards leaned across the table and grasped the old 
 man's hand. 
 
 "I understand now," he said, "why people love 
 you." 
 
 Then, embarrassed himself and ashamed of his out- 
 burst of gratitude, he added 
 
 "Herr Professor, it has surely cost whole days to get 
 these things in readiness for me. So you must have 
 been sure that I would go. And yet you come here 
 and use every argument in your power to try and per- 
 suade me to give up my plan. You're a bit of a fraud, 
 sir, I'm afraid, and not much of a diplomat." 
 
 "Well," said the old man, picking up his plumed 
 hat and extricating his sword from between his legs; 
 "well, you see, I knew you oughtn't to go, but I hoped 
 you would, just the same. Yes, I hoped. If you hadn 't 
 gone, I'd have been relieved, but disappointed. And 
 if I were a young man, I'd I'd like to go with you. 
 Anyway, let's have a letter now and then. And if you 
 run across any interesting cases, write them up for me. 
 Now I must be off. Good-by." 
 
 And without allowing Edwards a moment to express 
 his gratitude, he hurried away, his plumed hat over one 
 ear, and his sword rattling against the banisters as he 
 almost ran down the stairs. 
 
 He made for the nearest letter-box. 
 
 The letter that he dropped in with such care was 
 directed to "Frau Professor Schroeder, at Schloss Lie-
 
 30 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 benegg, near Kuf stein." And among other matters it 
 contained the following sentences: 
 
 "My young American is really going on his quest. 
 We must see that he comes to no harm. I have told 
 him nothing about our being in his neighborhood; he 
 has never seen you, so you can perfectly well ride over 
 to Thiersee once a-week and find out how he gets on. 
 He will leave the railway at Kufstein, and must stay 
 a night there. The people at the hotel will be able to 
 tell you when he passes through. But he must suspect 
 nothing. If he did, the whole adventure would lose its 
 charm. 
 
 "How is your friend from America enjoying herself? 
 It must be very dull for you three women all alone. 
 I'm glad that you took little Miss Sparks with you. 
 The poor soul needed a rest. It's wicked the way schools 
 overwork their teachers. "What is the boy like? Why 
 doesn 't his mother let Miss Sparks give him some lessons, 
 sort of nursery-governess him, while you and she are 
 scouring the country on horse-back? 
 
 "Hans is well, but very busy with his new volume 
 of ' Struma-Studies. ' He looks a bit run down. 
 
 "We both envy you this wonderful weather. The 
 first time in fifteen years that I have ever seen any- 
 thing like spring in Tyrol. The last time was the year 
 we were married. Life seemed all spring to me then. 
 And, indeed, it has seemed so ever since. ' '
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 "OF course, if you insist on walking," said the fat 
 hostess of the "Golden Swan" in Kuf stein, with an 
 expressive shrug. 
 
 "But it can't be more than twenty kilometers," Ed- 
 wards protested. "The road's plain enough, you say. 
 Besides, I've got a map. And all my boxes and stuff 
 went off yesterday in the cart. I've nothing but this 
 knapsack to carry. And you see, Frau Wirtin, I slept 
 so soundly last night in your excellent bed that I feel too 
 well this morning to let even your good horses carry 
 me." 
 
 The fat Frau "Wirtin smiled. Nevertheless she was 
 still perplexed. 
 
 She knew that Edwards was going to Thiersee, evi- 
 dently expecting to stay there a long time, if one could 
 judge by the luggage he had sent on ahead. But she 
 remembered the local Passion-Play that had been an- 
 nounced for the coming summer, and supposed that the 
 priest in Thiersee had got some second-class actor down 
 from Munich, as the Oberammergauers did, to train the 
 peasants in their roles. 
 
 Yet, that a man who had taken a good room and eaten 
 an expensive dinner without asking beforehand what 
 each dish cost, should next morning propose to tramp 
 twenty kilometers over the roughest of roads through 
 mud and half-melted snow, when he could have had a 
 horse for a few crowns, that was unusual, to say the 
 least. At first, she had put him down as a "feiner 
 Herr. ' ' This morning, however, in his old shiny riding- 
 breeches, and with a weather-beaten "rucksack" slung 
 over his shoulder, he did not look like a "feiner Herr" 
 at all. Had he spoken with a foreign accent, she would 
 have been satisfied to call him "a mad Englishman" and 
 
 31
 
 32 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 have done with it. As matters stood, she was puzzled, 
 until she consulted the stranger's "Meldungs-Schein" 
 
 and found thereon " Ziiderlanger, Edward, Privat." 
 
 A form of his name which Edwards owed to his own lazi- 
 ness, for he had been too tired to fill out the blank in ques- 
 tion, and had merely mumbled his name to the stupid 
 waiter, who had filled it in later according to his lights. 
 
 "Ziiderlanger!" said the Frau Wirtin. "He'll be a 
 Jew. I thought something was wrong with him some- 
 where." 
 
 And so, when later in the day the Frau Professor 
 Schroeder, accompanied by a tall woman with masses 
 of coppery hair, galloped up the street and reined in her 
 horse in front of the "Golden Swan," the Frau Wirtin 
 was quite sure that among her guests there had been 
 no Herr Edwards, an American gentleman. And as 
 the Frau Professor had been warned not to challenge 
 people's attention by over-curious inquiries, she and her 
 friend rode away, supposing that the young man con- 
 fided to their care had not yet arrived. 
 
 "I'm not exactly sorry, my dear," she said to her 
 companion, as they clattered across the Inn on the sway- 
 ing bridge; "for I've no desire to ride over from Lieben- 
 egg to Thiersee often with the roads in their present con- 
 dition. The Kuf stein road's a highway, and good 
 
 enough. But towards Thiersee ! Really, it's a bit 
 
 dangerous for the horses' feet, you know. Well, we've 
 done our duty. Next week we can come into Kufstein 
 and ask again. ' ' 
 
 On their way back to Schloss Liebenegg they made a 
 long circuit for the sake of some view, and passed a 
 single traveler, who was plodding along in the sun, with 
 a "rucksack" on his shoulders. He was singing at the 
 top of his voice, but stopped, ashamed, and let the two 
 women ride by. 
 
 "That last stretch," said the Frau Professor, turning 
 her horse towards the left, "was part of the Thiersee 
 
 i The paper with the name and occupation of each guest, that 
 must be given to the police within twenty-four hours of every 
 stranger's arrival.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 33 
 
 road. You see how vile it is. What's the matter, Grace ? 
 Why are you frowning so?" 
 
 "It's the thing that man was singing. Oh, I know 
 what it is now." Her eyes darkened and filled. "One 
 of the songs they used to sing at John's old school. 
 He'd often play it on the piano with one finger. It 
 always reminded him of a of a man he was very fond 
 of once. He used to tell me about him." 
 
 She tossed back the heavy shimmering hair from her 
 forehead. 
 
 "But I mustn't see ghosts everywhere, must I? I 
 daresay it was quite another melody. Let's gallop." 
 
 Edwards leaned against a bit of broken fence and 
 looked after the two horsewomen until they disappeared 
 beneath the trees. It had been years since he had seen 
 women who sat their horses well. But he shook him- 
 self free of memories, shifted his "rucksack," and 
 tramped on. He had still eight kilometers to go. 
 
 The melting snow was trickling down every slope in 
 a thousand tiny streams; in some places the road was 
 quite washed away. Yet the sun was not hot. It was 
 the warm south wind, the "Foehn," that had been 
 blowing through the valleys, melting everything into 
 mud. A most unnatural sort of wind, Edwards thought, 
 as he bent before it, holding his hat on with the crook 
 of his walking-stick ; at least in a country when one saw 
 snow and not the hot sands of an African desert. 
 
 A strong wind that a man has to fight against is 
 usually refreshing; it whips color into his cheeks like 
 a cold plunge. But the "Foehn" only cuts his face; 
 it is dry and hot, intensely unpleasant always. For 
 it brings with it no reaction, no sense of manhood 
 awakened in delight to the struggle. Only a weaken- 
 ing of the knees, a sense of depression, an ever-recurring 
 desire to sit down and give up the fight. 
 
 Instead of opening the pores of Edwards' skin, its 
 warm breath closed them, drying the drops of sweat on 
 his cheeks and brow. His lips were parched; his eyes 
 stinging. His desire to shout and sing had long since
 
 34 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 disappeared. He felt weak, too. Yet he had no appe- 
 tite for the bread-and-ham that he took from his "ruck- 
 sack. ' ' The paper that held it was soaked through with 
 grease; the bread itself had absorbed a taste of his own 
 clothes, of the warm canvas of the ''rucksack" as well. 
 He tossed the food away, disgusted. Nor could he find 
 a spring anywhere. And he had a horror of the dirty 
 rivulets of melting snow. 
 
 But he pushed on. And towards four o'clock he saw 
 the road before him turn straight up the slope of a very 
 steep hill. On both sides the sky began to close in, 
 cut off more and more by two lines of high snow-covered 
 peaks that must converge somewhere in the distance at 
 the head of a narrowing valley. 
 
 Up and up he trudged, the "Foehn" roaring in the 
 trees that overhung the road, snapping a dry bough here 
 and there, hot, wearying, oppressive. At last he 
 reached the top of the incline, from which he hoped to 
 catch some near glimpse of his journey's end. He took 
 out his map. But he had lost all sense of distance ; how 
 far he had come he could not tell. And, down below 
 him, the road plunged into what seemed a mass of never- 
 ending trees. There was no sign of a village anywhere. 
 
 He was sorely tempted to rest, only for a moment. 
 
 Yet he knew too well the treachery of the "Foehn." 
 Should he yield and sit down, the effort to rise and 
 start off again would be wellnigh impossible. If he 
 made it and went on, the first hour after his rest would 
 be a constant struggle against an ever-increasing sense of 
 fatigue. If he did not make it, he would fall asleep. 
 And that meant waking suddenly, after nightfall, per- 
 haps, waking from some hideous terrifying dream, such 
 as only the "Foehn" sends to those who slumber in her 
 arms. 
 
 But he was very, very tired. The walk had been too 
 long; even in good weather it would have tried his en- 
 durance. He was about to yield ; already he had slipped 
 one of the straps of his "rucksack" from his shoulder, 
 when, amidst the hot rustling of the wind, he heard from 
 somewhere below him the deep long-drawn call of cattle
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 35 
 
 that wait to be milked. Compared with the harsh dry 
 crackling of the ' ' Foehn, ' ' it was so soft a sound, so sug- 
 gestive of coolness, of refreshing moisture and repose, 
 that Edwards felt his lax muscles tighten as his body 
 answered it. He refastened the straps of his knapsack, 
 opened his shirt wide over his breast, and stepped on 
 downwards. 
 
 He had scarcely gone a hundred yards when the 
 woods became silent. The creaking, roaring "Foehn" 
 was hushed. And from the trees the coolness of a quiet 
 evening stole around him. Here, below the crest of this 
 last high hill, he was out of the wind. 
 
 His eyes ceased to smart; his skin grew moist. He 
 began to whistle very softly. 
 
 Now the trees on his left thinned out, and he looked 
 over some low bushes across a level green meadow. 
 In the middle of it stood an old pine-tree; grouped 
 about were half a dozen cows, their heads all stretched 
 in the same direction. Then, as Edwards watched, fas- 
 cinated by the gleam of the late afternoon light that 
 set the moving figure in such clear outline against the 
 grays and greens of leafless tree and nodding pine, a 
 man, or a boy, appeared from the woods, and made his 
 way across the meadow towards the group of cattle. 
 He wore no hat, his white, colorless shirt was open 
 to the waist, the short leather Tyrolese breeches were 
 molded to his firm limbs like wax, and even in his 
 heavy nailed shoes he walked with the ease and grace 
 of a strong man, freeborn. 
 
 He jodled once a soft calling note, low down in his 
 throat. 
 
 And as if to complete the picture that had till then 
 lacked something, a girl stepped out from beneath the 
 old pine-tree in the center of the meadow, and went to 
 meet him. The dark green of her simply-made dress, 
 leaving her brown throat bare and showing the firm 
 outlines of her moving body, melted so imperceptibly 
 into the green of her surroundings that she seemed some 
 being of the wood, some daughter of the trees, older than 
 the Greek dryads, and yet ever young, a dweller un-
 
 36 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 disturbed among these ancient hills since time began to 
 be. 
 
 They met, not as lovers; rather as children, as play- 
 mates. His hand went out to meet hers. Then he 
 slipped it under his arm, and they walked on together. 
 Edwards could hear them laugh. 
 
 A dog barked, and the spell was broken. 
 
 Edwards crossed the meadow, patted the shaggy cur 
 that at first seemed inclined to devour him, and asked 
 of the young man the way to Thiersee. 
 
 Both boy and girl stared at him, not unkindly, but 
 with wide-eyed interest. At last the girl she could be 
 scarcely more than seventeen nudged her speechless 
 companion. 
 
 "Franzl, old ox," she said. "Why don't you an- 
 swer?" Then she added to Edwards: "You'll go 
 straight ahead. It's not half an hour's walk from here. 
 But we 've got no work to give. And if you 're only beg- 
 ging, you won 't get much. ' ' 
 
 "I am looking for work, that's true," Edwards an- 
 swered, using the broad dialect. He felt that it was 
 wrong to act a part before these two straightforward 
 children. Yet he knew that to declare himself now 
 would embarrass them to the verge of hysteria. ' ' I was 
 told in Kufstein to ask at the house of Frau Speck- 
 bacher." 
 
 "Then I can save you the trouble. That's my 
 mother. I 'm the Speckbacher Nani. I don 't know what 
 they're thinking of in Kufstein sending you to us! I 
 suppose it's because we're going to have the new Herr 
 Doktor to do for. But we can manage it all ourselves, 
 mother and me. There won't be any work left over. 
 Except " 
 
 "Nani," interposed her companion reproachfully, 
 "you promised me the wood-carrying and the coal." 
 Then he turned to Edwards "You get along now." 
 
 No doubt Edwards did look tired out. Yet he said 
 nothing, and would have moved away had not the young 
 man, with an abrupt change of manner, laid a hand 
 on his arm.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 37 
 
 "We'll have some milk in a minute," he said. "And 
 there's a hunk of black bread left over from noon." 
 He led Edwards towards the pine-tree. "Just the 
 same," he added; "you can't do the coal-carrying for 
 the new Herr Doktor, you know." 
 
 The next half-hour, that he spent stretched out on the 
 dry pine-needles, will always remain for Edwards much 
 more than a mere memory; it was like some brightly- 
 colored glimpse of a life other than his own, suddenly 
 slipped, by mistake, into his drab existence. The cool 
 of the late afternoon, the sweet breath of the nosing 
 cows, the penetrating odor of fresh milk, and those 
 other odors of health and strength that were exhaled 
 from the bodies of his two companions, appealed to the 
 strongest of all his seven senses. He seemed to be draw- 
 ing in deep breaths from the fertile earth; an earth, 
 as Fechner understood it ; a living, sensed, and sensitive 
 being. He wondered that he had ever found the idea 
 fantastic. And into his mind there slipped the recollec- 
 tion of a spring morning of his boyhood, in his grand- 
 father's garden, when the flower-beds had been freshly 
 turned over, and he had lain with his face close to the 
 mold, inhaling the smell of the damp, fresh soil. 
 
 It was all so strength-giving, so simple, so sane. 
 
 Sane, in the old Latin sense of the word. 
 
 And over all lay silence. His hosts came of a stock 
 that do not talk easily or much. It was only when 
 Franzl had forced upon Edwards the last morsel of 
 brown bread, presented on the point of his knife, and 
 Nani had drained the last drops of milk from the 
 wooden cup which had served them all, that tongues 
 were loosened a little. And Edwards' insistence on 
 filling the young man's pipe with tobacco from his own 
 pouch did the rest. 
 
 He soon learned that Franzl was the youngest son of 
 the Biirgermeister, and that he was to be the St. John 
 of the Passion Play; much to his disgust, as his ambi- 
 tions had been more towards the role of Judas. People 
 always laughed at Judas, or at least St. Longinus with 
 his spear.
 
 38 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Nani, the girl, was an only child. In summer she 
 looked after the Biirgermeister 's cows, while her mother, 
 a widow, earned enough to keep them through the win- 
 ter by working as a waitress during the tourist season at 
 Kufstein in an hotel. 
 
 ' ' It was a dog 's life for her, ' ' Nani explained. * ' Every 
 autumn, when the mother came back to Thiersee, she 
 couldn't walk for weeks. And she couldn't eat either. 
 Just to smell food cooking made her sick. And oh, 
 her poor feet ! Think of it, always standing or running 
 about for four whole months, with never a chance to sit 
 down. Towards the end of a season she couldn't even 
 get her rest at night, her feet and legs hurt her so. 
 Last year, when she came home and I took off her stock- 
 ings, I I just sat down and cried. But she'd have had 
 to go through it again this year we must live somehow 
 if the new doctor hadn't been coming. Everything 
 will be all right now, now he's to be here. Won't it, 
 Franzl?" 
 
 Franzl nodded. Then he explained that the "Herr 
 Doktor" was to live in the old schoolhouse. It had 
 two stories; the lower one was used for the school, and 
 on the second there were three rooms, one of which 
 had been occupied by Herr Joncke, the young school- 
 master. The other two had been hurriedly got ready 
 for the new doctor. The "Hausmeisterin" of the build- 
 ing had died the year before, and Nani's mother had 
 been given her place. She and Nani had janitor's quar- 
 ters on the ground floor. 
 
 "And I'm to carry up the coal, and do anything 
 else the Herr Doktor wants. Anything. My father 
 says we must make him want to stay." 
 
 "And we say so too," interposed Nani, in a sudden 
 burst of confidence. "You see," she went on, with the 
 simple directness of a child, "Franzl and me, we've 
 always been together, ever since we were quite little. 
 And we'ue going to stay together. Of course, Franzl 
 '11 have to do his three years of military service by- 
 and-by. He's eighteen now. And till that's over we
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 39 
 
 can't settle down. But we're promised. Everybody 
 knows that. Even Father Mathias, the priest." 
 
 Edwards wondered what a physician was expected 
 to do in the way of arranging marriages. But he said 
 nothing, and Franzl answered his unspoken question. 
 
 "It's because Nani's sister died, you know," he stam- 
 mered, turning his sun-browned face towards Edwards, 
 his eyes for the moment clouded by the thought of the 
 one mysterious thing in life that still had power to 
 trouble his calm. "The baby died, too. And Nani was 
 there. It was winter. ' The Madame, ' 1 the Oberhof- 
 bauerin's sister, had sprained her ankle and couldn't get 
 to the house. So she Nani's afraid of that." 
 
 The girl hid her face on Franzl's shoulder; his arm 
 went gently round her waist, while with his other hand 
 he stroked her hair. 
 
 "It was so horrid," whispered Nani, her voice muffled 
 against Franzl 's neck. ' ' She screamed so, the poor Eezi. 
 Screamed and screamed and screamed. Even if she'd 
 been there, 'The Madame' said she couldn't have helped 
 much. There ought to have been a doctor." 
 
 Then, lifting her face and looking up happily into 
 Franzl's eyes, she added 
 
 "And now there is going to be a doctor. And I and 
 I shan't be afraid any more." 
 
 A long pause followed that Edwards was loath to 
 break. It was, however, growing late ; he must be push- 
 ing on. He got up. 
 
 "But we'll all go together," protested Nani. "We've 
 stayed longer than usual anyhow. And you can't walk 
 any farther to-night." 
 
 "There's plenty of room in our hayloft," Franzl sug- 
 gested; he seemed at peace with the world once more. 
 "And to-morrow I'll ask the father. Maybe he's got 
 work in the fields for an extra hand just now. Or per- 
 haps," he added with sudden generosity, "perhaps I'd 
 let you have the wood-chopping for the new doctor. 
 
 i The local midwife is usually called "The Madame."
 
 40 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Not the coals, you know. But the wood. Are you good 
 with the ax? Let's have a look at your paw." 
 
 Before Edwards could move aside he had caught one 
 of his hands in his own brown, massive fist. He stared 
 down at the white, carefully kept finger-nails, turned 
 up the soft palm, and suddenly became intensely em- 
 barrassed, as if he had unwittingly put a fellow-man to 
 shame by thoughtlessly exposing some painful secret. 
 
 "It don't make no difference," he stammered, still 
 holding fast to Edwards' hand. "It's hard to get a 
 living in the city. Lots of the fellows doing 'Service' 
 have told me that. And and there's lots worse men 
 outside jail than there ever was inside. And if you 
 like, you can carry up the doctor's coal." 
 
 Edwards returned the grip of his new friend's hand. 
 That was enough for both of them. 
 
 But Nani broke the silence with a sudden titter that 
 ended in a fit of the giggles. She, too, had been gazing at 
 the new-comer's hands; she had mustered him from head 
 to foot ; and then the tittering had begun. And it con- 
 tinued, at short intervals, all the while they were collect- 
 ing the cattle and driving them slowly before them down 
 into the valley. Franzl threw her looks of puzzled re- 
 proof ; but she paid no attention. She said no single 
 word, made no attempt to explain; only from time to 
 time she would be shaken by a new fit of merriment. 
 She would glance at Edwards, begin to giggle, and try 
 in vain to repress her mirth, until it suddenly broke out 
 into clear ringing peals of laughter. 
 
 "Don't you mind her," said Franzl to Edwards, as 
 they walked along side by side. "Girls get like that 
 sometimes. Best way is not to notice them. ' ' 
 
 So the two men fell behind, letting Nani walk abreast 
 of the first fat cow, of whom she seemed to be making 
 a confidante. For she would rest her arms on its broad 
 yellow neck, when a fresh fit of laughter overcame her, 
 and whisper something in the old cow 's furry ear. 
 
 Down they all went into the valley, along the wooded 
 road, the cow-bells sounding rhythmically in the evening 
 air, mingling with the far-off tinkling of other bells
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 41 
 
 that reached them from different parts of the valley, 
 from where other herds were being driven home. Then 
 a sudden turn to the left brought them out of the woods. 
 
 Below them, at the lowest level of the valley, lay a 
 tiny round lake, so still that it reflected every line 
 of the encircling snow-covered peaks. Around this sheet 
 of water, between it and the end of the road, on the 
 level slope that ran down to the water's edge, were 
 scattered some fifty or sixty cottages and barns. Here 
 and there, to right and left, on the higher levels of the 
 foothills, were solitary farmhouses, whose windows shone 
 like flashing brilliants in the low beams of the setting 
 sun. 
 
 The sound of the cow-bells grew louder, drew nearer 
 from all sides, rhythmic, insistent. 
 
 And then, mingling with them, from a square white 
 tower came a new dominating note, the church-bell 
 ringing the "Angelus." 
 
 Franzl and Nani stopped, the cattle stopped, the sound 
 of their bells ceased. And on the hills round about the 
 noise of other nearing herds died away also into silence. 
 Only the call of the Angelus broke the sudden stillness. 
 
 Franzl crossed himself, then lifted his head and looked 
 skyward. A free man, looking steadfastly and unafraid 
 into the face of his God. 
 
 And Edwards, neither strong nor free, lifted his eyes 
 too. And for the first time in years was unafraid.
 
 CHAPTEE V 
 
 THE last echo of the Angelus ceased. Franzl moved for- 
 wards with his cattle: from all sides the deep metallic 
 notes of the cow-bells began once more. Nani's mirth- 
 ful mood had been sobered, but she still walked on ahead 
 in front of the others. 
 
 At the last turn of the road, on the brow of a steep 
 hill that overlooked the whole valley, stood a little way- 
 side shrine, a square room of whitewashed brick, shel- 
 tering behind wooden bars a faded painting of the Cruci- 
 fixion. Nani made a slight reverence as she passed it. 
 Then she stopped, crossed to a bench that stood ready 
 for chance worshipers before the shrine and looked 
 down on the bowed shoulders of a man. She beckoned 
 to Franzl. 
 
 "It's Kassian," she whispered. "Drunk as usual. 
 But what's he doing here? His cows come in by the 
 other road. Ought to be ashamed to show himself to the 
 Savior in such a condition." 
 
 She scooped up a handful of icy muddy water from 
 the side of the road, and let it trickle down the bowed 
 neck of the sleeper. He woke with a start, got up un- 
 steadily, wiping with a trembling hand the dirty water 
 from his bristling beard. 
 
 Nani stood in front of him, laughing. 
 
 As he recognized her a look of blind animal rage 
 twisted his face; his eyes protruded; his mouth opened 
 and shut. At last he found his voice. And he cursed 
 the laughing girl. 
 
 Edwards felt the hot blood leap to his face. Though 
 he was anything but thin-skinned, the brutality of the 
 man's words infuriated him, for he was more angered 
 than shocked by this blasphemous misuse of all names
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 43 
 
 sacred. He turned, expecting to see Franzl in a white 
 heat of passion, ready to spring at the other's throat. 
 
 But Franzl was laughing too. The evil things that 
 were pouring from this drunkard's lips awakened in 
 him no reaction of fury or even of disgust. 
 
 Edwards was aghast. Would he ever understand 
 these people? 
 
 His astonishment was cut short, however, by a joyous 
 sheut. The torrent of blasphemy ceased and a harsh 
 voice cried 
 
 "Alle Sieben Nothelfer! But there is my Herr Dok- 
 tor!" 
 
 And before Edwards realized what was happening, 
 Zumptobel Kassian was holding him by both hands, 
 capering, swaying about, and wagging his monstrous 
 beard in mingled shouts of happiness and surprise. The 
 whole man reeked of spirits, and the filth of him was be- 
 yond description. 
 
 ' ' Yes, Kreutz-Donnerwetter-nocheinmal, I knew 
 you'd come by this road. Every day for the last week 
 I've been here waiting. I must be the first, you see 
 must be to make you welcome. 'Cause I'm the only 
 one who knows what you look like. Lord love you, 
 yes, I brought the schnaps-bottle with me. A man 
 can't sit here all the afternoon and do nothing 'cept 
 pray. I did pray. Said three whole rosaries before I 
 went to sleep. And yesterday I saw the cart with your 
 things. So I knew you'd be along soon." 
 
 He turned to Franzl and Nani, all his anger vanished 
 in delight. 
 
 "Look you, Franzl, look; that's my Herr Doktor. 
 I told him about Thiersee. And now mother '11 get well 
 and be able to work again. The other doctors in the 
 city, they don 't know nothing. ' No use ; can 't do any- 
 thing for her,' they said. But my doctor, lie said 
 the day I went to the moving-pictures I told you about 
 'she'll get better.' You did say that, you know, Herr 
 Doktor. So when I heard you were really coming here, 
 I drove into Innsbruck to the Clinic and took mother 
 right away from those others that don't know nothing.
 
 And now I've got her safe with me at home, where you 
 can cure her, so that she can work again. Ain't that 
 fine, Franzl, eh?" 
 
 Franzl had been staring hard at Edwards. Still puz- 
 zled, he turned for help to Nani. But she gave her 
 laughter full sway at last. "With hands on hips and 
 head thrown back she fled laughing down the road. 
 
 "Stupid boy," she called over her shoulder. "Oh, 
 you stupid boy! 'Better people inside jail than out!' ' 
 
 And on she ran down into the village, the sound of 
 her distant laughter gradually lost amidst the music of 
 the cow-bells. 
 
 Edwards saw a change come over Franzl 's face. His 
 skin was too brown to show even the deepest blush, but 
 the veins in his strong neck swelled, his hands clenched. 
 He felt that he had made a fool of himself, and it hurt. 
 
 As he moved silently away, Edwards shook off Kas- 
 sian's clinging embrace and hastened to the young man's 
 side. Intuitively he dropped the broad dialect, in which 
 he had spoken hitherto, and used pure simple German, 
 with a hand on the other's shoulder. 
 
 "Franzl," he said, "forgive me. But you made the 
 first mistake. After that, if I'd told you who I was, 
 you'd have felt ashamed." 
 
 "I'm shamed now," muttered the other. 
 
 "Yes; but now we've had time to get to know each 
 other. Now I can say I'm sorry for having deceived 
 you. I won't do it again." 
 
 "How can I be sure?" 
 
 The question went through Edwards like a knife. 
 How often had he asked it of himself. Where one has 
 trusted and been deceived, how shall one learn to trust 
 again ? 
 
 "I'll make you feel sure," he answered, quite aware 
 of the inadequacy of his reply. "Both you and Nani. 
 She didn't mind my pretending." 
 
 Franzl 's face was still turned away. He was not 
 quick, nor had he much power of expression. "Words 
 cost him intense effort. 
 
 "She recognized you after a while. That's why she
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 45 
 
 giggled so. But it don't seem like a joke to me. I I 
 thought you'd had had a hard time in the city and 
 I I felt sorry." 
 
 Then he added in a tone of embarrassed reproach 
 "I'd even have let you carry up the coals for the 
 f or the " 
 
 He stammered. But his crude sense of humor was 
 touched; he turned his face towards Edwards and his 
 lips relaxed in a smile. 
 
 Edwards did not smile. 
 
 "Perhaps you were right, after all, Franzl," he said. 
 "Perhaps I have had a hard time. You wanted to help 
 me. Help me, then. And if I can I'll help you." 
 
 He held out his hand. Franzl 's big fist closed over 
 it. This was a language that he understood. 
 
 "Come along, Kassian, you swilling old swine," he 
 said cheerily. "We'll show the Herr Doktor his rooms. 
 The cows know their own way home from here. Herr 
 Doktor, you take him by one arm; I'll take the other. 
 And we'd better take his schnaps-bottle too." 
 
 So arm-in-arm with Franzl, and with the staggering 
 Kassian, who shouted unintelligible greetings to every- 
 one they met, the new Herr Doktor, Charles Southerland 
 Edwards, made his entry into the village of Thiersee. 
 
 Next morning, in the schoolhouse, he was sitting in 
 his bare room littered with his belongings, when Nani's 
 mother, Frau Speckbacher, came in to clear away the 
 breakfast things. She was a tall, strongly-built woman 
 of forty odd, old before her time; a woman, like so 
 many of her class, who live in almost constant pain, 
 and who yet possess marvelous evenness of tempera- 
 ment and an unruffled calm of soul. 
 
 She had brought with her a battered hammer, and 
 began to open the wooden cases that Edwards had sent 
 on from Kufstein. 
 
 "Might the Nani please come in and help?" she 
 asked breathlessly, her face alight with pleasure. 
 " 'Tisn't often we have a chance to open boxes like these. 
 And it's more fun than presents at Christmas."
 
 46 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Edwards nodded. Nani was soon at work. They 
 were unpacking his books now. When he next looked 
 up Franzl had also appeared on the scene, and was 
 busy blowing the dust from the back of a thick ana- 
 tomical atlas. But Edwards was too taken up with 
 several unexpected discoveries to do more than greet 
 the new-comer with a friendly nod. The three cases, 
 that Professor Schroeder had left in his room when he 
 had come to bid Edwards good-by, had been sent in 
 with his other things ; and now, as he came to open them 
 for the first time, he was almost aghast at the kindness 
 and care that must have been spent on their prepara- 
 tion. 
 
 Here and there were little explanatory bits of paper, 
 covered with the Professor's stiff handwriting. The 
 first one lay on top of a very heavy case. 
 
 "I know you'll take good care of these. I won't 
 hope that you may have occasion to use them all often. 
 But I should not like to think that occasion might arise, 
 and you be unable to display your surgical knowledge 
 through the lack of proper tools. Don't imagine I am 
 giving you all this. It's only a temporary loan. Made 
 for the sake of the tools themselves. They were made to 
 be used." 
 
 And, packed carefully in straw, Edwards found a 
 very complete set of instruments, forceps, clamps, tro- 
 cars, bistouries, and such other specially designed tools 
 as would make it possible for him to perform any of the 
 less complex surgical operations. They were old instru- 
 ments, some of them of obsolete pattern, but built with 
 a solidity and finish that one often misses to-day, and 
 that rejoiced Edwards' heart. 
 
 In the deepest corner of the case was a good-sized 
 black hand-bag. Tied to the handle was another bit of 
 paper. 
 
 "You'll be needing this, too, I think. It's one of my 
 most useless possessions. Given to me when I left gen-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 47 
 
 eral practice for the Clinic. Idiotic kind of a pres- 
 ent!" 
 
 Edwards slipped the catch. He felt like Prince Gig- 
 lio, with the wonderful magic bag of the Fairy Black- 
 stick. For here were all things necessary for the bring- 
 ing into the world of a new being. Not only instruments 
 but cleverly contrived sterilizators, rubber gloves, aseptic 
 material, everything. 
 
 A brown bare arm appeared over his shoulder and 
 gently touched the gleaming surface of a large pair 
 of forceps. And, "Ach Gott, wie schon!" whispered 
 Nani 's voice. She seemed to have none of that horrified 
 distress which seizes on most women, and on most men 
 too, at the sight of what they commonly call ''knives." 
 
 Edwards accepted it as a good omen. 
 
 ''You must help me," he said, "to keep them clean and 
 bright." 
 
 The largest of the three boxes contained the "House- 
 hold Apothecary." Here, too, was a small wallet-like 
 case, with the Professor 's card, ,on which was written 
 
 "Put this in your pocket at once at once. And 
 never move abroad without it." 
 
 Edwards did as he was bidden. 
 
 Franzl and Nani had now to come and help. All 
 the bottles and jars had to be removed from the wooden 
 cupboard. Then its shelves had to be dusted; a place 
 found for it on the wall. 
 
 It was a marvelous cupboard. Deep inside, at the 
 very heart of it, was a Holy of Holies, where ten or 
 twelve small bottles had their place, poisons mostly. 
 "When locked, this inner shrine formed part of a larger 
 compartment, that held twenty or thirty other jars. 
 This last had doors of its own, too; and these same 
 doors formed the square center of a still larger space, 
 divided up by shelves of various heights and with cun- 
 ningly contrived drawers. Here were larger bottles, 
 fatter jars, a noble collection. And the whole thing
 
 48 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 could be closed by two outer folding panels that were 
 fastened with a Yale lock. On the inside of these was 
 an envelope containing the keys. And on the envelope 
 the Professor had written 
 
 "You have not the faintest legal right to keep a 
 Household Apothecary. In doing so, you are laying 
 yourself open to all sorts of grievous pains and pen- 
 alties. Therefore, for Heaven's sake, do not take money 
 for medicines. Give it gratis; say it is included in the 
 doctor's fees, paid by the community. And keep your 
 medicines locked up. With all three keys. In Drawer 
 No. 45 you'll find an Austrian Pharmacopoeia. Also an 
 old copy of an English one that I happened to have 
 lying round. Not that I know anything myself about 
 this Drug Business. For the present condition of the 
 outfit you can thank Magister Blass of the Pharmacolog- 
 ical Institute, who takes an interest in your welfare. 
 He says you were the only man in the lecture-room who 
 did not laugh at him when the hook of his tunic caught 
 in the back of his wig and pulled it askew. Let the old 
 fellow know that you are pleased." 
 
 The last of the three cases was filled with various 
 matters : bandages, aseptic dressings, plaster, drain-tubes 
 all sorts of odds and ends. And in sending him these 
 things things, perhaps, no longer of any great value 
 from the Clinic and his own operating-room, Edwards 
 recognized the thoughtfulness of his friend. Nothing 1 
 here betrayed the newly-fledged practitioner. Every- 
 thing seemed to have stood the test of long use, and so 
 inspired confidence. 
 
 In the bottom of this last box were countless bottles. 
 One of these, a ten-liter jar with a wide mouth and a 
 glass faucet and stop-cock let in at the base, bore a final 
 word of advice 
 
 "You'll need small bottles. You won't find many of 
 them lying about at Thiersee. And this big one is for
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 49 
 
 General Medicine. To be given freely when you don't 
 know what else to do: 'ut aliquid fiet.' Keep the jar 
 somewhere out of sight; and dump into it whatever is 
 left over from any of the harmless mixtures you pre- 
 scribe. Whenever you put in any such remains, add one- 
 fifth the amount of alcohol and five times the amount of 
 water. To begin with, you might fill in about two liters 
 of 'Aqua Fontis,' plus enough Chinin to make it taste 
 bitter, a little something to color it brown, and half of 
 the square black bottle that you'll find somewhere in 
 this case. The other half keep for yourself, to drink 
 sometimes with your coffee. 
 ' ' And so, Good luck to you. ' ' 
 
 The bottle in question was an excellent brand of Kiim- 
 mel. And lying beside it, in an air-tight tin, was a 
 "kilo" of freshly ground fragrant coffee, on which was 
 written, in a hand strange to Edwards, "Frau Professor 
 Schroeder joins her husband in best wishes for your 
 venture. ' ' 
 
 Edwards was overwhelmed. How kind these people 
 were! And he had never suspected that they took the 
 slightest interest in him. He must write and thank 
 them both at once. 
 
 But by this time the morning hours had passed. 
 Edwards was beginning to wonder how and where he 
 was to eat, when Frau Speckbacher called to him ex- 
 citedly from the window. 
 
 "Herr Doktor, the Herr Pfarrer comes. Jesses- 
 Maria, how dirty we all are! Here, you two children, 
 be off now." 
 
 Edwards went to the window and looked out. The 
 dingy old schoolhouse stood apart by itself on the out- 
 skirts of the village, almost on the edge of the level 
 land, just before it fell away downwards towards the 
 shore of the lake below. From his window he could 
 overlook almost all the houses on this side of Thiersee, 
 could even see across the little sheet of water to the 
 farms on the farther shore, and could follow the whole
 
 50 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 line of the highroad that wound upwards from the vil- 
 lage and passed the schoolhouse door before disappearing 
 into the woods that surrounded the valley. 
 
 Up this road a single figure was slowly making its 
 way. 
 
 And a less prepossessing figure Edwards had never 
 seen. 
 
 A very small man, scarcely five feet high, dressed in 
 shapeless baggy clothes: black trousers that scarcely 
 reached the tops of his bulging elastic-sided boots, a loose 
 black coat buttoned up to the chin, no sign of a col- 
 lar, great blue goggles, and an ancient black straw hat 
 that was pushed far back on a tangled mane of long 
 iron-gray hair. 
 
 And fat! Never had Edwards imagined such shape- 
 less, monstrous obesity. 
 
 The figure looked up, saw Edwards at the window, and 
 waved its hand. 
 
 ' ' Griiss Gott, Herr Doktor ! " it called. The voice was 
 sweet and strong, an unusually attractive voice. " I 've 
 come to take you to dinner. Won't you join me down 
 here and save me the journey up?" 
 
 He made an expressive gesture that underlined the 
 antithesis between the steep steps before him and his 
 own round unwieldy body. 
 
 Edwards bowed a little stiffly. He would be down 
 in an instant, he called back. But he made no haste. 
 It seemed to him as if the priest were not treating him 
 with proper respect; he ought to have come up and 
 made a formal call. Perhaps he knew that Edwards 
 had no legal right to practice, and took this means of 
 making him feel that he was not to be treated as an 
 equal. Besides, Edwards did not like priests. He had 
 known too many of them, and too much. At his old 
 school, and afterwards. 
 
 Again the priest's voice hailed him from below. 
 
 "Herr Doktor, ich bitte 
 
 Ah, he's coming up after all, thought Edwards; he 
 sees that he 's made a mistake. But the clear voice went 
 on
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 51 
 
 "If you've got an Innsbruck paper bring it along. 
 I'll be greatly obliged." 
 
 Edwards had an Innsbruck paper. On his table lay 
 also an old copy of "The Daily Mail." He took that; 
 why, he did not know exactly. Perhaps with a desire 
 to make the priest feel his inferiority in that he could 
 not read English, while he, Edwards, could. Of such 
 unreasoned subconscious actions is our life compact. 
 
 "Frau Speckbacher, " he called, as he went out into 
 the lower hall, "I'm going to dinner now with the Herr 
 Pfarrer." 
 
 Frau Speckbacher, with Franzl and Nani peering over 
 her shoulder from the door of the schoolroom, surveyed 
 Edwards with unveiled disapproval. 
 
 "But the Herr Doktor has forgotten to change his 
 clothes," she said. 
 
 Edwards wore his old riding-breeches and rough coat 
 in which he had made his journey yesterday. His only 
 change had been a fresh shirt, a collar, and a bright 
 tie. And on this tie the good Frau's eyes rested. 
 
 "What's the matter with these?" demanded Edwards, 
 flushing. 
 
 He was intensely sensitive to interference with his 
 small personal habits. In Innsbruck he had changed 
 his room several times, because his landlady had seen 
 fit to suggest some slight alteration in his conduct, dress, 
 or acquaintance. He did not realize that such "inter- 
 ference, " as he called it, was merely the expression of an- 
 other 's kindly interest in himself. His one idea had 
 been that he must be "Master in the House"; criticism 
 of any kind goaded him to fury. He had left his last 
 quarters because the husband of his landlady had dared 
 to remonstrate about the three pairs of inoculated guinea- 
 pigs that he kept under his bed. 
 
 Now it flashed across his mind that, in the past, he 
 had always been too friendly with his dependents. If 
 he were to remain the "Herr im Hause" here (already 
 he had been contemplating the acquisition of a new 
 lot of guinea-pigs), he must show that he would not 
 put up with interference of any kind.
 
 52 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 So he stalked past Frau Speckbacher, ignoring her 
 completely. 
 
 But at the door he stopped. Much as he rebelled 
 under criticism, he dreaded "hurt feelings" still more. 
 He could not bear to leave these people with that look 
 of distress in their eyes. Yield to their criticisms he 
 would not; but their distress should yield to his friend- 
 liness. 
 
 "Well, Frau," he demanded, "what's wrong?" 
 
 "The Herr Doktor must forgive me. But the Herr 
 Doktor has forgotten that after dinner he might be 
 called to see a sick person." Then, as Edwards stared 
 at her, uncomprehending, she added: "I will lay out 
 the Herr Doktor 's clothes on his bed ; then he can change 
 at once when he comes back." 
 
 * ' The Herr Doktor can have all confidence in mother, ' ' 
 put in Nani over her mother 's shoulder. ' ' She has seen 
 many fine gentlemen at the hotel in Kuf stein." 
 
 Franzl interposed. His sympathies were with the puz- 
 2led Edwards. 
 
 "What's the sense of all this bother? I don't see 
 why " 
 
 "You don't of course. But the Herr Doktor does. 
 Only he has many more important things to think about. 
 And it is our place to think of the little things for him. 
 I ask thee, Franzl, what would 'st say if the Herr Pfarrer 
 came to give thee Extreme Unction in short trousers and 
 a red cravat?" 
 
 "Frau Speckbacher," Edwards snapped his words 
 out angrily, "I am master here, and I wear what I 
 like. Do you understand?" 
 
 As he slammed the door behind him, Nani looked up 
 questioningly into her mother's face. 
 
 ' ' Thou wilt lay out the clothes on his bed, ' ' her mother 
 answered. "I will show thee the right ones. Other- 
 wise, well, thou knowest what people will say. That 
 we don't know how to take care of him. Then we may 
 lose our place here, and I'd have to go out again as 
 waitress. Me with my bad foot, that hurts me so." 
 
 "That thou shalt never do, mother dear," protested
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 53 
 
 Nani. "Leave it all to me. Perhaps I can manage 
 him." 
 
 Meanwhile Edwards, in a very ruffled temper, had 
 joined the waiting priest. The little man greeted him 
 with outstretched hands. Of his cordiality there could 
 be no doubt. 
 
 "Ach, lieber Herr Doktor," he cried, "welcome to 
 Thiersee. The day of your coming is marked with a 
 white stone. I was so glad to hear you had arrived. 
 'Laetatus sum in his quag dicta sunt mihi.' Kassian 
 spread the news last night in a lucid interval between 
 drinks. But I told the people to keep away. They'd 
 have rushed in shoals to look at you this morning. So 
 I put a 'taboo' on the schoolhouse. No one was to 
 approach within a hundred yards of it until I had made 
 the first visit. And, in spite of their devouring curiosity, 
 they 've kept away. Even the children. Oh, I make Big 
 Medicine too, you see." 
 
 Edwards felt his sense of formal animosity begin to 
 dissolve. There was something very charming about 
 this strange, obese, little man, something that escaped 
 analysis. He began to make some commonplace speech 
 of thanks. 
 
 "How delightfully you speak German," interrupted 
 the priest. His pudgy little hand kept patting Ed- 
 wards' arm as they walked on. "Not at all like a 
 German- American, Deo Gratias. Your clear consonants 
 sound as if they had come from Hanover. ' ' 
 
 Edwards felt a glow of pleasure. Although he often 
 spoke carelessly, he prided himself on the purity of his 
 accent when he took pains; and the surest way to his 
 heart was to compliment him on his German. 
 
 "I lived for a year in Hanover," he said, "as a boy. 
 A very happy time in my life it was, too." 
 
 The fat little hand patted his arm approvingly again. 
 
 "Aha, I was right then. And we will speak the 
 tongue of Goethe and Schiller together, you and I. But 
 not in public." He held up a warning finger. "That 
 would be quite ruinous. For the good folk here would 
 not understand us; and. what they don't understand they;
 
 54 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 most thoroughly hate. They're good haters. Good 
 friends, too. You know how the hymn goes : ' Treue 1st 
 Tiroler Brauch.' Only, as a rule, they're slow to give 
 their confidence. Once they've given it, however, they 
 stick to what they've given. That's their strength, and 
 their weakness. A friend can't do them wrong. He 
 may swindle them out of money, good name, what you 
 like. But they won't see it, won't believe it; they shut 
 their eyes and go on trusting still. And if they don't 
 or won't or can't give you their confidence, then you 
 may be the holiest, noblest, most charitable soul in the 
 world, yet you'll get naught from them but dislike, 
 hatred, annoyance. Oh, did you bring the paper ? ' ' 
 
 Without waiting for an answer he drew it out of 
 Edwards' pocket. 
 
 "I'm so sorry, Hochwiirden," * Edwards stammered. 
 "I must have made a mistake. Took the wrong paper 
 from my table." 
 
 Not for worlds would he have admitted, even to him-, 
 self, the motive that had impelled him to bring an Eng- 
 lish newspaper instead of the German one. 
 
 "That's a pity. The Biirgermeister likes to get the 
 news at dinner-time. I usually read him the best bits. 
 He's not exactly quick at reading himself. An able 
 old man though, as you'll see. With a natural ability 
 for the business part of farming. And my own English 
 is more than a little rusty. Hum-m-m what does this 
 sentence here mean? I get the sense of the leading 
 article as far as that. But how stupid of me! Of 
 course, you can translate it for the Biirgermeister. To 
 have the latest news from England will tickle his sense 
 of importance." 
 
 Edwards looked down at the worn black straw hat, 
 far below his shoulder, bent over the fluttering pages of 
 the newspaper. 
 
 What was this type of priest doing here 1 
 
 He knew well enough the kind of man he had ex- 
 
 i "Hochwtirden," the title by which all priests are addressed, like 
 "Your Reverence." 
 
 "Herr Pfarrer" is the title of a parish priest.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 55 
 
 pected to find. Either a young ecclesiastic in his first 
 cure, to whom such a remote nest as Thiersee was only 
 a momentary makeshift till something better turned up ; 
 or a dull, older man, himself a peasant, rooted in the 
 soil, and so long forgotten at his post that he had sunk 
 to the common level, or even below it. And here at his 
 side was this strange kindly creature, well past fifty 
 surely, yet apparently not embittered, but at peace with 
 his surroundings, and alive to interests that bound him 
 to the outer world of men and things. 
 
 Edwards put his thoughts into words. 
 
 The result surprised him, for the priest 's hand dropped 
 from his arm; the flow of his pleasant voice was sud- 
 denly sealed; and he glanced up sideways at Edwards, 
 as if trying to measure the extent of the mistake he had 
 made in saying too much to an utter stranger. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," stammered Edwards. 
 
 ' ' There 's nothing to beg my pardon about, ' ' the priest 
 protested. ' ' You must forgive me for babbling unduly. 
 But your coming has been much in my thoughts. One 
 gets very lonely here sometimes. And there is no one 
 with whom one can talk about matters of any real in- 
 terest, except perhaps the Schroeders. ' ' 
 
 "Not Professor Schroeder," interrupted Edwards. 
 
 "Yes, he and his wife. They're always at Castle 
 Liebenegg in the summer. They rent it. Only it's a 
 mighty long ride from Thiersee, and for a man of my 
 my caliber not an expedition to be undertaken lightly, 
 but soberly, advisedly, and in the fear of God like 
 matrimony." 
 
 This last sentence he had added in English, an Eng- 
 lish that creaked a little from long disuse, but good 
 English, Edwards noted the English of the Book of 
 Common Prayer. 
 
 "You'll be hungry," he heard the priest say, "and 
 here's our inn our Heaven and our Hell. You 11 un- 
 derstand that soon. And here's our Burgermeister. 
 too."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE inn or "Gasthaus," a low two-storied dwelling, 
 somewhat larger than the surrounding cottages, was 
 set well back from the road and separated from it by 
 a pleasant garden. The neatly covered beds were still 
 empty of flowers; but here and there tiny shoots of 
 green grass were visible, and the sun poured down in 
 its noonday strength. Over the porch swung a huge 
 creaking sign; a very dilapidated wooden Dragon, of 
 monstrous proportions, surmounted by a tiny Saint 
 George, whose horse was not much larger than the 
 Dragon's one remaining ear. 
 
 "Zum Drachen" was the inn's name. Its owner was 
 known as the " Drachen- Wirt." Indeed, it seemed to 
 Edwards that most people in Thiersee had no family 
 names at all. The owners of property were called after 
 their farms: "Der Geschwandlerbauer. " Their wives 
 and daughters, too: "Die Oberdorfbauer's Rosi." 
 While those who held some official position in the com- 
 munity were addressed by their titles. The artisans and 
 the hired men alone had family names: "Strumpl- 
 Jonas,""Gipfl-Marie." 
 
 The Herr Burgermeister, whose farm lay farther up 
 the valley on the right, was sitting stolidly in the sun, 
 at a freshly spread table that stood in front of the inn 
 on a piece of clean flagging. A square-built, square- 
 faced man, dressed in heavy homespun, with a huge 
 silver chain, on which countless small silver ornaments 
 dangled, swinging magnificently over his green waist- 
 coat with its large horn buttons. He was clean-shaven; 
 that is, he would be clean shaven on Sunday, like the 
 priest. To-day was Saturday. 
 
 "Herr Burgermeister, our new Herr Doktor," said the 
 priest. 
 
 SG
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 57 
 
 The Biirgermeister nodded and stretched out a mas- 
 sive fist to grasp Edwards' hand. 
 
 ' ' Got the Innsbruck paper ? " he demanded. 
 
 tf Better than that finer far,'' interposed Father 
 Mathias. ''The Herr Doktor has brought an English 
 paper. He will translate it to us. The latest news 
 straight from England. No other village except ours 
 has that." 
 
 The Biirgermeister turned his keen gray eyes on Ed- 
 wards. 
 
 "We used to read a lot about the Boer war," he said. 
 ' ' You '11 not be an Englishman, I do hope. ' ' 
 
 Edwards protested so volubly and in such broad dia- 
 lect, that the look of momentary distrust faded from 
 the other's face. 
 
 Meanwhile the Drachen-Wirt had appeared, a bearded 
 fussy little man with shaking hands and unsteady gait, 
 followed by ' ' Drachen-Wirt 's Rosine," his daughter. 
 The latter began to serve the dinner, taking care to 
 lean lightly against Edwards' shoulder as she did so. 
 Edwards shrank away. The girl was not ill-looking, 
 but she had discarded the local dress for such cheap 
 finery as she had brought from her service as a waitress 
 at the "Grauer Bar" in Innsbruck. And she used an 
 abundance of some cheap perfume that was sickening. 
 If her father was Gluttony in the catalogue of the 
 Seven Deadly Sins at Thiersee, she was Lasciviousness. 
 Not from any inner necessity of their natures, but both 
 purely in the way of business. 
 
 Edwards soon forgot them, however. Although it was 
 still March, it was not too cold to eat out of doors in 
 the warm sun; and his companions soon put him at his 
 ease. Nor did the food seem so bad. Merely rather 
 coarse, and served in huge portions. But he had little 
 time to think of it, for his London paper happened to 
 contain an article on modern grain-growing in the 
 Canadian North- West, illustrated with a few blurred pic- 
 tures; and his translation of it held the interest of the 
 Biirgermeister, who kept him at his task all through the 
 meal. When they had finished and had lighted their
 
 58 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 pipes, the Biirgermeister leaned back in the shadow and 
 was soon breathing heavily. 
 
 "The one local habit that I cannot acquire," said the 
 priest, shrugging his fat shoulders. "A pity, too. Be- 
 cause so many of us, who grow old here, die in our after- 
 dinner sleep. It's then that a stroke hits us. But I 
 shall have to meet mine somewhere else, and with open 
 eyes. ' ' 
 
 "For whom is the vacant chair?" asked Edwards. 
 Their table was set for four people. 
 
 "For the schoolmaster, Emil Joncke. A mere lad. 
 Not twenty yet. He graduated from the Innsbruck 
 Normal College last year; and now here he is, stuck 
 in this valley, with some sixty odd children of different 
 ages, whom he has to teach, all in one large room. Un- 
 til you came, he was quite alone in the schoolhouse ; cooked 
 for himself, too, as he couldn 't afford a servant. He '11 be 
 back soon. Holidays are almost over. He usually eats 
 with us, once or twice a week. I wonder what you'll 
 make of him. ' ' 
 
 A sudden sense of confidence in this unusual ecclesiastic 
 came over Edwards, begotten of the quiet of the after- 
 noon and of the sense of peace that seemed to rest over 
 everything. One heard nothing except the far-off shout 
 of some voice, a plowman calling to his team, or the 
 soft clucking of the landlord's fowls that wandered in 
 and out among the guests' feet, searching for fallen 
 crumbs. Opposite sat the sleeping 'Biirgermeister, his 
 deeply-lined face relaxed, almost childlike. Around them 
 shone the warm sun; above on all sides, rose the uneven 
 lines of the snow-covered mountains. Only now and 
 then, from inside the house, came a single jarring note; 
 the shrill hard laughter of Drachen-Wirt 's Rosine, as she 
 served some unseen guest. 
 
 Edwards leaned across the table towards the priest. 
 
 ' ' Hochwiirden, " he said, "you have made me very 
 welcome. But I'm such a stranger. Indeed, I feel now 
 how mad it was for me to come at all. Will you not 
 help me? Tell me about these people of yours, so that 
 I shan't make such a tremendous lot of blunders."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 59 
 
 ' ' You '11 have to learn by making blunders, I 'ra afraid. 
 But that won't do any harm. And command me in all 
 things. I live in that minute white box next the church. 
 To-morrow's Sunday. Come in after mass. You're a 
 Catholic I trust?" 
 
 Edwards nodded, so he went on 
 
 "Not that I'm worrying over the state of your soul. 
 Not I! Only you've got to conform here. You must. 
 If the people aren't to see you at mass on Sundays, you 
 might as well pack up and get out now. Our entire 
 village life begins at and centers round the altar. If 
 you intend to be a part of that life, you've got to be at 
 the altar too. Oh, it doesn't make any difference what 
 you believe and what you don't. No growing man can 
 live with the god of his childhood any more than he can 
 wear his baby shoes. For all of us, who aren 't mentally 
 petrified, our gods die. But that's no reason why we 
 should defile their peaceful graves." 
 
 Edwards stared at his companion, at the round almost 
 featureless face with the great blue goggles. In his un- 
 lovely body there was an unusual mind; and those weak 
 red-rimmed eyes had a wide outlook into the world of 
 gods and men. 
 
 "It's all so different from what I expected," he stam- 
 mered. ' ' I really don 't know what I did expect. Some- 
 thing like a plague-stricken city, I suppose; with the 
 sick lying about in the streets, shrieking in vain for the 
 help that never came. A sort of hell. A harsh cruel 
 climate. Everywhere pain, deformity, death. And 
 
 I " He laughed awkwardly; "I thought I was, as it 
 
 were, leading a forlorn hope, rushing into the teeth of 
 destruction, bringing succor perhaps healing. Now, 
 now, I am here." He swept a gesture with his arm that 
 included the entire peaceful scene around them. "Not 
 even the priest forgive me as I thought to find him; 
 a fanatic of the Dark Ages or a stupid sensualist, who 
 would hinder me, or at least mock me behind my back. 
 Instead of that you. Instead of my expected Hades 
 this peaceful Paradise." 
 
 The priest shook his head sadly.
 
 60 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Wait a bit, my son," he said. "There are other 
 rooms in this inn. You can't see much from where you 
 sit. But I 
 
 He was cut short by the crash of falling glass from 
 inside the house. Then came the sound of a table over- 
 turned, of loud snarling voices, and the shrill remon- 
 strances of a woman. 
 
 The priest beckoned to Edwards. 
 
 "I've been waiting for this," he said. " 'Twouldn't 
 be Saturday afternoon else. Look in here, Herr Doktor. 
 This Paradise of yours has a backdoor into Hell." 
 
 With Edwards close behind him, he had pushed open 
 the large window that gave inwards on the guest-room 
 of the Drachen Inn. A current of air streamed out, 
 so laden with things evil that Edwards gasped. 
 
 "You get it, do you?" demanded the priest. "That's 
 what I breathe in the confessional, my son. Don 't move. 
 You may be needed." 
 
 For an instant Edwards felt as if he must fight for 
 breath or be strangled. The air of that inner room was 
 saturated with a concentrated essence of all the deadly 
 sins. Not only gluttony and lust ; but envy, bitter, long- 
 nursed hatred, instant, red-eyed murder. It was an at- 
 mosphere steeped in a reek of animal odors; sweating 
 bodies, evil breaths, diseased skins, unwashed clothes; 
 an atmosphere sucked in and exhaled over and over 
 again, shot through with clouds of bad tobacco, redolent 
 with tHe sharp stench of bad spirits; so foul that the 
 clean outer air seemed to shrink away from the contam- 
 ination of its touch. 
 
 The room within was but dimly lighted. In the middle 
 of it lay an overturned table ; broken glasses shimmered 
 on the floor, snapping under the heavy boots of some 
 twenty men, who had crowded around a shadowy mov- 
 ing mass, that struggled to and fro across the muddy 
 floor. 
 
 Kosine had fled to the top of a table, where she stood 
 with lifted skirts, displaying her red silk garters. Yet 
 even this attraction, which seldom failed of success, went 
 a-begging here. The men paid no attention. That
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 61 
 
 angered her. She was not used to being neglected, even 
 for the lust of blood. She lifted her shrill voice. 
 
 " Father, father, come and stop the fight. Franzl 
 has got his knife out. ' ' 
 
 As if he had been waiting for some such signal, the 
 landlord appeared in the door of the next room. Be- 
 hind him towered a huge man with mighty shoulders, 
 on which was set the small round head of an idiotic 
 child. 
 
 "Clear out of this all of you," he shouted. "I'll 
 have no knives here. Stop, I say, or I'll make Anderl 
 throw you out. And there'll be no more schnaps served 
 to anyone." 
 
 This last threat seemed to have some effect. The men 
 who had been watching the fight went softly back to their 
 places at the tables in the four shadowy corners. And 
 from the struggling mass on the floor a figure half rose to 
 its feet. It lifted its face towards the triumphant Rosine. 
 
 ' ' You, Bosi, ' ' it said ; ' ' that was a lie. I ain 't got no 
 knife at all. Oh, you swine! " 
 
 As the speaker had turned towards Eosina, leaving 
 himself unprotected, the other dim figure had attacked 
 him from behind. Edwards only caught sight of a head 
 that appeared from the shadow at Franzl's shoulder, and 
 that seemed to bow itself as if to whisper in his ear. 
 
 ' ' You swine you swine ! ' ' 
 
 Franzl's furious yell echoed through the house. Then 
 it fell to a frightened whimper. With one hand clasped 
 to the side of his head he staggered to his feet, opened 
 the front door and swayed out into the sunlight, where 
 he dropped into the chair in which Edwards had been 
 sitting. 
 
 And after him, propelled by a blow from Anderl's 
 heavy first, came his opponent. It was Kassian. His 
 clothes were covered with dust and dirt ; his hands were 
 bleeding, cut by the broken glass on the floor; his great 
 beard was matted with blood. There was blood too on his 
 lips. He stood swaying on the door-step, blinded by the 
 sun. 
 
 Edwards hurried to Franzl's side. The young man
 
 62 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 was rocking to and fro, whimpering with pain. And 
 between the fingers of his hand that he kept pressed 
 tightly to the side of his head, thin streams of blood 
 were trickling. At Edwards' touch he looked up, 
 brushed the hair from his eyes, and pointed with his 
 free hand at 
 
 "Herr Doktor it wasn't fair. I'd stopped fighting. 
 And then, see what he did the swine!" 
 
 He removed his hand for a moment. The lobe and 
 part of the cartilage of his ear had been bitten away. 
 
 Edwards turned a horrified face towards the priest, 
 who was quietly looking on. 
 
 "Quite a frequent occurrence, my dear sir," nodded 
 the priest. " Noses as welL Yes, especially noses. 
 You'll find constant opportunities for plastic opera- 
 tions." 
 
 But the look of distress in Edwards' eyes had passed. 
 Here was a wound to be properly cared for. And he 
 loved wounds, healing wounds, as other men love grow- 
 ing flowers. In the Clinic the nurses had often said that 
 the most hopeless tissues seemed to know and answer to 
 his touch. 
 
 **A basin of hot water," he called through the win- 
 dow, "and a clean toweL You, Kassian, come and sit 
 down here till I Ve done patching up FranzL Your turn 
 11 come next." 
 
 Inside the house there was a great running to and 
 fro. Then Rosina appeared with water and towels, fol- 
 lowed by the entire crowd of guests, who, with their 
 half-emptied glasses in their hands, stood around Ed- 
 wards and his wounded, silently, intensely interested in 
 every movement that he made. 
 
 A Saturday afternoon fight, blood, and all that were 
 usual enough. But a real doctor, with strange instru- 
 ments, to patch up the wounded antagonists; that was 
 new, that was "fein." 
 
 For the first of many thousand times, Edwards had 
 cause to bless the foresight of old Professor Schroeder. 
 
 The ease that he had been told to put at once into 
 his pocket was soon open on the table before him. There
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD o3 
 
 were needles there, and sSk, all in small sealed vials of 
 carbolic add. A small needle-holder too. He laid out 
 the instruments under the admiring gaze of the onlookers, 
 while Franzl, delighted to be the center of interest, held 
 a wet cloth to his bleeding ear. 
 
 "If I only had the other piece," Edwards said aloud, 
 "I could make a better job." 
 
 Kassian's deep booming voice broke in 
 
 "Here it be. I found it in my beard." 
 
 Then turning to the crowd of silent spectators, he 
 added 
 
 "Didn't I tell yon? Just you watch. A fine Herr 
 Doktor. And if he can make a new ear, can't he make 
 the mother well?" 
 
 Edwards did what he could. Indeed, he was rather 
 pleased with the result. He arranged a temporary band- 
 age that swathed FranzTs head in white, and then he 
 dressed Kassian's smaller wounds. Some of them needed 
 three stitches. It seemed as if they must be infected, so 
 filthy were their immediate surroundings. During the 
 whole process the two combatants sat peacefully side 
 by side. There seemed to be no ill-feeling between 
 them. 
 
 "You see," explained Franzl, "Kassian had an anger 
 on me since yesterday, because Nani poured the cold 
 water down his neck. And when I came in for a drink 
 this afternoon he crossed over to my table and sat down 
 there. Then Bosine served us. And she she leaned 
 more against my shoulder when she put the glasses on the 
 table than she did against lii- Kalian thought so any- 
 way." 
 
 "Ach, was! Such a baggage," interposed 1Canxn 
 cheerfully. " Twas only to make us stay and order 
 more drinks. But you oughtn't to have called her names. 
 She's my third cousin." 
 
 "I'd forgotten that. But you called me 'Lausbub.' " 
 
 "I was very drunk. I am still. And it was Satur- 
 day afternoon. So now you see, Herr Doktor, how it 
 all happened." 
 
 "Hallo, hallo, what's all this?" the voice of the
 
 64 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Biirgermeister broke in good-humoredly. Undisturbed 
 by the whole affair, he had slumbered until now, exactly 
 his accustomed half-hour, in the warm sun. He smiled 
 as he recognized his youngest, his favorite son. 
 
 "So-o-o, Franzl, not eighteen yet, and already such 
 a fighting-cat! Well, well, I was the same at thy age. 
 What ? The Herr Doktor has made thee a new ear ? ' ' 
 
 He turned delightedly to Edwards. 
 
 "Ich danke sehr, Herr Doktor. That will please the 
 wife too. Come, Franzl. Griiss Gott, Griiss Gott." 
 
 "And now, Herr Doktor," said Kassian, as the Biirger- 
 meister disappeared with his son and the group of on- 
 lookers at the inn-door broke up, "now you must come 
 and see the mother. She has great pain. For three days 
 now she cannot sleep. And she cries to the Mother of 
 God, praying that she may die. She's so discouraged. 
 And of course, she can 't do a stroke of work. ' ' 
 
 Edwards jumped up. 
 
 "Come along," he said. "You'll go with us, won't 
 you, Hochwiirden? Kassian can tell us more on the 
 way." 
 
 As they walked together down the village street, Ed- 
 wards' pace gradually quickened. For what Kassian 
 told him was so infinitely more horrible than a lost ear 
 that his nerves tingled at the thought of this old woman 's 
 suffering. 
 
 The physicians in the Clinic had pronounced her 
 cancer too far advanced for an operation ; they had given 
 her eight to ten weeks more of life, and would have 
 kept her in the hospital, under morphia, had Kassian 
 not suddenly appeared with the announcement that he 
 wished to take his mother home, as there was now to be 
 a doctor within call. The clinical assistants are busy 
 men; they have no time to investigate the private sur- 
 roundings of such hopelessly lost cases. Nor can they 
 refuse the request of a son, that his mother may die at 
 home. Besides, the Clinic was full ; every extra bed was 
 needed. Therefore they had given Kassian, in the form 
 of powders, enough morphia to last for three days, at 
 the end of which he was to call in the local practitioner,
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 65 
 
 who could either renew the powders or give the morphia 
 hypodermically. 
 
 Three days ! 
 
 And the woman had been away from the Clinic for a 
 whole week! 
 
 At the end of these three days there had been no 
 more powders. And added to the torment of her cancer, 
 she must have endured the exquisite nervous suffering 
 that follows the sudden withdrawal of all preparations 
 of opium. In this hell she had been lying four whole 
 days. Good God, he must hurry. 
 
 He opened his pocket-case as he went. Thank heaven 
 there was a hypodermic syringe there. "Morphium 
 hydrochloricum, ' ' too. 
 
 "But why didn't you come and get me yesterday, 
 Kassian the moment that I got here? I'd have come 
 at once." 
 
 Kassian sheepishly scratched his mighty beard. 
 
 ' ' I did mean to, ' ' he stammered. ' ' That 's why I came 
 out to meet you on the road. Ever since she's had the 
 bad pain I've been there to watch. But yesterday 
 there warn't much to eat at home, the mother so sick 
 and all; and I took schnaps from the Drachen-Wirt 
 with me. And I fell asleep there. You know. And 
 when you came I was so glad that I that I clean forgot 
 the mother wanting you. And then, then I meant to go 
 back to the schoolhouse and get you, but I sat down to 
 rest somewhere and fell asleep again. And this morning 
 I didn't go home, 'tis bad at home these days. Not 
 neat like it used to be. And the mother so sick and all. 
 So I went to the Drachen-Wirt for a bit of breakfast 
 before coming for you. I took one 'Puddel' of schnaps, 
 and then another. And then Franzl came. And 
 then that's all." 
 
 "Hurry," said Edwards, as the fat little priest puffed 
 along by his side. "What inhuman fiendish cruelty!" 
 
 ' ' But, Kassian, ' ' panted the priest, ' ' you do love your 
 mother, don 't you ? Tell the Herr Doktor. ' ' 
 
 To Edwards' consternation Kassian stopped short, took 
 off his hat, and gazed skywards.
 
 66 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Do I love the mother!" he shouted. "Why, she's 
 the best, the finest, kindest mother that a man ever had. 
 I'd never have found a wife who'd have got through 
 one-half the work she's done in all these years. And no 
 children to bother about and pay for. Love the mother ! 
 I'd carry her on my hands, that I would. It's true she 
 hasn't been able to do much since the sickness came. 
 But that'll be all right now. The Herr Doktor says he 
 can make her well." 
 
 The priest patted him on the shoulder. 
 
 "You run along ahead," he said, giving Kassian a 
 push, "and tell your mother that the doctor is coming. 
 Off with you." 
 
 Then, as soon as Kassian was out of earshot, he 
 turned to Edwards. 
 
 ' ' Can you really do anything for her ? Kassian firmly 
 believes that you can. Why, I don't know. He wants 
 her well, to work for him. And yet he loves her." 
 
 Edwards shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 * ' Cure her ! Of course I can 't. When I saw Kassian 
 with her in Innsbruck I thought that he was leaving her 
 in the Clinic to die, that he would never see her again; 
 and I wanted him to part from her in a cheerful frame 
 of mind, and not give her the idea that she was saying 
 farewell to her precious son forever. That's why I told 
 him to tell her she would soon be her old self again. I 
 never thought he'd believe it himself. Well, I'll set 
 things right now. And at least I can keep her out of 
 great pain. Let's hurry." 
 
 "Don't undeceive him," panted the priest, as he jogged 
 along at Edwards' heels. "Kassian has told the whole 
 village you are going to cure his mother. Better pre- 
 tend to do so. If she dies in a month's time, you can 
 make some unforeseen complication responsible." 
 
 "I've no objection to lying. Doctors have to lie a 
 
 lot. Just the same, I don't like it, and if Is this 
 
 the house?" 
 
 It was a neat little cottage, surrounded by a desolate 
 neglected bit of land. But its white paint had lost its 
 freshness; even the curtains at the window, the brass
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 67 
 
 latch of the door, showed traces of neglect. Everywhere 
 one could see the failing of a hand that had once kept 
 order even in the smallest things. 
 
 Inside matters were still worse. 
 
 The front room was the living-room, heavily timbered, 
 with bunches of seedlings hanging from the low beams 
 of the ceiling. Most of the floor-space was taken up by 
 the great stove, that was built out into the room. Near 
 it, where the table generally stood, a shaky wooden bed 
 had been set up. The bedclothes were dirty, tossed 
 about, dragging on the unswept floor. But the bed it- 
 self was empty. Kassian stood before it, scratching his 
 beard. 
 
 "I don't know," he muttered. "The mother must 
 have gone out." 
 
 But the priest, who had opened a door leading into 
 the kitchen, called sharply over his shoulder 
 
 ' ' Here, Herr Doktor, come in here. ' ' 
 
 The kitchen was filthy; that is, everything that had 
 been lately used was unclean. There were still on the 
 shelves a few pots and pans that shone brightly; one 
 corner of the room was still in painfully precise order. 
 But elsewhere were unwashed plates, scraps of forgotten 
 meals, greasy rags and piles of dust. On the floor, near 
 a chair which she had overturned in falling, lay the mis- 
 tress of the house. So ashen blue were her lips, so fright- 
 fully skull-like her fleshless hanging jaw, that Edwards 
 thought and hoped the end was come. But her eyes 
 still lived. They held Edwards fast. 
 
 He lifted the old woman. The sense of her fleshless 
 body in his arms, so light, so disjointed like a broken 
 doll, roused the anger that always came upon him with 
 a rush at the sight of suffering needlessly inflicted and 
 patiently borne. As he lifted her, the handle of a broom 
 dropped from her bony fingers. 
 
 In five minutes he had altered the whole aspect of the 
 living-room. 
 
 There was fresh linen on the bed: Kassian had been 
 set to sweep out the floor; and his mother, in a clean 
 night-gown and a heavy shawl, was sitting propped up
 
 68 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 by two large pillows. Edwards was feeding her a mix- 
 ture of warm milk and a good measure from Kassiaii's 
 schnaps bottle. And now he had bared her arm and was 
 searching for some spot where there was still enough 
 flesh to carry a hypodermic injection. As he poised the 
 needle in his fingers he said 
 
 ' 'I am so sorry, mother. I might have come last night. 
 It was Kassian's fault. The whole thing's his fault; 
 your sickness and pain during these last days. ' ' 
 
 A look in her eyes gave him pause. 
 
 1 'Oh, I suppose you'll say he's not such a bad lot. 
 "Well, if you like. Mothers are made to forgive, I know. 
 But anyway the worst is over. I'm here. Always 
 within call. Remember that. And now I'm going to 
 stop the pain. It will take time; fifteen minutes per- 
 haps. I don't know how strong the pain is. But what 
 I am going to put into your blood is stronger. You'll 
 feel it go slowly through your body, seeking out the pain, 
 pushing into the dark corners where the pain has been 
 sitting all these long days and nights. And you'll 
 feel " 
 
 He thrust in the needle, injected slowly, rubbed the 
 prick with a bit of cotton soaked in alcohol, and covered 
 it with a tiny square of plaster. 
 
 "you'll feel the pain dissolve. Just the way a 
 
 lump of sugar dissolves in a good cup of hot coffee. 
 And in place of the pain there'll come long waves of 
 quietness and rest, moving all through your body. And 
 then you'll go to sleep." 
 
 Her lips moved. Edwards bent down closer. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "you'll wake up again. But 
 when you wake and the pain comes once more, 1 11 be here 
 to take it away. "What ? Yes, mother, some day, like all 
 of us, you won't wake up. No, I can't tell exactly when. 
 But almost. And I '11 let you know. I promise. ' ' 
 
 The appealing, burning eyes were beginning to lose 
 their tortured gleam. She motioned towards the glass; 
 Kassian moistened her lips. She held him tightly by the 
 arm. 
 
 "A good son, Herr Doktor. None better. Don't cry,
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 69 
 
 Kassian. The pain is going. Herr Doktor, I I tried to 
 tidy up a bit in the kitchen but I I couldn't." 
 
 The thin lips smiled, and she sank back among the 
 pillows with a contented sigh. 
 
 At the front door, to which Kassian accompanied him, 
 Edwards gave final and minute directions. But Kas- 
 sian 's face w y as clouded. . 
 
 "Mein Gott, I didn't think 'twas going to be like 
 this. She must sleep, you say. For a whole day ; more 
 perhaps. And when she wakes, I give her something to 
 drink or eat. Then you come and put her to sleep again. 
 But she won't be able to cook or anything. And a man 
 can 't get along alone. How long will she be like this ? ' ' 
 
 The priest gave him a warning look, but Edwards 
 was in no mood to be tactful. The thought of the old 
 mother's martyrdom had stirred him to anger against 
 this degenerate son. He shook Kassian roughly by the 
 arm. 
 
 ' ' How long ? A few days, I hope. I 'm afraid, several 
 weeks. And after that she'll be dead. Understand? 
 I can't do anything except keep her out of pain. No- 
 body can. And if you've got any decent feelings left in 
 you that alcohol hasn't rotted away yet, you'll look to 
 it that she dies in comfort and content." 
 
 "But wait, Herr Doktor," stuttered Kassian, his small 
 narrow eyes beginning to glow with anger ; ' ' then it was 
 a swindle what you said to me about her getting well. I 
 don't believe it. You don't want to make her well. I 
 know why, too. It's that trollop, Nani Speckbacher, 
 that 's poisoned your mind against me. She and Franzl. 
 A rotten lot they are." 
 
 ' ' Hush, Kassian, ' ' interposed the priest authoritatively. 
 "You have no right to speak like that to the Herr 
 Doktor. You misunderstood what he once said about 
 your mother. Not all the doctors in Tyrol can cure her. 
 So help her to a good death. Show yourself the loving 
 son that she believes you to be. ' ' 
 
 "But what's the use of all this doctoring?" persisted 
 Kassian, somewhat cowed by the priest's authority, yet 
 with anger still smoldering in his watery eyes. "She
 
 70 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 sleeps and eats, and eats and sleeps. And that goes on 
 for weeks till she dies. How am I going to live, I 'd like 
 to know? "Who'll cook for me and the two hired men, 
 milk the cows, and all that? The fields have got to be 
 plowed now. And I thought the Herr Doktor was going 
 to make her well, so that she could be up and about in a 
 few days. If he can make that damned Franzl a new 
 ear, what's been bitten off, he can surely make mother's 
 insides right when everything's all there." 
 
 "I tell you your mother's got to die," interrupted 
 Edwards. " Ask anyone. The doctor in Kuf stein. " 
 
 Then suddenly he recollected that, for his own sake, 
 a consultation with an outside practitioner was the one 
 thing that must, at all costs, be avoided. He added, 
 more quietly 
 
 "But that'll only cost you money. I'm doing all that 
 can be done. Good God, man, doesn't it make any dif- 
 ference to you that your mother is kept out of torment 
 and can die in peace ? ' ' 
 
 "What difference does it make if she's got to die, 
 anyhow ? And, Herr Doktor, see here ; I can 't go paying 
 for a lot of medicine to make her sleep if neither she nor 
 I are going to get any good out of it. ' ' 
 
 The anger that flared up in Edwards was danger- 
 ously near to a brutal outbreak. But he mastered it. 
 On the first day of his practice he must not make an 
 enemy of his former friend. His voice dropped to the 
 even tone that one uses with sick children or the insane. 
 
 "The medicines you shall have for nothing, Kassian. 
 And I'll come again to-morrow morning. If she needs 
 me before that, send for me." 
 
 This change of tone was a mistake. To Kassian the 
 doctor, whose anger had somewhat impressed him, had 
 now begun to "talk small." Evidently he had got the 
 better of him somehow. 
 
 "Of course 111 send," he retorted insolently. "I 
 pay my taxes. And part of my taxes pay the Herr 
 Doktor 's salary, don't it?" 
 
 Then, seeking for some cause for dissatisfaction, his 
 eyes lighted on Edwards' shabby clothes.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 71 
 
 "I pay my taxes," he repeated. "I am no beggar. 
 When the Herr Doktor comes to see my mother, he need 
 not look as if he were coming to the hovel of some penni- 
 less tramp." 
 
 "With a gesture of triumph, as of one who has had the 
 last word, he slammed the door in Edwards' face. 
 
 Edwards had gone white with rage. But he caught 
 sight of the priest 's round face, that was twitching with 
 suppressed amusement, and he too broke into a hearty 
 laugh. 
 
 "Yes, yes, my friend," said the priest; "you'll have 
 to wear other clothes, when you pay sick calls. And 
 take my advice: let your 'Haus-Frau' choose from your 
 wardrobe what appears to her a suitable uniform." 
 
 The front door that had been closed in their faces, 
 opened on a crack, and a long hairy arm was extended 
 towards Edwards, while one watery blue eye leered at 
 him through the opening. 
 
 ' ' Nichts f iir unguat, ' ' x said Kassian 's voice. ' ' You 
 won't bear me no malice, Herr Doktor, will you? The 
 Herr Pfarrer knows my tongue's hung in the middle. 
 GriissGott." 
 
 "You see," laughed the priest, as he walked with 
 Edwards back to the schoolhouse, "the Christian teach- 
 ing of not letting the sun go down upon your wrath has 
 sunk into them. But it's only a surface depth. Some 
 of the worst would knife you on your way home at night : 
 and, before you died, would offer you a blood-stained 
 hand and say, 'Nichts fur unguat!' Because, well, be- 
 cause they 'd be afraid to go to bed otherwise ; not afraid, 
 mind you, of having taken your life, but afraid of sleep- 
 ing with hatred of their neighbor in their hearts. And 
 not a bad idea either. What we do with our bodies, 
 thieving, knifing, wenching, we don't bother much 
 about. But we set great value on what we do with the 
 thing we call our souls. You '11 understand us better by- 
 and-by. Auf Wiedersehen. High Mass to-morrow at 
 eight-thirty. Nani '11 see that you don 't forget. ' ' 
 
 i "Nichts fur unguat" meaning, "Don't lay it up against me; I 
 didn't mean you any harm."
 
 72 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 The sun had set when Edwards opened the door of his 
 new rooms. He lit the single lamp, that gave a most 
 precarious light. It was quite evident why the people 
 of Thiersee went early to bed. On the table, in his liv- 
 ing-room, was set out a meal of cold meat, bread and 
 cheese. Not very appetizing; and very lonely. Ed- 
 wards determined to ask the schoolmaster, when he re- 
 turned, to share his supper. But in spite of his loneli- 
 ness, the traditions of his race were still strong upon him, 
 and he went into his bedroom to make some sort of ritual 
 preparation for the evening meal. As he lifted high the 
 lamp, he saw clothes laid out on his bed, laid out with 
 infinite care. But when he saw what they were, he put 
 down the light for fear of letting it fall. 
 
 The trousers might pass, though he had never liked 
 them because of their loud stripe. But the other Gar- 
 ment of Praise ! 
 
 It was a very dilapidated old frock-coat, made in the 
 days of his good fortunes long ago by a London tailor, 
 and kept, not for use, but because he could not bear to 
 give it away. He had not brought it with him to wear, 
 but stuffed in as a buffer between his microscope and his 
 shoes at the bottom of his trunk, intending some day to 
 cut out the silk lining and use bits of it for polishing 
 his instruments. And here it was, pressed out, with the 
 worst holes in the lining darned, ready to put on. It 
 was too preposterous. 
 
 And on top of it lay his old round stiff hat, an 
 ancient Derby that he had been ashamed to wear in 
 Innsbruck these last two years, and that had been packed 
 among his other belongings merely because it was a good 
 safe place for his clean collars. It was shabby beyond 
 words. But the white spots on the rim around the brim 
 did not show so much as they used to do. He touched 
 one of them with his finger. 
 
 Ink! 
 
 They had covered the white spots and holes with ink. 
 
 "Bless their souls," he said to himself. "But if they 
 think I'm going about dressed like a scarecrow, they're 
 mistaken."
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 HE took the lamp into the outer room, sat down at the 
 supper-table, and began to eat. But the dry bread and 
 cheese stuck in his throat. While he made pretense 
 to consume it, he began to unload his heavy pockets. 
 The emergency case, that had stood him to-day in such 
 good stead, he opened and rearranged. In an inner 
 compartment, where the court plaster was, he found an- 
 other of Professor Schroeder's visiting-cards. 
 
 "I must write and thank him at once," he said to 
 himself. Then, puzzled, he turned the card to the light. 
 It bore only three words 
 
 "GYGES HIS RING." 
 
 Edwards was too tired to go through his brain-paths, 
 hunting for some association that would connect Gyges 
 with Professor Schroeder. He put the case aside and 
 took up the thin leather wallet that he carried with him 
 always. Once, years ago, it had represented all that he 
 had saved from the wreck. Addresses, cards, letters, a 
 few dried flowers; all links, in his mind, with the few 
 people that he cared to remember, or that cared to re- 
 member him. 
 
 Little by little, in these last five years, the wallet 
 had grown thinner. One after another, the things that 
 it contained had come to lose their meaning, and so he 
 had destroyed them. Some people had never written at 
 all. Others had written, and he had answered, once. 
 Apparently, the things they expected him to say, he had 
 not said, or would not say. And they had not tempted 
 him with letters again. Others were dead. Still others 
 wished he were dead, perhaps. In either case, of the 
 dead he kept no memorials. The things he did keep were 
 
 73
 
 74 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 alive, were assurances of a meeting in the body, some- 
 time in the future, at home. 
 
 And now the wallet contained merely Edwards' legiti- 
 mation papers for Austria, his old American passport, 
 and, under a separate leathern flap, a photograph and a 
 thin packet of letters. 
 
 He took them out now as he sat alone amidst these 
 strange surroundings, thousands of miles away from all 
 the familiar things that had made his youth and early 
 manhood. The photograph he set up beneath the lamp. 
 It was the picture of a delicate-looking child, six or 
 perhaps seven years old. And, as he had done hundreds 
 of times before, he examined the childish face for some 
 trace of a familiar look, some echo of a happy memory. 
 He could not find it. Then he opened the packet of 
 letters carefully, almost reverently, and read the first 
 one through. 
 
 "DEAR DR. EDWARDS, John died three days ago. 
 We have just come back from the cemetery. And I 
 find here a letter from you, addressed to my dead 
 husband. Something forbade me to burn it. You will 
 forgive me, I know, for having read what you intended 
 for his eyes alone. And I want to thank you. For 
 somehow your letter, although not written to me, has 
 given me much comfort. I see that my love for my 
 husband was not merely the ideal of a devoted wife. 
 I see that he was, indeed, all that I believed him to be. 
 Yes, even more. 
 
 "Men, I take it, do not often write to other men as 
 you wrote to John. Do you remember, you quoted 
 some sentences from the last letter he ever sent you. 
 He had written (forgive me if I touch a painful scar) : 
 'Last week I was at the old school for Anniversary 
 Day. You will guess what I heard there about you. 
 It seemed to me as if it gave certain malicious little- 
 minded people pleasure to tell me these things. For 
 they all knew of our friendship. I boasted of it often 
 enough in the old days. And, Charlie, I boast of it, 
 I'm proud of it still. The things I heard hurt me. But
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 75 
 
 I soon put them aside. Whether they be true or false, 
 I don't know or care. It's you I care for, my friend. 
 Not for the things you did or may do ever. I want you 
 to hold fast to that. ' 
 
 ' ' This was what you quoted. It was as if I had heard 
 John speaking. 
 
 "And what you wrote to him in answer, of how you 
 had found a new hold on life through his affection for 
 you, and all that you said about your friendship at 
 school and afterwards, that gave me an even deeper 
 insight into John's character than I had ever had be- 
 fore. I had known the husband, the loving son. Now 
 I knew the loyal friend. 
 
 "Your name was often spoken between us during the 
 last few w r eeks of his illness. He used to talk with 
 especial delight of his school-days. And naturally, of 
 these you were a great part. And though he sent you 
 no message no special message (the end came too 
 quickly for that) , yet I know he would have wished that 
 I should write, that I should, in some small way, keep 
 in existence the tie that bound you. I think you al- 
 ways wrote to one another once a-year at Easter-time. 
 You were both quite useless as frequent correspondents. 
 Let us not give it up, this yearly greeting across the 
 seas. 
 
 "It is perhaps fitting that this, my first Easter letter 
 to you, 'should fall in a time when the spring seems to 
 have gone out of my life forever. 
 
 "I enclose you a picture of 'Little John.' He has 
 his father's smile." 
 
 Edwards folded up this first letter, laid it aside, and 
 took up the photograph once more. No; he could see 
 no likeness. 
 
 Then he returned to the letters. There were five of 
 them altogether; one for every year that he had spent 
 abroad, except the last. All written in the same tone 
 of assured friendship and trust. All overcast by the 
 shadow of a great loss; yet, as it seemed to Edwards, 
 growing somewhat brighter as the years passed, and
 
 76 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 the child grew into the empty places in his mother's 
 heart. 
 
 Over a paragraph in the last letter, that had come 
 a year ago, he lingered, reading and re-reading it again 
 and again. 
 
 "I think that we shall be in Europe this year or 
 next. Little John is very delicate. The doctors here 
 don't seem to get at the root of his trouble. I have 
 an idea that Italy might do him good. Besides, he is 
 almost twelve now, and I want him to see something of 
 the world before he starts at school. I want to see some- 
 thing of it too. And you may be sure that both of us 
 shall look forward to seeing you. I shall write you 
 later of our plans when they have taken definite shape. 
 The enclosed Easter card Little John picked out himself 
 for you, because it is his 'favoritest picture.' ' 
 
 Edwards set the colored card beside the child's photo- 
 graph Botticelli's "Tobias and the Angels." 
 
 And, with the letter still open in his hand, he let his 
 thoughts wander down a secret path, into a land that 
 had been his sole Country of Delight during all these 
 last hard years. 
 
 It was an Impossible Road, leading to an Impossible 
 Country; he knew that well enough. And each time 
 that he turned his back on it, called away by the real- 
 ities of his life, he laughed at himself as an idiotic 
 dreamer of sentimental dreams. Yet the road to his 
 dreamland was never closed. He had not the heart to 
 close it, knowing only too well that some day it would 
 vanish of its own accord. So, while he might, he wan- 
 dered in it, together with a child which he had never 
 set eyes on, and with a woman whom he had never 
 seen. 
 
 At last he folded the letters and put them away. 
 
 "Were they in Europe, he wondered. Since her last 
 letter, written a year ago, he had heard nothing more. 
 Perhaps they were actually on this side of the water. 
 In Italy. They might even have stopped over for a
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 77 
 
 day in Innsbruck on their way north. But no doubt she 
 had quite forgotten his existence, where he lived, and 
 what he did. 
 
 "Why, I may have passed her on the street," he said 
 aloud. "And, of course, I shouldn't have recognized 
 her. She has never sent me even the smallest picture 
 of herself. I think, though, that I should know her 
 somehow. Ridiculous! Here I sit, allowing myself to 
 
 imagine that she and I And I don't even know 
 
 what she looks like. Lord, Charles Edwards, but you 
 are a fool." 
 
 These, however, were routine reproaches which Ed- 
 wards was wont to address to himself at regular inter- 
 vals whenever he had been seeking comfort in his secret, 
 impossible, and beloved country. 
 
 He was not destined to get to bed that night in peace. 
 For he had scarcely returned the thin leather wallet to 
 his inner pocket when Nani appeared. Ostensibly she 
 came to clear away his supper things. 
 
 "I wouldn't let the mother climb the stairs," she 
 explained. "Her legs and feet are so bad again. I 
 know she won't sleep. And," she added reproachfully, 
 "she's been worrying because the Herr Doktor was 
 angry about the clothes. We spent all the afternoon get- 
 ting these fine things ready. And the Herr Doktor 
 never came back to put them on at all." 
 
 The freshness of her beauty, the ease with which she 
 moved, as well as the atmosphere of health that hung 
 about her, were not lost on Edwards. She had come 
 at a moment when his life seemed very empty; he was 
 very tired ; and the assumption of ownership with which 
 she treated him, accepting him as an integral part of 
 her life, gave him a sense of happy security. He 
 watched her lazily. 
 
 "And do you think I shall look attractive in these 
 hideous garments ? " he asked. 
 
 "But they are very beautiful clothes, still," she pro- 
 tested. "Whatever the Herr Doktor wears, he looks 
 always like a 'feiner Herr.' But in the good clothes
 
 78 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 ach! there will be no one like him in all Tyrol at mass 
 to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 "Danke. Ich kiiss' die Hand. And now I'll come 
 down and see your mother." 
 
 During the next half-hour, in the little low rooms on 
 the ground-floor of the schoolhouse where Nani and 
 her mother slept, Edwards laid the basis of his reputa- 
 tion as a Worker of Miracles. Nani ran up and down 
 stairs bringing him instruments and bandages, or stand- 
 ing with her face close to his, as she held her mother's 
 foot while he operated. She was a delightful assistant. 
 
 A simple operation enough. But one that made the 
 new doctor famous in Thiersee. 
 
 The varicose veins, the open sores on Frau Speck- 
 baeher's legs, were to her mere details. She was used 
 to the type of pain they gave and had long given. But 
 she was not used to the pain that came from an old 
 ingrowing toe-nail. The whole toe was inflamed as far 
 as the second joint, and so intensely sensitive to the 
 touch that even the brave old woman winced under Ed- 
 wards' careful fingers. 
 
 "You'll feel a pin-prick or two," he said, filling the 
 hypodermic syringe with the "Novocain" mixture that 
 was to block all the nerves of the toe and make the 
 operation painless. 
 
 Nani held her mother's foot on her knee, interposing 
 her body between her mother and Edwards, so that 
 Frau Speckbacher could not see what was happening. 
 In the boiling water at his elbow he had a pair of 
 scissors with long fine points, a pair of forceps, and a 
 scalpel. 
 
 ''You won't cut it, you won't," protested Frau 
 Speckbacher, fixing a horrified glance on the handle 
 of the shining knife. 
 
 "I am going to make that toe well forever," Edwards 
 answered. 
 
 He had injected his "Novocain," and was waiting for 
 it to take effect. 
 
 "But you shan't feel any pain, I promise you. And 
 you must believe me. That's the main point."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 79 
 
 He himself was more than uneasy. These local an- 
 assthetizings did not always work. One missed the nerve 
 sometimes when one injected. And he had promised not 
 to hurt her. 
 
 He touched the tip of the inflamed toe, now brown 
 with the disinfecting iodine. He pressed it less tenderly. 
 Frau Speckbacher made no sign. 
 
 "Don't be afraid," he said, moving Nani a little to 
 the left, so that her mother could not even peep over 
 her shoulder. "When it's going to hurt, I'll tell you." 
 
 Surreptitiously he got hold of the forceps and tried 
 them on the throbbing tender skin. He pinched the 
 toe still harder. Frau Speckbacher did not even wince. 
 The anaesthetic was working. The nerve was blocked. 
 
 Dare he begin now? If he waited too long the nerve- 
 block might not hold out. It was now or never. 
 
 Opening the scissors, he thrust one long point deep 
 down under the toe-nail, flat down into the very nail- 
 bed. Then he turned it upwards, and with one stroke 
 of the scissors cut the whole nail in two. With his 
 forceps he caught first one half, then the other, and 
 twisted them out of the flesh. In less than five seconds 
 the nail had been removed. 
 
 He looked up into Nani's rolling eyes. She stared 
 at him as children gaze at some marvelous conjurer. 
 
 "Don't hold my leg so tight, Nani," interposed Frau 
 Speckbacher. ' ' And Herr Doktor, why won 't you begin ? 
 I won't make a fuss." 
 
 Nani opened her mouth in an exclamation of wonder, 
 but Edwards checked her. 
 
 With the scalpel he cut away, down to the bone, the 
 flesh that had once framed in the troublesome nail, so 
 that the entire nail-bed was destroyed. There should 
 be no chance of recurring inflammation here. Then 
 with quick, deft fingers he bandaged. 
 
 "So that's done," he said. 
 
 Nani lifted her mother's bandaged foot carefully to 
 the bed, and then a torrent of speech broke forth, while 
 Edwards stood by cleaning his instruments. 
 
 "See, mother so he went in with the scissors. I
 
 80 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 thought you 'd yell, mother. And I 'd begun to be angry 
 with him for hurting you like that. Eitchey-ratchey, 
 down he went, under the nail. Then, bums ! It was cut 
 in two and out. Look, here are the two halves of it." 
 
 Frau Speckbacher listened with wide-eyed wonder. 
 Pain had always been to her such an inevitable part of 
 life that a man, who could bid it go and be obeyed, was 
 to her something between a magician and a god. She 
 promised docilely to lie up for two days, as Edwards 
 ordered her to do; and when he bade her good night, 
 she took his hand between her hard palms and kissed 
 it. 
 
 Upstairs, while he was putting away his instruments 
 and making up a simple sleeping-draught for his new 
 patient, Nani fluttered about the room. The clothes 
 that had roused Edwards' wrath she laid out on a chair 
 with extreme carefulness, ready for the morrow. Then 
 she turned down the bed, smoothing out the rough sheets 
 as if performing some weighty ceremonial rite. Her 
 chatter about the wonderful operation had gradually 
 ceased; her work in the room was finished, yet she 
 hung back, unwilling to be gone. 
 
 Edwards, utterly tired out, dropped down on the side 
 of his bed. 
 
 " I am so sleepy, Nani, ' ' he said. ' ' I must get between 
 the sheets. Good night.'* 
 
 He bent down towards his shoes, but in an instant 
 she was on her knees at his feet, her fingers busy with 
 the knotted laces. He was too tired to protest. 
 
 Suddenly she looked up. 
 
 "You will wear the fine clothes to-morrow?" 
 
 Edwards nodded. He did not trust himself to speak. 
 He put out one hand to caress her hair, but before his 
 hand touched her she had sprung to her feet. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" she exclaimed, as she picked up his dusty 
 boots; "but you are a dear man." 
 
 She threw her free arm round his neck, bent down 
 and rubbed her cheek against his. 
 
 Then, with a delighted laugh, she was gone. 
 
 In spite of his utter weariness Edwards could not
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 81 
 
 sleep. At last he fell into a doze, from which he woke 
 with a start. Somewhere in the house a board had 
 creaked. 
 
 He got out of bed and went to the window. The 
 moon was up, so bright in mid-heaven that the snow- 
 covered peaks were sharply reflected in the waters of 
 the little lake. All seemed quiet. 
 
 Then down below him. he heard a window open. 
 Nani's window. 
 
 He leaned out and looked down. 
 
 From the surrounding shadows of the house a figure 
 stepped into the moonlight, then turned back and bent 
 across the low sill of the window from which it had 
 appeared, as if speaking a last word to someone within. 
 
 After a moment's silence, it moved softly away across 
 the little garden. 
 
 There was something white wrapped about its head 
 and over one ear. Edwards recognized his own ban- 
 dages. 
 
 He shivered and went hastily back to bed.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THREE weeks had passed since Edwards had come to 
 Thiersee, and already it seemed as if he had become 
 part of the place. At times, however, he felt further 
 removed than ever from an understanding of the people 
 among whom he worked; yet he was by nature adapt- 
 able, and he learned much from daily contact with his 
 patients. 
 
 On week-days he was up at six, often before that, for 
 people came to see him on their way to work. It was 
 their only free time. But this was his gain ; they could 
 not stay long. By eight o'clock he was free. Then he 
 visited the six or seven regular patients on his list, ate 
 his dinner at the "Drachen," and had the afternoons to 
 himself. Usually he took a book and walked up the 
 valley. And usually he came upon Nani under the tree 
 with her cows, or joined Franzl when he went out at 
 five o'clock to meet her and help her drive the cattle 
 home. The two young people welcomed him gladly. 
 
 But on Sundays and feast-days he had no single mo- 
 ment to himself. Then his patients had time to talk 
 about their ailments: then they began to wander into 
 the schoolhouse while he was yet at his morning coffee. 
 They went with him to church; they pursued him to 
 the inn. And the visits that he made on Sunday after- 
 noons were the causes of endless bickerings, for if he 
 stayed five minutes longer in one house than in another, 
 he was reproached with partiality and neglect. 
 
 This, his third Sunday in Thiersee, was Palm Sun- 
 day ; and he dreaded the coming Holy "Week and Easter 
 holidays, knowing how much free time his people would 
 have on their hands. But there were one or two bright 
 spots on the horizon: the schoolmaster was expected 
 
 82
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 83 
 
 back after Easter, and Father Mathias had asked Ed- 
 wards to take his evening meal on Sundays at the 
 "Widum." 1 
 
 Until to-day his mind had been too full of new im- 
 pressions to leave room for a consideration of the pe- 
 culiar elements which graced or disgraced life at Thier- 
 see of a Sunday. It seemed as if all the good, as well 
 as all the evil, that had been growing in silence or secret 
 during the week, were brought to sudden flowering 
 bloom on the Lord's Day. It was, for Thiersee at least, 
 not a day of rest, but a day of intense activity: and 
 whether it was the Lord's or the devil's was sometimes 
 hard to tell. 
 
 The young farmer, who had in secret been sullenly 
 jealous of a companion all the week, gave on Sunday 
 free rein to his anger, and got rid of it somehow in a 
 fight with words or knives. 
 
 The girls, too, each in her own way, sought and found 
 on Sunday a vent for the thoughts of coquetry, vanity, 
 or ill-will that had been kept under by the hard work 
 of the six preceding days. 
 
 Even the old toothless women, already cheek-by-jowl 
 with death, who all the week long had slaved silently 
 at their hearthstones for son or husband or grand- 
 children, awoke on the seventh morning to whatever of 
 life was left them. Their tongues were loosed, and all 
 the scandal, all the evil report that had reached their 
 ears or had been willfully invented by their atrophying 
 brains, was poured out upon the defenseless community. 
 
 But not only the evil things, the best things, too, 
 found on Sunday expression and completion. The 
 happy life of the family, so often disturbed during the 
 week by the conflicting duties of its members, was re- 
 cemented on Sunday. Seldom did one see a married 
 man or woman taking his or her pleasure alone. The 
 crowd that filled the back room of the "Drachen" and 
 fawned upon Rosine was composed of the young unmar- 
 ried men or the elder ne'er-do-weels, whose wives had 
 
 1 "Widum": the house, often with a garden or small farm at- 
 tached, where the parish priest lives.
 
 84 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 either left them in disgust or been worked to death long 
 ago. 
 
 And in the dim, dingy, little church, with all its 
 tawdriness, the sense of another world, forgotten for 
 six times twenty-four hours, was given fresh life during 
 an hour or two on the Lord's Day. The fat parish 
 priest, who was usually nothing more than a good-na- 
 tured piece pf human flesh to all but a few who heard 
 his daily mass, became, before the Sunday altar, the 
 mouthpiece of this whole community, an instrument, 
 divinely appointed and approved, by means of which 
 these men and women spoke and pleaded with their 
 God. 
 
 So Edwards was not surprised that the tragedy of 
 Kassian's mother should reach its climax on a Sunday 
 too. 
 
 That Palm Sunday morning, as he walked down to 
 church, he had her in his thoughts. Although he could 
 put his finger on nothing definite, he was aware that 
 matters were not as they had been in Kassian's house. 
 During the first week the old mother had lain in a half- 
 comatose condition, but under the treatment, which re- 
 lieved her of constant pain, and at the same time allowed 
 her a minimum of nourishment, she seemed to have 
 shown a last flicker of strength. Only last Sunday Ed- 
 wards had noticed that her manner towards him had 
 changed. She had paid no attention to what he had 
 said; her eyes and ears had been intent on what was 
 going on in the kitchen where Kassian and the two 
 hired men were having their dinner. Then the door 
 had opened and in had come the Drachen-Wirt 's Rosine, 
 carrying a tray with the mother's warm milk. Her 
 presence had surprised Edwards; so had her entire ap- 
 pearance, for she had toned herself down in ways and 
 apparel to the level of other Thiersee women. And she 
 had most certainly done wonders for the dirty house. 
 The kitchen was tidy once more, and as for Kassian, 
 he was radiant. He had come in from the kitchen with 
 Rosine, had sat down beside his mother on the bed, 
 and had begged her to take her milk. But the old
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 85 
 
 woman had stoutly refused. Her eyes had glared at 
 Kassian. There was a look of enmity in them such as 
 Edwards had never seen there before. And yet Kas- 
 sian was far tenderer of her than he used to be. 
 
 When he and Rosine had gone back into the kitchen, 
 leaving the glass of milk by the old woman's bed, she 
 had begged Edwards to discontinue the hypodermic in- 
 jections, and to give her the morphia in the form of 
 powders. The reasons she gave seemed valid enough. 
 In her bloodless flesh two of the needle-pricks had mat- 
 urated. And she could not take the injections herself 
 when the pain came on, whereas she could use the 
 powders when she chose. Edwards had agreed. And 
 as he glanced back from the door, he had seen the old 
 woman's fingers reach out for the glass of milk that 
 she had but a moment before refused to take from her 
 son's hand. 
 
 All this had happened a week ago. During the last 
 six days he had been conscious of still more disturb- 
 ing elements in the situation. That she was hiding 
 something from him he felt sure. Once he had sur- 
 prised her out of bed, peering through a crack in the 
 kitchen door. At another time he had come upon her on 
 her knees before the great crucifix in the "Herrgotts- 
 "Winkel" x of the living-room. On both occasions she had 
 walked back to her bed of her own accord. 
 
 It was utterly unmistakable; some new source of 
 strength had been opened to her. Some new force was 
 at work. 
 
 Could it be could it be that she was going to get 
 well after all? His knowledge told him that this was 
 impossible. But he could not put the idea out of his 
 mind. Even if it were only a freak of chance, .this 
 cure, what a feather it would be in his cap! He 
 must begin that very day and write out a full history 
 of the case. 
 
 At this moment he happened to be passing the inn. 
 
 i "Herrgotts-Winkel" : "The Lord's Corner," that is, the corner 
 in the living-room of every peasant's house, where the crucifix and 
 sacred pictures hang.
 
 86 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Evidently Rosine had something to do with the change 
 in Kassian's mother. And the abrupt change in Rosine 
 herself was as wonderful as anything else about the 
 whole wonderful business. No doubt she could help 
 him. In spite of her appearance, she might be one of 
 those Nurses-by-the-Grace-of-God, under whose care the 
 most hopeless cases are charmed back to health. She 
 would be going to mass. "Why shouldn't he stop and 
 walk down with her? 
 
 To his surprise he found her sitting in the sun, in 
 front of the inn, her prayer-book in her mittened hands, 
 apparently waiting. It was also evident that she was 
 not waiting for him; but she nodded so amiably (and 
 hitherto he had often felt in her a hostile force) that 
 he stopped a moment, leaned over the fence, and looked 
 at her. Usually of a Sunday, Rosine adorned herself 
 with every modish garment in her possession. Her huge 
 hat was a scandal to the entire community. But to-day 
 her hair, that was formerly fluffed and curled, lay in 
 quiet, shiny, even masses, rolled in a simple coil at the 
 back of her head, and surmounted by the supremely 
 ugly little round black straw hat with its streamers of 
 long black ribbon, that every unmarried and virtuous 
 young woman in Thiersee wears, until she puts it off 
 forever, when she puts on her wedding-veil. The rest 
 of her dress matched the hat a plain brown cloth gown, 
 broidered with dark-blue braid. And, to Edwards' ex- 
 treme amazement, her tightly-laced figure was no more. 
 
 So amazed was he, that, forgetting all diplomacy, he 
 went straight to the heart of the matter that perplexed 
 him. 
 
 "Rosine, tell me, what's up between Kassian and 
 you?" 
 
 And Rosine answered as directly as she was asked. 
 
 "We're going to get married. He needs a woman 
 in that house. It's all going to rack and ruin. And 
 I remember how neat it was while his mother kept 
 it up. The best house in the village. And look at it 
 now. I hadn't any idea how bad it was till I went 
 in, by chance, a couple of weeks ago. It made me sick
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 87 
 
 to see all those good things getting spoiled and dirty, 
 so I began just by coming in for an hour, here and there, 
 and helping to clean up. And then Kassian got sort of 
 used to seeing me round. Since he 's had his good meals 
 at home, he don't drink half what he used to. You 
 know, Herr Doktor, a brandy-drinker like Kassian never 
 eats much, but what he eats has to be good." 
 
 "But if he stops swilling, won't that be a hard blow 
 to your father 's regular income ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Men like Kassian don 't ever stop. But they needn 't 
 drink so much that they can't work or keep their homes 
 in order. Besides, I'm tired of the inn, dead tired of 
 waiting on a lot of drunken riff-raff, letting every fel- 
 low pinch and pat me just because he's paid for a glass 
 or two of father's rotten spirits. But it had to be done. 
 It was business. We didn't have money enough for 
 another waitress. Kassian 's well off, though ; that is, if 
 his farm is properly kept up. And I'll see to that. 
 When I'm once mistress there, I can help father out a 
 bit, and he'll get another girl from Kuf stein. I tell 
 you, I'm sick of letting men paw me inside the inn, 
 whose faces I 'd slap if they touched me outside. ' ' 
 
 "And Kassian 's mother?" 
 
 "She hates me, of course. No woman wants to give 
 up her place to another. But I'm kind to her. And 
 anyway, she can't last long, can she?" 
 
 ' ' I don 't know. It 's very curious. Since you 've been 
 in the house, she seems so much better. I'm not sure 
 but what " 
 
 Eosine jumped up and came to the garden gate. 
 
 "She's not going to get well!" she whispered. "Oh, 
 she couldn't do that. It would be too mean." 
 
 Then, with fists clenched, she burst out 
 
 "But it'd be just like her the old cat. She's never 
 let a woman come near Kassian all these years. She 
 wasn't going to share things with anyone else. But 
 
 she shan't make a fool of me. I'll fix her. I'll 
 
 Hush! Here comes Kassian. Don't tell him what I've 
 said." 
 
 Kassian rolled up the road like a ship under full sail.
 
 88 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 His hair and beard were newly clipped, his clothes 
 brushed. Also, he was sober. 
 
 "We'll be off now, Rosine," he said, after bowing to 
 Edwards. "But we needn't hurry. Thou'rt sure of a 
 seat. Thou know'st why." 
 
 "I'm going to sit in his mother's old place in church," 
 Rosine explained. " Why shouldn 't I ? It's been empty 
 long enough. And it'll be a sort of a sign. The first 
 seat in the pew under the pulpit. How is she ? ' ' 
 
 "Asleep, I think. I didn't say good-by, so as not to 
 disturb her. She told me the pain was on her again, 
 and she'd be taking one of the powders. Rosine, I'd 
 have time for a glass, wouldn't I?" 
 
 "For one, Kassian. Only hurry." 
 
 They disappeared into the inn. Edwards walked on 
 slowly down the slope towards the church, past Kas- 
 sian 's house, that lay still and apparently empty in the 
 peaceful warmth of the spring sunshine. 
 
 In the graveyard, that surrounded the little church 
 on all sides, was gathered the entire population of 
 Thiersee. Some of the people were talking in whispers 
 among themselves; others were communing with their 
 dead. At the foot of each mound was a small battered 
 tin vessel, full of holy water, some of them looked less 
 battered than others ; and beside these newer graves were 
 silent groups of the older men and women, the men 
 weeding out the grass or flattening down the earth, the 
 women telling their beads, and all of them, from time 
 to time, dipping their fingers in the battered vessel and 
 sprinkling the mound with holy water. ' ' Assuaging the 
 Flames of Purgatory," as it is called. For each drop 
 of holy water, sped on by the prayers of those who 
 scatter it, finds its way straight to the tormenting but 
 cleansing fires of Purgatory, that torment then the less 
 while they but cleanse the more. 
 
 In the minds of the Catholic Tyrolese there is little 
 or no place for the Hell of Protestant Christendom. 
 All their dead are sure of bliss eventually. They are 
 too kind-hearted, too logical, too religious, to believe in 
 eternal damnation.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 89 
 
 The church itself was by now half full. On the pulpit- 
 side sat all the women, young and old. On the other side 
 were places for the fathers and the grandfathers. All 
 the unmarried men stood. One or two of them stood in 
 the aisle, beside the pew where their mothers sat or their 
 aunts. These were the bachelors, the hopelessly ineli- 
 gible. And by so standing, they ruled themselves out of 
 the class of future fathers and husbands. But most of 
 the younger men were gathered at the back of the church, 
 or in a gallery above, in the space around the organ. 
 Only the boys, that they might be kept out of mischief, 
 occupied the first four lines of seats directly in front 
 of the older married men. But they exercised their mas- 
 culine rights by refusing to sit. They stood upright in 
 their places, or leaned forward over the back of the seat 
 in front, displaying an expanse of tightly-drawn jacket 
 and leathern hose with green ribbons at the bare brown 
 knees. 
 
 Edwards found a place near the door, just beside the 
 holy-water font. The service had already begun with 
 the long ceremony of the Blessing of the Palms that 
 precedes the Palm Sunday mass. The choir, at the back 
 of the church, around the organ in the gallery, sang 
 an "Et cum Spirtu tuo" and an "Amen" now and 
 then. During the intervals, the priest's deep penetrat- 
 ing voice was interrupted by the noise of heavy shoes, as 
 people wandered in from the graveyard leisurely, know- 
 ing that they had plenty of time before the mass proper 
 began. 
 
 In the sanctuary, his lips moving as he read his office, 
 sat a very, very old priest, quite bent double with age, 
 his huge head of snowy hair shaking over his book. So 
 uncertain were his hands that a small acolyte stood be- 
 fore him, who, at a sign from the old man, turned the 
 leaves of his Breviary. 
 
 Suddenly Edwards was aware that the center of in- 
 terest among all these assembled people had shifted from 
 the parish priest at the altar to some other focus. 
 
 An emaciated hand was stretched across him towards 
 the holy-water font. Somehow the hand seemed fa-
 
 90 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 miliar. But a sudden uneasy rustling among the women 
 distracted his attention. He wondered what had caused 
 it. A few moments went by ; several people passed up the 
 center aisle. And then Edwards felt the blood mounting 
 to his forehead, for he knew that every person in the 
 church, except the priest with his ministrants in the sanc- 
 tuary, was staring at himself. 
 
 His hands soon told him that, so far as he knew, 
 nothing was wrong with what he had on: the striped 
 trousers and the ancient frock-coat, that had been his 
 uniform, Sundays and week-days, on all momentous oc- 
 casions during the last three weeks. The shoddy, stiff 
 hat, with its inked spots, was in his hand, not on his 
 head. What could be the matter? 
 
 Then a new thought gripped him. 
 
 These people had found him out knew who and what 
 he was knew that he had no legal right to practice, 
 that he was amenable to the law; knew, perhaps, from 
 some mysterious source, of other things that he thought 
 hidden far away in another country. 
 
 So it was all up. They had found him out. 
 
 And then, somehow, his eyes happened to follow the 
 glance of a man beside him which wandered from Ed- 
 wards' face to a certain seat on the women's side of the 
 church, half-way up the aisle. 
 
 "My mother's old seat. The first one on the aisle, 
 just under the pulpit. Empty for so long." 
 
 That was what Kassian had said. Edwards remem- 
 bered now. 
 
 But the seat was no longer empty. 
 
 Edwards could see nothing except the bent shoulders 
 in the heavy black silk shawl, and the outline of the 
 strangely-shaped high furry hat that all old women in 
 Thiersee wear. Yet he knew that Kassian 's mother had 
 come to claim her own before it was too late. 
 
 How she had come, in what strength, he could not tell. 
 But there she was. 
 
 "Let us go forth in peace," chanted the priest. And 
 the choir answered. 
 
 The Procession with the blessed palms started down
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 91 
 
 the middle aisle. The old ecclesiastic, led by one acolyte 
 and holding heavily to the shoulder of another, went 
 shuffling on in front of Father Mathias, a palm in his 
 unsteady hand. Round the church they went; it was 
 but a small compass to make. Then outside, and in again 
 through the front door. They were regaining the altar 
 when the crowd at the door, that had closed behind them, 
 parted once more, and Kassian, with his hand slipped 
 through Rosine 's arm, hurried up the aisle. 
 
 Every neck in the church was craned forward. The 
 organist took up the "Introit," but he had to sing it 
 through alone. No voice in the choir joined in. 
 
 Edwards stood on tiptoe to see the meeting. There 
 was but little to see. 
 
 Kassian halted for a moment beside the occupied seat. 
 Then, supposing that some stranger had taken it by mis- 
 take, he leaned forward and touched the occupant on the 
 shoulder. The bowed head was raised. And he looked 
 down into his mother's sunken, blazing eyes. 
 
 For what seemed a long time they glared at one an- 
 other. 
 
 Rosine had shrunk away. Kassian, however, drew her 
 to his side, bent down, and signed to his mother to move 
 along into an empty seat in the next pew. 
 
 Then the old woman rose in her wrath. 
 
 Her thin bowed shoulders were thrown back, her head 
 went up, and disregarding Rosine utterly, she made an 
 imperious gesture with her shaking right hand a ges- 
 ture that summed up in a second the unquestioned au- 
 thority of years, and that called her son to his accus- 
 tomed place in the aisle at his mother's side. To the 
 place of the older unmarried men (there were but 
 four of them all told), the men who would never 
 marry. 
 
 For a moment Kassian seemed about to obey. But 
 Rosine laid a hand on his arm. And that was enough. 
 
 He did not dare look at his mother; but he turned 
 from her, took Rosine by the hand, and in the sight of 
 the whole congregation walked with her still farther up 
 the aisle, and stood by her side near the steps of the sane-
 
 92 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 tuary, where every eye in the church could see them. 
 
 Now, in the House of God, no man may stand side by 
 side with a woman at any time, except when he stands 
 with her before the altar for the Sacrament of Holy 
 Matrimony. And Kassian's action was a sacrament in 
 the eyes of every man and woman there. After this, 
 the Church might add her blessing, or she might not; 
 but the union of these two people was an accomplished 
 fact. 
 
 Everyone knew it. Even the priest at the altar, as 
 he turned around for the first "Dominus vobiscum," 
 must have seen and understood. 
 
 She understood too, the proud old woman, sitting alone 
 in her seat below the pulpit, racked with pain, but rigid 
 and unbroken still. 
 
 During the mass Edwards edged his way softly up 
 the aisle towards where Kassian's mother stood or knelt 
 or genuflected with the other women. Her iron will held 
 her body to its accustomed obedience until the genuflec- 
 tion in the last Gospel, when she stumbled and pitched 
 forward. Edwards caught her in his arms. 
 
 Five minutes later, he was kneeling beside her in the 
 sacristy. The priest, still in his vestments, hovered near, 
 while Kassian stood anxiously on one foot, twirling his 
 hat in his great clumsy hands. Rosine had disappeared. 
 
 The old woman, bedded upon the rusty cassocks of 
 the acolytes, opened her eyes, and stared for one long, 
 reproachful moment into Kassian's face. Edwards 
 lifted her head, but she motioned aside the glass that 
 he pressed to her lips. 
 
 "Herr Doktor," she whispered hurriedly, "I have 
 deceived you. I don't want to die with a lie in my 
 heart. I I thought you didn't know enough to make 
 me well. And I wanted so to keep the house in order 
 for Kassian. And to keep her out the hussy! So I 
 sent Oberlaitner 's Toni, the red-headed boy who swings 
 the incense, I I gave him a ' kreutzer ' x to go and see 
 the Herr Benefiziat." 
 
 i "Kreutzer"=; 2 heller = one cent : the obsolete form of Aus- 
 trian currency still used by country people.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 93 
 
 She pointed an unsteady finger at the old priest, who 
 sat in a corner of the tiny sacristy, nodding, almost 
 unconscious, in the weakness of his extreme old age. 
 
 "He he knows many secret cures. Only now he is 
 so old. When I was a young girl, he made many mir- 
 acles. Not like you, Herr Doktor with the knives. But 
 with herbs and papers and many prayers." 
 
 "And what did he tell you to do?" Edwards asked, 
 as the old woman's lips quivered into silence. 
 
 His interest was roused. What had given this weak 
 body such strength, even if it had only been for a few 
 hours ? 
 
 "He sent some blessed bitter herbs from Loretto. 
 I was to mix them with holy water, and drink it, 
 fasting, after I had told my beads five times over, on 
 my knees, before the crucifix. Toni thought he said 
 'five times.' But he has no teeth, and mumbles so. I 
 prayed my Rosary through for twice five times, to 
 make sure. And on Palm Sunday, the Herr Benefiziat 
 said, on Palm Sunday I should be well. I was to lay 
 my sickness in the arms of the Mother of God as she fol- 
 lowed her Son riding into Jerusalem." 
 
 Father Mathias had begun to whisper excitedly in the 
 ear of the old ecclesiastic; but the nodding, broken old 
 man seemed not to hear or understand. 
 
 The voice of Kassian's mother was growing weaker. 
 
 "This morning, this Palm Sunday morning, the 
 answer came. My answer. At last. I was raised up. 
 
 I dressed. I walked to church. I but it was not 
 
 the will of God that I should be healed. Herr Doktor, 
 forgive me. I did not take the powders, not many of 
 them. I only put a little into my bottle of blessed Lor- 
 etto herbs. Bend down closer, Herr Doktor, closer. 
 You said once, when you first put me to sleep with 
 the needle, you said, some day, I should never wake 
 up. And you said you would know when. Do you 
 understand? To-morrow, I shall not wake up. You 
 
 will not let me, will you? And now I will make my 
 
 peace with God." 
 
 She beckoned to the priest.
 
 94 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Edwards withdrew quietly and waited outside in the 
 sun that beat warmly on the whitewashed wall of the 
 church. After some moments he saw the old Herr 
 Benefiziat, his "rival practitioner," go tottering by on 
 the arm of a red-haired acolyte. Then the parish priest 
 looked out from the sacristy door. 
 
 ''She has had the Last Sacraments," he said. "Now 
 we must get her home to die. I suppose there is no 
 chance of her lasting out the night?" 
 
 Edwards shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Her vitality is marvelous," he answered. "Even 
 now her pulse is firm and fairly strong. She might last 
 a week she " 
 
 He paused, and his mouth set in sudden determi- 
 nation. 
 
 "But one never can tell," he added. "I daresay that, 
 after all, she'll pass in her sleep to-night."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 KASSIAN 's mother was buried on Tuesday in Holy Week. 
 And on Easter Monday the parish priest made Kassian 
 and Rosine man and wife. There was no sense in wait- 
 ing, Kassian explained, especially when his mother had 
 been sick so long anyway, and there was so much work 
 in the fields to be done. 
 
 "And he's quite right, you know," said Father Math- 
 ias, as he welcomed Edwards, on the evening of Easter 
 Tuesday, at the door of his house. "The modern cus- 
 tom of mourning, with all its hideous accessories, is 
 wholly out of place in a Christian community. But do 
 come in. I'm glad to have a sight of you again." 
 
 Edwards had got into the habit of dropping in at the 
 "Widum" on the evenings of Sundays and Feast-days, 
 when the priest's work was over, and he could sit at 
 ease before a cold supper and talk. 
 
 "Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday," he sighed, as he 
 motioned Edwards to a seat at his table; "three festivals, 
 all with long services. Coming so soon, too, after the 
 hard tug of Holy Week. No wonder so many of our 
 men go smash after Easter, soul as well as body. It's a 
 dangerous time for us priests, I tell you. Anything 
 new?" 
 
 "I saw Kassian and his bride drive off yesterday for 
 two days' honeymoon in Kuf stein. She'll be wanting 
 to show him off. I only hope he doesn't forget to post 
 my letters. It's a perfect shame that I haven't written 
 to thank Professor Schroeder before this. But I wanted 
 to send him a record of Kassian 's mother's case. And 
 I simply hadn't time to put it together till now." 
 
 ' ' Don 't lose touch with the outside world, ' ' interposed 
 the priest, as he filled Edwards' glass with the light red 
 wine of the country. "Not to do so costs an effort. 
 
 95
 
 96 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 But make it. "We're all too closely bottled up in this 
 valley of ours. That's why I'm taking so much trouble 
 about our Passion-Play this summer." 
 
 "Tell me something of it." 
 
 "If I do, you'll lose an ideal. You mustn't think, 
 like so many outsiders, that it's only Oberammergau 
 that ever had a Passion-Play. In the old days, when 
 the Church provided the people's theater, when there 
 were no newspapers to read, and plenty of people who 
 couldn't have read them anyway, much as many of 
 our people can't to this day, here in Thiersee, why, 
 then, every village of any pretensions had its own play, 
 a 'Mysterium,' written by some local poet, usually 
 a monk of sorts. I suppose abuses crept in that made 
 the plays impossible after a while, though I've always 
 had a weakness for abuses myself. Our particular 
 brand of Catholicism is full of them. I could name 
 you half a dozen liturgical anomalies which the Holy 
 Office in Rome has condemned and tried to remove time 
 and time again. Always without success, because the 
 people cling to them so tenaciously. And in the end the 
 Holy Office says to the complaining bishop: 'Tolerari 
 potest' 'You'll have to put up with it.' That ought to 
 
 be the motto for a lot of things in Tyrol. Well, many 
 
 of these Passion-Play texts were lost. Some have wan- 
 dered into learned libraries. You'll find several manu- 
 scripts in Munich. The Thiersee text was found in the 
 parish archives by my predecessor. A good man, but a 
 saint. And this is no place for saints. You see, he 
 didn't know how to say 'Tolerari potest.' ' 
 
 ' ' You mean the priest who 's buried under the thresh- 
 old of the church door, so that he can hear his people 
 walking over him into the House of God, while he him- 
 self, who once preceded them, isn't worthy to follow 
 even as the last worshiper of all ? I always thought that 
 epitaph pathological." 
 
 "You're right. But what the fellow suffered! 
 Thiersee people and their ways killed him. He got 
 it into his head that their morals, or their lack of them, 
 was all his fault; that if he'd only scourged himself a
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 97 
 
 bit more, said a lot of extra prayers and fasted three 
 times a- week, there 'd have been fewer babies born out 
 of wedlock. Poor old Holtzmann ! Then he had trouble 
 with the Benefiziat. You see, there 's an ancient benefice 
 here: a piece of ground, bought in the middle ages by 
 an extinct Benedictine monastery, and given to our 
 church to support a sort of assistant to the parish priest. 
 The right of nomination belongs now to an abbot far 
 off somewhere in South Tyrol. And the nomination is 
 for life. The ecclesiastic who holds it has no parochial 
 duties, except to say mass and assist the 'Pfarrer' if he 
 needs him. And the bit of land, with the house on it, 
 brings in enough to keep him in decency. But between 
 ourselves the abbot used this benefice, at the last ap- 
 pointment, to get rid of a man he couldn't well keep in 
 his monastery without grave scandal. I don 't even know 
 what the scandal was. Though I can imagine. But even 
 the man who caused it has forgotten it by now. You 
 saw him to-day. He 's over ninety. ' ' 
 
 "You mean my rival practitioner?" 
 
 "The very same. That was his great bone of conten- 
 tion with my predecessor. Imagine them shut up here 
 together: this Benefiziat from South Tyrol, steeped in 
 the Italian form of our religion, and poor Holtzmann, a 
 really saintly, high-strung young man from the north, 
 whose faith was a thing of fire and flame, intolerant 
 of abuses and superstitions. You can guess what hap- 
 pened. The Benefiziat had some slight knowledge of 
 medicine ; indeed, I think his original scandal had some- 
 thing to do with a misuse of this knowledge. Anyway, 
 he grafted what he knew on what the people here be- 
 lieved. And I'm told that he made some really remark- 
 able cures, theatrical ones, of course, that impressed 
 the multitude. But my unfortunate predecessor got all 
 the blame. Naturally, the medical authorities com- 
 plained to the ecclesiastical; then the latter sent word 
 to Holtzmann that the quackery must stop. How could 
 he stop it? The Benefiziat went calmly on, curing peo- 
 ple and making long noses at the Prince-Bishop. He 
 could not be removed, you see. He was under the juris-
 
 98 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 diction of a very distant abbot, who made long noses too, 
 and who, as you may imagine, didn 't want the Benefiziat 
 thrown back on his hands. And so, gradually, poor 
 Holtzmann got it into his head that the Benefiziat had 
 sold his soul to the devil, that his cures were accomplished 
 by that gentleman's aid. Oh, the devil was a very real 
 personage to Holtzmann, you may be sure. He set to 
 work to drive him out, out of the Benefiziat and out of 
 Thiersee, by means of a Passion-Play. 
 
 "He had worked here for ten years, and could see no 
 progress. Indeed, things grew worse, as communica- 
 tion with the outside world became somewhat easier, 
 and it was possible to drive to Kufstein in a day. 
 Farmers, who had once been honest, went into town to 
 sell their butter, and with part of the price bought mar- 
 garine, that they brought home and mixed with their 
 next lot, so that they had twice as much butter to sell 
 as before. They began to adulterate the milk; used 
 chemicals to preserve it, and all that. But what hit 
 poor Holtzmann hardest wasn't thieving, or hatred, or 
 even murder (we usually have one manslaughter a-year 
 at least), but what he called lechery. I think 'lechery' 
 is a horrid slimy word myself. It's a big mistake to 
 make such a fuss about ordinary bodily functions. And 
 calling them by nasty sounding names don't make them 
 any prettier. Well, Holtzmann couldn't see that. He 
 could only see the devil. He preached; and in the con- 
 fessional he refused people Absolution. They say that 
 when he opened the shutter on his side of the confes- 
 sional-box, he used to ask the penitent on the other a 
 single preliminary question: 'Are you keeping com- 
 pany?' If the penitent said 'Yes,' bang! would go 
 the shutter; and that was all they saw of Holtzmann 
 until they could say 'No.' But as every normal healthy 
 young man and girl was obliged to say 'Yes,' a large 
 class of the community was excluded from the sacra- 
 ments. And that wouldn't do any good, would it? The 
 number of unexpected babies did not diminish. In- 
 creased rather. You needn't look so scandalized. You 
 want to remember this about our people. They are not
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 99 
 
 lecherous. You'll never find a man here who makes it 
 his pleasure to seduce women. A young fellow has one 
 girl, and he sticks by her. They can't marry until he 
 has done his military service and can make a home for 
 her. But that's no reason in their eyes why they 
 shouldn't have a baby or two. And they do have them. 
 Now, really, what's so extraordinary about that?" 
 
 "But the Passion-Play ? " interposed Edwards. Never 
 before had he found the priest in such an expansive 
 mood; a reaction, evidently, from the strain and over- 
 work of the last ten days. His heart warmed to the 
 strange fat little man. 
 
 "It was the extra babies that made the Passion-Play. 
 The babies and the devil; they were the same thing to 
 Holtzmann. When he found the text of the old parish 
 'Mystery,' he thought it had been sent to him directly 
 from the Almighty's throne. In an instant he saw his 
 way clear. He would revise the text, and give the play 
 at Thiersee. Not a big public performance like Oberam- 
 mergau. Who would come to Thiersee ? Who had ever 
 heard of it? But he would invite the local magnates; 
 and he told himself that three or four months of re- 
 hearsing, as well as the performances themselves, would 
 work wonders for the men and women of his congrega- 
 tion. They could not be brought into such close touch 
 with personages sacred and holy without seeing and ab- 
 horring the blackness of their own souls. Ah, dear me ! 
 Poor old Holtzmann ! His play was a success, in a way ; 
 done with the barest accessories under the open sky. It 
 is impressive in its utter simplicity, as you'll see for 
 yourself. We give it in the summer now. But he put 
 it on, for the first time, at Easter. And sure enough, 
 the Lent that preceded the Paschal Feast that year was 
 a very good Lent indeed. The best that Holtzmann had 
 ever known. The people threw themselves into the play 
 like excited children; they came often to mass; and the 
 shutter of the confessional-box was seldom slammed in 
 anyone's face those days. Well, to cut it short, Holtz- 
 mann had a glorious Easter. The play was given twice. 
 Perhaps two hundred people came to see it. Even a
 
 100 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 wandering English bishop on his way north from Rome. 
 And and less than a year after the last performance, 
 
 there was a perfectly astounding crop of Humph! 
 
 you can guess of what. The young fellow who played 
 St. John was the first to get the confessional-shutter 
 slammed in his handsome face. He laughed, yes he did. 
 And his girl (they are married now. She played Mary 
 Magdalene ) his girl was waiting outside the church for 
 him. She and a lot of others didn't even give Holtz- 
 mann a chance to slam his shutter. They simply kept 
 away. And then Joseph of Arimathea was caught fal- 
 sifying butter at Kufstein Market, and got two weeks in 
 jail. That broke poor Holtzmann's heart. He simply 
 went to bed and died." 
 
 The priest paused, shading his weak eyes with his 
 hand. Then he shook himself and heaved up from his 
 chair. 
 
 "I'll show you the text as I've revised it," he said, 
 waddling towards the door of his bedroom. "I want 
 you to go over it carefully, because I've made up my 
 mind to cast you for Pilate." 
 
 He disappeared into the next room, where Edwards 
 could hear him puffing and snorting as he rummaged 
 amidst a mass of papers. He was gone some moments, 
 and Edwards stretched out his hand idly towards a book 
 that the priest had been reading when he had arrived 
 for supper. To his surprise, it was an abstruse work on 
 Astronomy, with puzzling maps of starry heavens, 
 strange signs and impossibly immense distances. Be- 
 tween the pages lay several loose sheets of notepaper, 
 covered with penciled scribblings in the priest's hand- 
 writing. Verses, apparently. 
 
 Here was another mystery. An ecclesiastic who read 
 Astronomy with his supper, and scribbled poetry for 
 amusement. 
 
 Edwards had only time to return the book to its 
 place beside his friend's plate, when Father Mathias 
 reappeared, his hands full of loose, type-written 
 sheets. 
 
 "No, no," he went on, taking up the conversation
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 101 
 
 where he had dropped it, "poor Holtzmann was all 
 wrong. His play had been a great success. Only he 
 hadn't recognized success when he saw it. For during 
 all those months, the winter of that year, the most 
 dangerous months with us, when we live so close to- 
 gether that all that's worst in us has a chance to grow for 
 lack of good fresh air, during all that time he had kept 
 his people interested in their new game their Passion- 
 Play. The sacred personages they represented meant lit- 
 tle or nothing to them. They would have acted a comic 
 opera with the same seriousness. Gipfel-Paul would 
 have been Gipfel-Paul still, whether he played St. Peter 
 or Falstaff. But in either case he had a new amusement 
 that kept him from beating his wife. What did it mat- 
 ter if, in the excitement of the play-acting, other excite- 
 ments were aroused ? if the young people, because of their 
 unconscious refraining from certain things while their 
 minds were filled with delight in their unaccustomed im- 
 portance, were swept off their feet in the reaction as soon 
 as the Play was over? Since I've been here at Thiersee 
 we've given our 'Mystery' every five years. And the 
 winters and springs of the Passion-Play years are pleas- 
 ant times for one who has the cure of souls." 
 
 He sat down beside Edwards and began checking off 
 the names of the "dramatis persona?." Edwards had 
 never seen him so excited; his round face shone with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "You see for yourself," he rattled on, "our text is 
 quite above the average. Poor Holtzmann added a bit 
 to it; he was something of a poet. And I've put in a 
 touch here and there. The chorus, for instance. That/s 
 my idea. Not a lot of gray-bearded old farmers in 
 flowing white garments and badly-fitting tights, paired 
 off with females, fat and thin, the riff-raff left over from 
 the more important roles. No, sir. Our chorus are just 
 the children of this village ; the spectators on the stage, 
 as it were. Dressed as they're dressed here every day, 
 only cleaner. And one of them, usually one of the older 
 girls, does the speaking. There isn't much. You see, 
 all you want of that kind of a chorus is that it should
 
 102 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 be able to walk. And only healthy children, who go bare- 
 foot most of the year, know how to walk gracefully. 
 At least, 'tis so in Thiersee. Oh, you'll be surprised to 
 see how well it goes. Children, normal children, are all 
 born actors, especially boys. I 've always wished I could 
 have seen Shakespeare played as he was written. I tell 
 you I've had lads here who could have done Rosalind, 
 and not so badly either." 
 
 He looked up at Edwards, scanning his profile against 
 the light. 
 
 "I don't care for your long mustache," he said judi- 
 cially. ''You'll look better without it. And you 
 couldn't play Pontius Pilate with a mustache, you 
 know." 
 
 Edwards interposed. 
 
 "But, Hochwiirden, you don't really mean me to " 
 
 Father Mathias cut him short, moving closer to him 
 and spreading out the type-written sheets before him on 
 the table. 
 
 "Yes, I do. I've been simply put to my wits' end to 
 find a proper Pilate. Imagine how any of our older 
 men would look if I shaved off their beards. Why, they 'd 
 rather appear before the public without trousers. There 
 isn't a single decent chin among them. Our women 
 have got all the chins. Haven't you ever noticed that? 
 Oh yes, my friend, you were made for Pilate. And 
 then, see here. You want to be one of us, don't you? 
 Break down barriers and all that? Well, this will do 
 it. Only, to get the full flavor of the Play, you ought 
 to have spent a winter among us. ' ' 
 
 His kindly eyes closed; he began drawing and scrib- 
 bling on the margin of the papers before him. 
 
 "A winter in Thiersee!" he sighed. "Shut in, all 
 those months. It's fearsome. Life gets to be like a 
 witches' cauldron, full of incongruous messes, all sorts 
 of horrid unclean matters, swimming in the brew to- 
 gether with simple honest things: bits of grass, flowers, 
 what you like, side by side with the insides of toads and 
 snakes ' eyes and greeny lumps of corruption. Ough-h-h ! 
 And cooking, cooking all together over a slow fire, till
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 103 
 
 the rottenness of the rotten things permeates the whole 
 mass, and it stinks to heaven. ' ' 
 
 Edwards smiled. 
 
 "No doubt," he said. "But then you come along with 
 your disinfectant, your Play. A sort of clean-smelling 
 carbolic acid preparation. And you dump a little into 
 the kettle. It doesn't make things smell much better. 
 But you know that the living, swarming evil things in the 
 kettle have been scotched." 
 
 "Exactly. You take my thought exactly. But what 
 would you? Think of a Thiersee winter. Let's say 
 you have an antipathy for some one man; he has over- 
 reached you in business, has a quicker tongue than you, 
 and makes you appear a fool, when the one woman is 
 looking on whose interest means everything. And you 
 are chained like a galley-slave to that same man. You 
 meet him at church on Sundays; you must pass his 
 house every day. Maybe you are both employed by 
 the same farmer, and then you must share the same 
 room, the same bed. The weather is too cold to go out 
 and get away from him. Our people have no love for 
 the open air as such. And in your only place of amuse- 
 ment, the inn, you must sit cheek- by- jowl with him too. 
 Until until, some night, when you have had more than 
 your share of schnaps, you wait for him outside the 
 door of the inn, step up to him as he comes out, and 
 stab him here, deep down between the collar-bone 
 and the first rib. The witches' cauldron has boiled over. 
 And then you remember that you used to spin tops with 
 him, or hunt eggs, as boys together. And you drop on 
 your knees beside him and say, 'Hans, Hans nichts 
 fur unguat. I didn't mean to.' And they don't mean 
 to, my friend. That's the shame of it; the tragedy. 
 It's the same way with love and lust. Here you live, 
 packed close together with others, all winter long, eat- 
 ing too much, with no proper exercise ; smoking too much 
 bad tobacco; drinking, often on credit, too much bad 
 spirits. And gradually your outlook on life narrows 
 and narrows down, until it holds only one person: if 
 you are lucky, an unpromised maiden, if you aren't,
 
 104 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 another man's wife. Or, alas that it should be so, 
 one of your own blood. You can imagine the end. The 
 kettle boils over. Sometimes with blood. Sometimes 
 with water: with the water of Thiersee that's deep 
 enough to drown, quite deep enough. And you stand 
 on the bank wringing your hands. 'I never meant to 
 hurt her, never. ' God help us all. God help us all. ' ' 
 
 "You are too hard on the men," protested Edwards. 
 "Have your women no share in the boiling over of your 
 cauldron ? ' ' 
 
 "No share! Why, without them the kettle would not 
 boil at all. They are the slow fire that keep it a-bub- 
 
 ble. But I am talking you deaf and blind. You 
 
 will be Pilate then?" 
 
 The priest drew the list of actors towards him again. 
 
 * ' That is a load off my mind. I 'm thinking of letting 
 Eosine have Mary Magdalene. She has several good 
 scenes; not to be found in the canonical Scriptures, by 
 the way. The Bin-germeister will do the High Priest. 
 Annas and Caiaphas rolled into one. We have to econ- 
 omize, you see, with so few people to draw from. I 
 can't give Pilate more than three soldiers." 
 
 "But the costumes? Roman armor, and all that?" 
 
 The priest chuckled delightedly. 
 
 "I'm afraid your thoughts are still in Oberammergau. 
 We at Thiersee follow the example of the great artists 
 who painted biblical scenes in the costumes of their own 
 time. Your Koman bodyguard will be three of our 
 young fellows, who are still doing their military service, 
 and who'll be at home on furlough in the uniform of an 
 Austrian infantry regiment. You haven't grasped the 
 spirit of the thing yet. ' ' 
 
 "And the two chief roles f" 
 
 "Your Hausmeisterin, Frau Speckbacher, for Mary. 
 We can't allow ourselves the sentimentality of having 
 an unmarried woman. Besides, in our religion, we don 't 
 talk so much as you English do about the 'Blessed 
 Virgin.' We speak of the 'Mother of God.' And a 
 woman who isn't a mother what can she know of ' Cuius 
 animam gementem pertransivit gladius'? Kassian, with
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 105 
 
 his big beard, will be St. Peter. Franzl, St. John. "We 
 only show a few of the Twelve Disciples. As for Nani, 
 who 's keen on the Magdalene, I 'm thinking of letting her 
 do the leader of the chorus. I haven 't any older boy just 
 now who 's up to memorizing the lines. Franzl did it last 
 time." 
 
 A timid knock interrupted them. 
 
 The priest looked up and paused. The knock came 
 again, still softer, more hesitating. 
 
 "That's he," nodded the priest. "I thought it would 
 be. Our Christus. ' ' 
 
 Then, raising his voice, he bade the new-comer enter. 
 
 Edwards' first glimpse of the man never ceased to 
 haunt him. Against the background of the star-strewn 
 sky he saw the outline of a bare head with long lank 
 hair, of broad shoulders bowed wearily and wrapped in a 
 thin cloak. The face was in the shadow, but the figure, 
 its pose and atmosphere, suggested intense weariness 
 and discouragement, not a weariness of the body that 
 even in the dark loomed up strong enough, but a weari- 
 ness, a burden of the soul. 
 
 "Griiss Gott, Herr Lehrer," said the priest, motion- 
 ing the young man to a place at the table. "Come and 
 sit down. Herr Doktor, this is our schoolmaster: your 
 fellow-lodger in the schoolhouse : just back from his holi- 
 days." 
 
 Then, as the other hesitated, he added in a sharper 
 authoritative tone 
 
 "Don't stand there like that. Here's supper. And 
 I '11 wager you 've eaten nothing. Aren 't you feeling any 
 better ? I 'd expected to see you quite another man. ' ' 
 
 The schoolmaster, Herr Emil Joneke, slowly laid his 
 cloak aside, and as slowly moved to the table, extending 
 to Edwards a hand that pressed his in a nervous spas- 
 modic grasp, and then hung limp in his encircling fingers. 
 In all his movements, in all his speech, there was a slow- 
 ness; not the slowness that comes from a natural lack 
 of quick mental or physical reaction, but the slowness 
 that is only explainable by the presence of some inner 
 impediment which makes of all motion, of all speech, an
 
 106 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 effort and a difficult overcoming of some invisible 
 obstacle. He had the typical square jaw, low chin, and 
 large mouth of Tyrolese peasant-stock, covered by a 
 growth of soft brown beard that hid none of the out- 
 lines of his face. It was scarcely a beard at all, more 
 like a deepening of the shadow in which his whole face 
 seemed to lie. As a type he was ordinary enough. To 
 Edwards, however, it seemed as if the pupils of his deep 
 brown eyes were abnormally wide. 
 
 He sat down at the priest 's left and began to eat. 
 
 "Did you hear what I said?" demanded Father 
 Mathias after a pause. "Aren't you better? You can 
 speak freely before the Herr Doktor, you know. ' ' 
 
 "Better!" reechoed the schoolmaster. "Why better? 
 "What have I done to deserve to be better, Hochwiirden ? ' ' 
 
 "Now really," protested the priest. "If you've come 
 back to begin your old ' I 'm-only-an-un worthy- worm-in- 
 the-dust' game, I give you up. Rouse yourself, man. 
 We 're expecting great things of you in the Play. ' ' 
 
 The other's face showed a momentary flash of inter- 
 est. 
 
 "Yes," he said, forming every word as if with an 
 effort. "Yes-s. I went to the theater three times 
 when I was in Innsbruck. ' ' 
 
 "And you had some sort of adventures, I hope. Some- 
 thing to get you out of yourself, eh ? " 
 
 Then, as the young man only stared, his lips moving 
 silently, the priest brought his pudgy fist down on the 
 table with a thump that made the glasses ring. 
 
 ' ' Himmel - Kreutz - Donnerwetter - Sakrament nochein - 
 mal ! " he shouted. ' ' Oh, damn damn damn ! ' ' 
 
 "I I beg your pardon," said the schoolmaster crisply. 
 For the moment he seemed quite shaken out of his moody 
 silence. 
 
 The priest turned to Edwards, who was gasping with 
 astonishment. He grinned. 
 
 "Didn't know I could swear in English, did you? 
 Well, I can when the occasion demands it. And no- 
 body here understands what I'm saying anyhow." 
 
 The Herr Lehrer hung his head. But he seemed freer,
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 107 
 
 as if the inner obstacles to speech had been cleared 
 away. 
 
 "How should a man like me have adventures?" he 
 said. ' ' Why, the most brazen woman, swinging a wrist- 
 bag at a street corner, wouldn't have courage enough 
 even to whisper as I went by. Or if she did I shouldn 't 
 hear her. Couldn't, I daresay." 
 
 "I won't let you talk like that, Joncke. You'd better 
 go home. Take the Herr Doktor with you. And, Herr 
 Doktor, when he gets into one of these deaf-and-dumb 
 fits, just throw a book at him or swear horrid. That 
 wakes him up for a minute or two. ' ' 
 
 The schoolmaster, who had scarcely touched the food 
 before him, caught up his cloak and stood waiting at 
 the bottom of the "Widum" steps. The priest drew 
 Edwards back into the house for a moment. 
 
 "I expect you to be good to that child," he whis- 
 pered. "For he's scarcely a man yet. Not much over 
 twenty. But that's the way we do things here. We 
 take the son of a peasant or a small village tradesman, 
 and send him off among utter strangers to Innsbruck to 
 make a teacher of him. The making takes five years. 
 For the first two he almost dies of home-sickness for the 
 land, for his own kind. During the last three he gets 
 used to city life. He has his small amusements, which 
 to him are of vast importance. You and I couldn't sit 
 out a single performance in the Innsbruck Theater, so 
 wretched is it. But to boys like this it is the glory of all 
 things desirable. That and the cinematographs, their 
 dances and petty flirtations. And then, then when 
 they've taken firm root in the city we examine them; 
 find them sufficiently stuffed with a lot of preposterously 
 uninteresting facts, and pack them off miles away from 
 the town to some lonely valley like this, where they eat 
 out their hearts. They've lost all touch with the soil; 
 they 've forgotten that they too were once shoeless peasant 
 children, and they can't find their footing among the very 
 people from which they sprang. And, my friend, most 
 of them are all alone. Of course, after the priest the 
 schoolmaster is the most respected person in the village
 
 108 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 theoretically. But unless he exerts himself he is made 
 the priest's servant and the people's laughing-stock. 
 And that hurts. Especially when five years in Inns- 
 bruck think of it in Innsbruck have given him the 
 conviction that he is a torch-bearer of culture into un- 
 couth communities. Like ours. So look after this young 
 man, will you? As you say in English: 'It is your 
 bounden duty and service.' Oh yes, damn it all, 
 it is." 
 
 He walked down the steps with Edwards, where they 
 rejoined the waiting schoolmaster. 
 
 ''What a glorious night!" Edwards said. 
 
 The air had the crisp clearness of winter, but the sky 
 was a soft blue, and the wind was warm. In the long 
 strip of sky between the two converging lines of snow- 
 capped peaks the stars seemed marvelously many. 
 
 "Look at that," cried the priest, his short arms lifted 
 towards the sparkling firmament. "Do you know any- 
 thing about astronomy, Herr Doktor? No? Well, you 
 ought to take it up as an antidote to your omniscient 
 over-scientific science. It's my antidote to dogma. 
 Now, if poor Holtzmann had only known a little astron- 
 omy he wouldn't have broken his heart over a few extra 
 unexpected babies. Why, when such things as that 
 trouble me, I meditate not on the consuming fire of 
 God's absolute chastity, but on the distance from the 
 earth to the nearest fixed star. The nearest. And my 
 meditation tells me that either no God exists at all up 
 there through all that space, or else that He is an all- 
 pervading Spirit as immense as the universe itself. And 
 
 then don't you see " He slipped a hand through 
 
 the arm of each of his companions, "then it can't 
 
 make any difference to Him what I or you do with this 
 infmitesimally insignificant conglomeration of tiny cells 
 that we call our body. Now can it ? " 
 
 "But, Hochwiirden," interposed the schoolmaster un- 
 easily, ' ' sin is a reality. It exists in the spiritual sphere. 
 It " 
 
 "Ach, was! Just because you're going to do the 
 Christus in our play, you need not be resisting the devil
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 109 
 
 all the time. Sin! I don't like that word. It has a 
 nasty smell. You ask ninety-nine Christians out of a 
 hundred what they mean by it, and they '11 tell you some- 
 thing or things that have to do with the indubitable fact 
 that the world is made up of men and women. Things 
 that the foolish people who write prayer-books put all 
 together under the Sixth or the Seventh Commandment 
 of a mythical Jewish lawgiver. Bodily, material, often 
 beastly, things. Oh, I grant you, there is sin, rebellion, 
 in the spiritual sphere. And for that, I can imagine a 
 God who is a Spirit taking thought. Punishing it per- 
 haps. Or better, treating it as a mistake to be rectified, 
 as a fault in His own material. But that He, the All- 
 Mighty, whose being spans these millions and millions of 
 miles up there, that He should worry over what I do 
 with this minute clump of organic substance, with this 
 say with this finger of mine, why, it isn't thinkable. 
 If He does care about it, if it does distress Him, I am 
 sorry for Him. If He intends to punish me for it, then 
 then I had rather serve the fallen Lucifer. He were a 
 greater-hearted gentleman. But I mustn't keep you 
 gossiping here. Good-night to you both. And take my 
 advice about the stars. Have a jaunt among the con- 
 stellations now and then." 
 
 He stumped up the steps, and his short misshapen 
 bulk disappeared in the shadow. 
 
 Edwards, as he started on his walk home at Joncke's 
 side, kept his eyes fixed on the heavens, unwilling to 
 break the all-pervading sense of quiet. But he soon felt 
 that his companion was misconstruing his silence, so he 
 forced himself to say something. 
 
 ' ' We 're fortunate in having such a shepherd of souls, ' ' 
 he began with an uneasy laugh. ' ' But I wonder what his 
 bishop would say. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, he doesn't talk like that to his bishop," Joncke 
 answered. He had pulled his hat down over his face and 
 stared at the dark road before him. "Besides, nobody 
 would mind what he did. He's a genius." 
 
 ' ' He must have had an unusual life. ' ' 
 
 The moment he had spoken Edwards was sorry. Who
 
 110 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 was he to pry into the past of other men ? Fortunately, 
 the schoolmaster ignored the implied question. For sev- 
 eral moments he walked on in silence at Edwards' side. 
 Then, realizing that they were drawing near the school- 
 house, he began to speak as if it cost him an immense 
 effort to force each word between his teeth. 
 
 "You haven't read the text of our Play yet, have 
 you? When you have, I hope you'll let me talk to you 
 about about my role. There isn't anybody else here to 
 play it, you know, except me. Or rather, it would make 
 the others jealous to give it to anyone of the people them- 
 selves. I didn't want to do it at first. But lately I've 
 sort of grown into the part. You see, I know something 
 of what it means to be much alone as He was ' segrega- 
 tus a populo.' To go through life, as He did, with the 
 shadow of the Cross falling about Him always, seeing it 
 coming nearer every day, knowing that He must go 
 through with it, that it was unavoidable, foreordained. ' ' 
 
 "Come, Herr Lehrer, that's not normal," interposed 
 Edwards, his whole being up in arms against his compan- 
 ion and his depression. It was seldom that he took an 
 instant dislike to anyone ; but this schoolmaster repelled 
 him, this young peasant's son with his thin veneer of 
 culture who reveled in these degenerate moods of "Welt- 
 Schmerz" and self-abnegation. A man who delighted in 
 tormenting himself. Edwards had supposed that such 
 types were the exclusive products of certain Slavonic 
 countries: because of them he had never been able to 
 finish a single book of Dostojewskij. 
 
 Something of this instinctive repugnance must have 
 made itself felt in his voice. For the schoolmaster looked 
 up suddenly, and started to speak again. 
 
 "I know I'm not normal. Not that I care. Who 
 would want to be exactly like everybody else? But I 
 can't help it, can I? It isn 't that I don 't try. Though 
 you might not think it, I 'm quite a decent teacher. But 
 this depression comes over me sometimes. Oh, I'm sound 
 enough in body; strong as an ox. Perhaps it was the 
 long lonely evenings last winter when I got worrying 
 about my part in the Play. Do you know, ' ' he added in
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 111 
 
 an excited voice, ' ' I think that I must have been alive at 
 the time of Christ. I can visualize it all so plainly. So 
 many of the people in the Gospels seem familiar, as if I 'd 
 seen them somewhere before. As if I'd been among the 
 crowd that stood under the Cross. I've often imagined 
 that you won't laugh that I might have been St. 
 John. Because whenever I read those lonely words 
 you know where the Lord cries out ' Eli, Eli, lama sabach- 
 thani ? ' it 's as if I 'd really heard them once. And then 
 a great darkness comes over me. 'Why hast thou for- 
 saken me ? ' I know what it is to feel like that ; forsaken, 
 lost, utterly cast out." 
 
 ''Now see here," protested Edwards, embarrassed by 
 this outburst, "you've got to get into other lines of 
 thought, or you '11 be no use at your work. School begins 
 to-morrow, doesn 't it ? That '11 take you out of yourself. 
 You aren 't lost or forsaken. ' ' 
 
 "But I am," the other insisted, yet in a lighter tone, 
 as if hopefully challenging contradiction. ' ' He He was 
 forsaken too. But He had twelve friends, even if one of 
 them did betray Him. Twelve friends ! And I 've not got 
 one, not a single one." 
 
 Somehow this cry of despair rang false. There was 
 a tone of the theatrical about it, as if the man who ut- 
 tered it were unconsciously playing a part, and, in some 
 mysterious way, enjoying it. It was the meaning of 
 this tone, not clearly apprehended, and quite misunder- 
 stood, that led Edwards astray. For it strengthened him 
 in his antipathy to this new acquaintance, and deepened 
 his certainty that the schoolmaster was a man of moods, 
 whose "vapors" it was his duty, as his companion and 
 physician, to bear with and to dispel. 
 
 "Don't let's have any more of this," he said. They 
 had reached the schoolhouse and were climbing the dark 
 stairs to their rooms on the second floor. Edwards 
 opened his door, then turned on the threshold to the 
 schoolmaster, who had started towards his own quarters 
 across the hall- way. 
 
 "You've got plenty of friends here, and you know 
 it. The children like you, I'm told. Our good Hoch-
 
 112 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 wiirden respects you. And now I'm here, am I not? 
 You know the way to my room. Come in whenever you 
 like. If I 'm busy 1 11 say so, and you can sit down and 
 amuse yourself until I 'm at liberty. ' ' 
 
 Then, angry at himself for his unreasoning dislike of 
 this young man, and anxious to make amends to his 
 own conscience, he added 
 
 "They bring me a cold supper every night at seven 
 except on Sundays, when we both eat at the 'Widum.' 
 Why won 't you share my week-day meal ? Or have your 
 own served at my table? You needn't feel bound to 
 babble to me, you know. Bring a book and read if you 
 like. I'll do the same. There's no earthly reason why 
 you should ever feel alone in this house any more." 
 
 The schoolmaster stepped quickly across the hall. 
 
 "Be kind to me," he stammered. And his hot hands 
 clung to Edwards' arm like the grasp of a drowning man. 
 "Oh, be a little kind to me for the love of God."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 EDWARDS was wakened early by the sound of stamping 
 feet and shrill reechoing voices. 
 
 School had begun. 
 
 While he dressed, he went to the window from time 
 to time to watch the gradual arrival of the children. 
 This part of Thiersee's population had seldom come un- 
 der his notice before. Now and then one of the younger 
 ones had found his or her way into his waiting-room 
 to have an aching tooth tugged out. But such patients 
 had been rare. Now for the first time he saw them all 
 together. 
 
 They were quiet children. They did not romp and 
 run and shout in an excess of animal spirits, but sat 
 about on the steps or stood in small groups, boys freely 
 mingled with. girls. One of the older girls looked up, 
 saw him at the window, and then caps came off and 
 hands were waved in greeting. 
 
 "Grass Gott, Herr Doktor." 
 
 The voices reached him as an indistinct wave of sound ; 
 he was conscious, nevertheless, that they were harsh and 
 throaty ; not beautiful voices in any sense. 
 
 The children were still there when he went again to 
 the window, his coffee-cup in one hand, a large sweet bun 
 in the other. This time, when they saw him, they only 
 stared at what he held. 
 
 "Heavens," he thought, "they're hungry. That's 
 why they don't race about like other children." 
 
 ' ' Catch, ' ' he shouted ; tore his bun in three pieces, and 
 tossed it down. 
 
 That was a mistake. In an instant the quiet of the 
 morning was shattered into a thousand fragments. At 
 least a dozen violent fights began on the spot. And Ed- 
 wards was on the point of retreating, aghast at the storm 
 
 113
 
 114 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 of passion he had loosed, when he noticed, as his custom 
 was, not the victors in the struggle that was going on 
 under his window, but the vanquished. 
 
 And he saw that most of them were lame. Some more, 
 some less ; but they all limped. 
 
 He hurried downstairs, and found Joncke, watch in 
 one hand, a large bell in the other, standing in the empty 
 hall. He had dreaded this meeting after what had hap- 
 pened last night; but now his interest in the children 
 swept all other thoughts away. Besides, this was a dif- 
 ferent Joncke: a straight-shouldered, composed, square- 
 jawed embodiment of authority, self -sufficient, and 
 strong. 
 
 "Of course they've had no breakfast," he said, in an- 
 swer to Edwards' excited question. "But that's nothing 
 unusual. Very few of our children ever eat before mid- 
 day. I never did. When I was in Innsbruck at the 
 ' Paedagogium, ' I had to go not only without breakfast, 
 but without supper too. I had one meal a-day, mostly 
 at some charitable convent. And not always that. We 
 all eat too much. ' ' 
 
 "But they 've walked a long way ; many of them miles, ' ' 
 interrupted Edwards. "No wonder they don't play and 
 shout." 
 
 "Thank heaven, they don't. Remember, Herr Dok- 
 tor, I have some sixty children of all ages, divided into 
 four classes, all in one room; and I must teach them 
 alone, without assistance from anyone. Do you suppose 
 I'd be able to do anything, if they arrived well-fed, and 
 as fresh as when they stepped out of bed? Empty 
 Stomachs and Tired Legs are the two gentlemen who 
 help me to keep order. ' ' 
 
 ' ' But not Lame Legs surely. ' ' 
 
 The schoolmaster's face clouded. 
 
 "No. That's appalling, isn't it? You'll see lots of 
 limping among the children. But you won 't have noticed 
 many limping adults. Lame children die. It isn't only 
 their hip- joints either. Look at that one." 
 
 He pointed to a girl of ten, whose narrow little chest 
 was shaken with a spasm of coughing. As the spasm
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 115 
 
 passed, she put her hand to her mouth. Instantly the 
 schoolmaster was beside her, and had wiped her lips with 
 his own handkerchief. 
 
 "You see," he added to Edwards, "that's the danger. 
 But I can't make them use handkerchiefs when they've 
 never possessed such luxuries. And the Biirgermeister 
 won't give me money for places where they where they 
 might spit without harm to others. This schoolhouse is 
 soaked with the poison. It ought to be blown up with 
 dynamite. But the Village Council make fun of me. 
 There's no money for a new schoolhouse anyway. So 
 there you have it. Stiffened hips and knees. Elbows 
 too. Abscesses that seem to go deep down into the bone it- 
 self. Lungs, or what's left of them. And then the cases 
 of meningitis. I think they're the most terrible of all. 
 I don't know much about medicine, Herr Doktor. But 
 at the ' Pasdagogium ' we had to take a course in School 
 Hygiene. So I can't help realizing what it is." 
 
 "Tuberculosis." 
 
 ' ' I don 't use the word. I 'm more afraid of the name 
 than of the thing. All non-medical men are, I sup- 
 pose. Excuse me. I must ring the bell." 
 
 Edwards stood by the door as the children trooped 
 past. 
 
 Joncke had been right. It was appalling. Not what 
 met the eye, but what one was forced to deduce. Ed- 
 wards ran over in his mind all the forms of Tuberculosis 
 that he could remember. 
 
 Cold Abscesses. There was one low down on that girl 's 
 neck. 
 
 Coxitis, Gonitis. Plenty of them limping along. 
 Some with the limp only just beginning, and curable now 
 if taken in time. 
 
 Phthisis, too, written large on the faces of those two 
 small boys. Perhaps a chance of a cure here also, if 
 if 
 
 But that "if" meant, in one case, a long costly treat- 
 ment with extension bandages ; in the other many months, 
 perhaps years, in some clearer, higher air, with unlimited 
 Kin-baths and proper food.
 
 116 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 And where were they to come from, all these things ? 
 
 If he only had a tiny cottage such a humble little 
 place with room for twenty patients, high up on some 
 spur of rock above the valley, where the sun was strong ! 
 It wouldn't cost much; a mere nothing. And there he 
 could give these children a chance of life, a chance 
 
 He laughed at himself. "Where was one to find the 
 money in a poor community, that had not even enough 
 to provide the empested schoolhouse with what Joncke 
 called "proper places to spit"? 
 
 From the schoolroom came the sounds of a violin. 
 Joncke was beginning the day according to rule, with the 
 music lesson. On his cheap shrill-toned instrument he 
 played a melody. Then the children's voices took it up. 
 
 The voices drove Edwards out of the house. 
 
 There was nothing fresh or childlike about them. They 
 were so harsh, so guttural, produced with such effort and 
 with such falseness of pitch, that he fled. And memories 
 pursued him : memories of afternoons in the dim chapel of 
 Trinity College at Cambridge, where the soft cross-lights 
 mingled with the still softer sounds of boys' voices sing- 
 ing "The Radiant Morn." He felt like an outcast 
 mariner shipwrecked among some strange and bar- 
 barous people. 
 
 He sought help where he had so often found it, 
 high above the village under that great pine-tree, round 
 which the cows grazed all day long. It was early yet 
 scarcely eight o'clock; but he knew that he should find 
 Nani there. 
 
 As he reached the bend of the road that edged the 
 meadow, he whistled a few bars of the old song that young 
 lads sings when they pass the girls' closed windows, on 
 their way home from the inn of a summer's night. The 
 habit had grown on him of thus announcing his approach. 
 Usually his call was answered either by Franzl or by 
 Nani herself. 
 
 To-day no answer came. His heart sank. Perhaps 
 they had wandered off into the woods together. "What 
 should he do ? Where should he go ?
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 117 
 
 He hurried across the field. The old tree had a thick 
 girth ; he peered around it. 
 
 And there they sat with their backs against it, Franzl 
 with his arm round Nani, who was knitting quietly, her 
 hands in her lap. 
 
 At the sound of his voice, Franzl started up. The start 
 was overdone. If Edwards had been less preoccupied he 
 must have realized that they had heard his whistle, and 
 had purposely not answered it. Nor did he mark the 
 sense of restraint that made his two friends seem stiff 
 and unnatural. He was fleeing from himself ; for others 
 than himself he had no thought. And he did not ask 
 of these two that they should amuse him with pretty 
 speeches; he only wanted the peacefulness of their pres- 
 ence. So he sat down near them, resting his head against 
 the tree-trunk, and gazing out across the meadow, dotted 
 here and there with the yellow daffodils. Nothing broke 
 the silence except the faint click-click of Nani 's knitting- 
 needles. 
 
 Half an hour passed. Edwards knew that his patients 
 would be waiting for him at the schoolhouse, but the 
 thought of returning to the dreary building with "the 
 enemy" lurking in every corner, was intolerable. He 
 wished he had brought a book, that he might spend the 
 morning here with Nani, for Franzl must soon be off to 
 his own work. He wondered why the young fellow had 
 already stayed so long. 
 
 ' ' You '11 pass the school on your way back, won 't you ? ' ' 
 he said abruptly, as Franzl made no attempt to stir from 
 his place at Nani's side. "So just run in and ask Frau 
 Speckbacher to see if any patients are waiting in the 
 hall. If there are, she 's to tell them that they must come 
 to-morrow. I've got a bad headache to-day, and I need 
 a rest. You 'd better start along now. ' ' 
 
 At his best, Franzl was never much given to speech. 
 And now his silence was eloquent of discomfort and of 
 a beginning distrust. Not that he hesitated to obey. 
 People generally did what Edwards asked them to do. 
 
 He heaved himself up on his feet, and stood for a
 
 118 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 moment looking down at Nani. She smiled at him and 
 nodded. 
 
 "Run along. I'll look after the Herr Doktor. And 
 you can come for me this afternoon when you 've finished 
 your plowing." 
 
 Franzl stamped off across the field, blowing clouds 
 of velvety smoke from his rumbling pipe. He waved 
 his hand as he disappeared into the woods that bordered 
 the meadow. Then, before stepping out into the road, he 
 stopped short. On a stone by the roadside a red-headed 
 lad was sitting, a battered school knapsack flung across 
 his knees, his freckled face upturned, and one ear lifted 
 to catch the notes of a blackbird that was singing on a 
 branch near by. 
 
 ' ' Hi, you, Toni ! Skippin ' school ? ' ' 
 
 At the sound of the voice behind him, the boy jumped 
 up. Then his lips parted in a welcoming smile as he 
 recognized the speaker. 
 
 "No, I ain't," he answered, getting to his feet and 
 slinging the knapsack over his shoulder. ' ' Only mother 
 kept me late. I'll bet she did it on purpose. And you 
 know how far away we live. Seems further to me every 
 year. And my leg this one gets terrible tired. Griiss 
 Gott." 
 
 ' ' Hold on, ' ' interrupted Franzl. ' ' I want you to take 
 a message. "When you get to school, find Nani 's mother, 
 and tell her that the Herr Doktor won't be home this 
 morning. He's out in the field with Nani. The sick 
 people '11 have to wait." 
 
 Franzl looked after the boy, as he started on again 
 down the hill, and noticed that he limped slightly. Then 
 he refilled his pipe and sat down near the edge of the 
 wood, where, unseen, he could overlook the sunny 
 meadow. If the sick people could wait, so could his plow- 
 ing. 
 
 Edwards, meanwhile, had taken Franzl's place at 
 Nani's side. He looked down at the masses of her soft 
 brown hair, clustering about her shapely neck; at her 
 strong yet graceful arms and clever busy hands; at the 
 outlines of her body, suggested here, and revealed there,
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 119 
 
 beneath the loose clinging stuff of her gown. Minute 
 after minute slipped away, yet he did not move. 
 
 At last, she put her knitting aside and rose. 
 
 All her movements were so quiet, so harmonious : there 
 was no haste about them, no rough corners of half-com- 
 pleted gesture to catch the eye and weary it. 
 
 ' ' Now that the Herr Doktor has rested, ' ' she said, ' ' I 
 will take his headache away. ' ' 
 
 She moved off, and Edwards, letting his head fall back 
 against the tree, closed his eyes. 
 
 Soon he was conscious of soft warm hands, that slowly, 
 gently unfastened his shirt, removed collar and cravat, 
 so that neck and breast lay free. Then came the touch of 
 cool spring water, and of still cooler leaves, laid one by 
 one on his breast and about his neck, until he was swathed 
 to the chin in refreshment. Water, cold water, on the 
 same soft hands, was smoothed across his forehead, and 
 up into his hair, around his ears, on his cheek and on his 
 closed eyes. He felt the clean drops gather and grow, 
 one after another, and run over his face, beneath the 
 leaves that swathed his throat, and then down across his 
 chest. The blood, that had been throbbing through the 
 great vessels of his neck, carrying waves of heat and 
 pain to the distended little arteries of the brain, began to 
 flow less fiercely ; the tension of the veins diminished, and 
 over him swept a sense of utter peace. 
 
 How long he lay there he did not know. For a time 
 he must have dozed. When he opened his eyes his com- 
 press of leaves was gone, his face and neck were cool and 
 dry, and Nani was trying in vain to rebutton his collar. 
 
 He motioned her hand away. Then he sat up. 
 
 "No, you mustn't move yet," she said. "That's part 
 of my medicine. Here, I'll put your collar and tie in 
 your pocket. And now come and have a bite to eat. ' ' 
 
 She knelt at his side, in one hand black bread and 
 yellow cheese, spread out on a great fresh leaf; in the 
 other, an old wooden cup brimming with spring-water. 
 
 With these she slowly fed him; of this she gave him 
 to drink. To him, it was a sacramental meal, a drawing 
 near to the simple, clean essentials of human life; a re-
 
 120 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 freshment of soul and body such as he had never known 
 before. 
 
 Then, as she raised the cup to his lips once more, 
 he caught her arm and kissed the firm brown flesh. 
 
 She finished what she was doing, finished giving him 
 his last draught of water; then, as quietly, she folded 
 her arms and leaned back on her heels. 
 
 ' ' You mustn 't do that, ' ' she said. ' ' It will quite spoil 
 my medicine." 
 
 But the finality of the refusal in her tone did not reach 
 him. The passing wave of desire had indeed died down 
 within him; it had left him ashamed, but without any 
 deeper knowledge of himself or of her. Perhaps, had he 
 been watching her as she had fetched the cool leaves 
 from the wood, as she had laid them one by one on his 
 neck and breast, he might have glimpsed the truth : that 
 she was a priestess doing worship before her idol, before 
 the Thing of Might that worked miracles for those she 
 loved, and whom to serve on bended knee was a fearsome 
 delight. Not a mere man, whom she could possess or who 
 could ever possibly possess her ; but a god, as far removed 
 from her as her parish priest, yes, even more so in 
 whose presence her breath came always quicker with awe 
 with passion never. Perhaps, perhaps, had he under- 
 stood all this, he might have spared her the desolation 
 of an empty shrine, a vanished divinity, a god turned 
 man; and himself the sorrow of finding his place among 
 the out- worn deities, the lost ideals of a woman 's universe. 
 
 She helped him to his feet, and then stood at a distance 
 until he had found his hat and had started off towards 
 the road. From the edge of the wood he waved her a 
 good-by; but she did not answer. She stared after 
 him contentedly. He, the god, who could fight and con- 
 quer pain and death, he had had his hour of weakness; 
 he had come to her, and she had been permitted to re- 
 fresh him. Surely that was enough happiness for any 
 woman. 
 
 Edwards wandered aimlessly down the road, uncon- 
 scious of the fact that Franzl, having seen him go, had 
 plunged into the wood, making at last for the field that
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 121 
 
 had so long awaited his plow. He looked at the sun ; it 
 must be past midday. Yet he felt like a giant refreshed. 
 As he reached the confines of the village, he heard the 
 rattle of wheels behind him, and saw a wagon go by in 
 a whirl of dust : Kassian and Rosine, returning from their 
 honeymoon in Kufstein, she dressed in all the hideous 
 shapelessness that stamps a settled married woman in 
 Thiersee, he with one arm about her, and his mighty 
 beard streaming in the wind. Edwards shouted them a 
 welcome. 
 
 This happiness of theirs was partly his work. It made 
 them worth while, those few doubtful minutes that he 
 had spent before putting his signature to the death cer- 
 tificate of Kassian 's mother. 
 
 And there was other work to do plenty of it. 
 
 He paid a number of visits that afternoon, carrying 
 hope and good cheer wherever he came, and touched by 
 the questions that met him on every side. "But, Herr 
 Doktor, we heard you'd gone out. No one knew where. 
 We thought perhaps you'd gone for good. But you 
 won't do that, will you?" 
 
 Their anxiety to hold him fast made him forget his 
 annoyance at the way in which Franzl had evidently 
 bungled his message to Frau Speckbacher. And, tired 
 as he was, he yet whistled contentedly when he climbed 
 the steep steps of the schoolhouse late that afternoon. 
 
 The children were all gone; the hall- way was empty. 
 But as he passed, he heard voices in the schoolroom, on 
 the right. The door stood ajar ; he stopped to listen. 
 
 "But but I don't know, Herr Lehrer." 
 
 "But you must, Toni. You must know whether you'd 
 want to come to me if I said the words like that. Sup- 
 pose a strange man wandered into Thiersee and sat down 
 on our schoolhouse steps, and all you children crowded 
 round to stare at him. And suppose I hurried out and 
 told you to be off, and not to bother the stranger. And 
 suppose he said, 'Oh, don't be cross with them. Suffer 
 the little children to come unto me and forbid them not. ' 
 How would he say it, Toni, so as to make you all want 
 to come?"
 
 122 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "But I I don't know, Herr Lehrer." 
 
 "Then I'll never get it right, Toni, I'm afraid. 
 Never. ' ' 
 
 Edwards pushed open the door. Joncke was sitting at 
 his desk, raised on a tiny platform at one end of the room. 
 At the other end, his flaming red head bent over his book, 
 sat a small boy. 
 
 "Oh, it's you," said Joncke. "I'm glad. I've been 
 wanting to speak to you." 
 
 Then, as Edwards came forward, he insisted on giving 
 him his chair, while he himself leaned against the edge 
 of his desk, with his back towards the schoolroom. 
 
 "That's the best of my lot," he said in a low voice, 
 nodding towards the bent red head. "Oberlaitner's 
 Toni. They live miles away. But he's always here. 
 Did you know that our people in Tyrol are afraid of red 
 hair? They say that a man with red hair is accursed 
 of God; that the Almighty has set a mark on him to 
 bid others beware. Pleasant for a sensitive child like 
 Toni ! I let him stay here to do his next day 's work, so 
 that he shan't have so many books to carry home. He's 
 terribly keen about the Passion-Play. I don't believe 
 he thinks of anything else. And I I don't discourage 
 him. He hasn't got many things of interest in his life, 
 poor child. He knows almost the whole text by heart. 
 So sometimes, I let him hear me my role. Often a child 
 like that can can " 
 
 Edwards nodded encouragingly. 
 
 "Can give us older people points. I understand. Is 
 he to have a part ? ' ' 
 
 "Oh, he'll come on with the other children in the 
 chorus. But he won 't have anything to say. And that 's 
 what's making him eat his heart out. He's sure he'll 
 never get a part because of his red hair. Except perhaps 
 Judas. And he hasn't much sympathy with Judas, you 
 see. Why, he could do the herald, the child-angel that 
 speaks the prologue ; do it beautifully. Only Hochwiir- 
 den has promised it to Nani. Imagine a girl as an angel ! 
 But Father Mathias is so unconventional. He doesn't 
 consider that. I've never dared suggest his trying Toni,
 
 Besides, the boy's too young. Not twelve yet. But I 
 
 thought, perhaps, if you would speak if you would 
 
 Only you must hear him first. Toni, the Herr Doktor 
 wants to hear part of the closing lines. You know, what 
 the herald-angel says at the end of the Play. ' ' 
 
 He turned to Edwards. 
 
 ' ' We don 't dress the part like an angel, ' ' he explained. 
 ' ' We put the child in a plain white alb, with crossed stole, 
 like the deacon at High Mass. Can you conceive of Nani 
 in that dress? Well, Toni, begin." 
 
 The boy stepped out into the narrow aisle between the 
 benches, quite simply, quite without embarrassment. 
 
 "Not all of it, Herr Lehrer," he said. "You mean 
 just the last part." 
 
 Then he folded his hands across his breast, lifted his 
 eyes to where Edwards sat, and began 
 
 "May HE, Whose form you here have seen, 
 Moving across our stage of green, 
 Be with you ever, till at last, 
 When sorrow's done and death's o'erpast, 
 We see His glorious Face again. 
 And so " 
 
 (He bowed his head and slowly signed himself with the 
 cross.) 
 
 "God bless us all. Amen." 
 
 The "Amen" was scarcely breathed, so gently did it 
 fall on the quiet evening air. 
 
 Edwards sat spellbound. For the voice had rung as 
 clear, as true as the soft notes of some shepherd's pipe. 
 He remembered the rough throaty voices of the other chil- 
 dren and marveled. 
 
 His task finished, the boy sat down and was soon deep 
 in his book once more. Edwards turned to the school- 
 master. 
 
 "You're right," he said enthusiastically. "He is 
 Treasure Trove indeed. But even if he is too young for 
 this year 's Play, he '11 be at his best for the next. ' ' 
 
 Joncke's eyes began to shimmer; he shook his head. 
 
 "He's going lame,"
 
 124 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Then, leaning forward abruptly, he laid his hands on 
 Edwards' shoulders. 
 
 "Do something for him, can't you?" he stammered 
 under his breath. ' ' You can. You 're like a god, people 
 say. I've been hearing about nothing else ever since I 
 came back. Like Nebuchadnezzar in the Bible : ' Whom 
 he would, he raised up; and whom he would, he cast 
 down. Whom he would, he slew; and whom he would, 
 he kept alive.' Help Toni. Help me. It's only just 
 begun, the lameness. But I've been on the watch for it 
 these last two years. His sister was the best dancer in 
 the village. Such a splendid girl! She could dance 
 down most of the men, till she began to have shooting 
 pains in her back, that ran down into her hips and legs. 
 'Rheumatism,' the idiots said. They doctored her, and 
 rubbed her with God knows what. Then, after a while, 
 they took her to Innsbruck. She was there six months. 
 And she came back came back a cripple. I don 't know 
 much about such things. But I know that two of the 
 lower vertebra? were found to be honeycombed with dis- 
 ease, ready to break at any moment and crush the spinal 
 cord. The doctors in Innsbruck gave her a sort of steel 
 corset that held her up so that she could walk. But of 
 course she died. Her people killed her. Oh, I don't 
 mean that they cut her throat or smothered her with a 
 pillow. But life here doesn't leave any place for the sick 
 or the maimed. Her family thought she was just lazy; 
 she didn't really look so very ill. And they made her 
 work. Then the steel corset got broken. Who was go- 
 ing to the bother of having it repaired? Let her get 
 along without it. Well, you can guess the rest. Sooner 
 or later all lame things are killed here. And and 
 Toni's going lame." 
 
 Edwards removed the schoolmaster's hands from his 
 shoulders, for their nervous grasp was digging into his 
 flesh. The man's high-strung sentimentality was dis- 
 tressing. Yet here was another tribute to his power as 
 a physician, and that pleased him. To be like Nebuchad- 
 nezzar ! "Whom he would, he slew ; and whom he would, 
 he kept alive." It was indeed a marvelous thing this
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 125 
 
 power, that was his to exercise or not according to his 
 will and pleasure. 
 
 "Don't get yourself so wrought up," he answered 
 calmly. "We'll do what we can. First of all, I must 
 examine the boy. Then we must see that he has absolute 
 rest. If there is any danger of coxitis, the long walk 
 to school every day is out of the question. ' ' 
 
 "He'd rather come on one leg than not at all. And 
 his mother's a hard woman. It seems so impossible to 
 find any way to help the child. ' ' 
 
 In a fresh outburst of despair the schoolmaster clasped 
 his hands together and stood in front of Edwards, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 "Ah, if you could could keep him well I I would 
 serve you on my knees. I would kiss the ground 
 where " 
 
 ' ' For heaven 's sake, don 't talk like that, ' ' interrupted 
 Edwards, so rudely that he saw the young man's face 
 flush with shame. "But I've an idea that may help us 
 all. There's surely an extra bed to be got somewhere. 
 "We might put it into my living-room. Toni that's 
 his name, isn't it? could sleep there, and I can rig up 
 an extension-bandage for the threatened hip. As for 
 his mother well, suppose I give him a crown a-week for 
 cleaning my instruments and sweeping out the room. 
 We '11 let him sweep for an hour, then get back into bed, 
 and clean the instruments or learn his lessons there. 
 And the crown he can send to his mother. How will that 
 do?" 
 
 Joncke put his hand to his throat. Then he turned 
 aside, went to the window and looked out. After a mo- 
 ment or two he came back. His voice shook a little. 
 
 "I shall not try to thank you," he said. "Whenever 
 I speak to you from the heart you despise me. I read 
 it in your eyes. So I shall say nothing. I shall only 
 pray that God may send me something to do for you. ' ' 
 
 And so that night saw the beginning of Edwards' 
 ' ' Clinic, " in a room scarcely twenty feet square. Ober- 
 laitner's Toni was the first patient. His bed was the old 
 bier, used by the sexton to carry coffins into church, and
 
 126 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 lately discarded for a better one. His sheets were spread 
 over rough straw, and his ' ' Hip-Extension ' ' was made of 
 Frau Speckbacher's clothesline, weighted with one of her 
 broken flat-irons. 
 
 But Toni was happy. And Herr Joncke, to whom 
 Edwards had assigned the duties of Assistant, Dresser, 
 and Adjutant, all rolled into one, was actually heard to 
 whistle.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE four weeks that followed, as Edwards looked back 
 on them in later years, seemed the happiest time of his 
 life at Thiersee. He was unaware of the storm that 
 was gathering, both in his own soul and in the little 
 world around him. He only knew that he felt his power 
 to help ; that the few sick people got well ; that the in- 
 curable cases got better; and that Toni was less lame. 
 
 There were two apologies for beds now in Edwards' 
 living-room. For *Toni had been given a companion : a 
 baby-girl, some four years old, with the ''English Dis- 
 ease," a case in which, as Edwards said, merely because 
 of the opprobrium implied in the name, he was bound 
 to do all he could. And he knew that in just such cases 
 wonders might be worked by change of food and air. 
 
 But little Helena and Toni had appetites; and Frau 
 Speckbacher made a long face at the things Edwards 
 insisted on having prepared for them. As for Joncke, 
 the cloud that oppressed him seemed to have lifted. 
 Every moment that he could spare from his work was 
 spent in the tiny clinic, where he washed, dressed, and 
 amused the two small patients. So it chanced one eve- 
 ning when Edwards, coming in unexpectedly, found the 
 schoolmaster clothed in one of Frau Speckbacher 's larg- 
 est aprons and drying little Helena, who lay face down- 
 wards on his knee, that the tragedy of the man's inner 
 life was suddenly spread out before him. 
 
 For this man loved little children passionately, as 
 only women do: women who can bear them and so win 
 the right to be near them, to rear and love them always. 
 And nature, in some evil moment, had clothed this 
 woman-like mind in the envelope of a man's body. But 
 not only that. She had even denied him the joy of ever 
 having children of his own ; inasmuch as the female ele- 
 
 127
 
 128 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 ment in his strangely-mixed personality was repelled as 
 like from like by the feminine soul of every woman that 
 stretched out to meet him, expecting to find her opposite 
 and completion. 
 
 It was the woman in him that made him so sentimental, 
 so easily offended or moved to tears. Yet the other part 
 of his cleft personality sat in judgment on all this and 
 condemned it, mocked at it as a woman's weakness, and 
 so rent his whole being in twain. Nevertheless he was 
 a good teacher, an excellent disciplinarian. For that he 
 could thank his long line of peasant forebears, whose lack 
 of introspection he had inherited, and whose hard-headed- 
 ness had given him the mental balance that still kept 
 order in the divided household of his soul. 
 
 Edwards was tenderer with him after this moment of 
 revelation. He himself was so utterly male that women, 
 as such, had played but a brief, if a decisive, part in his 
 life. To him, "feminine" meant second-rate in every- 
 thing, an effeminate man, a horror beyond words ; but he 
 was by nature a physician, and the sickness of Joncke's 
 mind appealed to him. 
 
 The days passed rapidly. Now an'd then, at noon, 
 when he imagined himself weary with well-doing, he 
 would seek Nani under the old pine-tree and would let 
 her give him what she called her "bath of leaves." 
 Sometimes Franzl was there; but he never stayed long. 
 He was very busy seeding down, he said. 
 
 And the evenings 
 
 Ah, those April evenings, after the early sunset, when 
 there was still a bracing chill in the air, and he stood on 
 the slope of the garden outside the house, at Nani's win- 
 dow, looking into the little room where she slept, and 
 beyond its shadows into the kitchen, where her mother's 
 shadow came and went against the flare of the hearth-fire. 
 Sometimes Nani would see him standing there. Then 
 she would hasten from her work at her mother's side to 
 lean over the window-sill and bend down towards him, 
 perhaps to straighten his tie or brush a speck of dust 
 from his collar ; or she would be knitting at the open win- 
 dow when he came. And then he would tell her of what
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 129 
 
 the day had brought him ; of its small trials ; of its great 
 triumphs. How Gipfl-Marie had had another asthmatic 
 attack ; how little Kathe was about again on her broken 
 leg as well as ever; how Eisenbauer's Michel's hand, 
 where he had chopped it with the rusty ax, was healing 
 at last, and the fever almost gone. 
 
 And Nani, she was only seventeen, would nod her 
 head and smile contentedly, proud of this Worker of 
 Wonders who came to her with his feats of prowess; 
 proud as a priestess whose god has been carried abroad 
 in time of pestilence and has stayed the plague. 
 
 But she never showed him what it was that she was 
 knitting. 
 
 And he was too self-engrossed to ask. 
 
 Yes, those were wonderful weeks. Every Sunday, 
 after Rosary and Benediction at two o'clock, the whole 
 community strolled from the church down to the shore 
 of the lake, where there was a wide level space set with 
 groups of gnarled old trees. Here was their stage. And 
 here Edwards, looking into the schoolmaster's unhappy 
 eyes as he stood before him, surrounded by four youths 
 in their shiny Sunday coats, forgot all sense of incon- 
 gruity and felt his own voice quaver with sudden emotion, 
 when he asked, for the first time, "Art thou a king, 
 then?" 
 
 Had he been taking any role but that of Pilate, the 
 simple people, who were all eager to play themselves, 
 might have thought his acting an intrusion. But Pilate 
 suited him. To them who identified themselves with 
 Christ and His followers, the Roman governor was the 
 stranger, the outsider, but the man of power also, who 
 held life and death in his right hand. Who said : ' ' Let 
 him be crucified." It was a mystery that such things 
 should be. Yet their Herr Doktor was a mystery too ; a 
 man of another people, like Pilate, and who had power 
 over life and death. Who said to pain, ' ' Let it be cruci- 
 fied." And it was so. 
 
 Therefore, to their minds, he fitted exquisitely to his 
 role; and many of the younger men envied their brothers 
 and cousins, now doing their military service in Inns-
 
 130 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 brack, who were to be his Roman Guard on the great day 
 of the Passion-Play. 
 
 The rehearsals were not over-fatiguing. Everyone 
 knew everyone else's part; there was no need of a 
 prompter. And the fat little priest could spend all his 
 time trotting from one actor to another, suggesting a 
 pose, giving an intonation; and then, when the other's 
 dull mind had failed to catch his meaning, or the clumsy 
 body had made of his pose a graceless posture, throwing 
 his old black straw hat on the ground and dancing on it 
 in despair. 
 
 "Forget what I said," he would shout. ''Forget it. 
 Do it the way you think it ought to be. That'll be the 
 right, the natural way after all." 
 
 But with Ascension Day these wonderful weeks came 
 suddenly to an end. 
 
 No doubt the weather was partially to blame. It had 
 turned cold, and there was even a feeling of snow in the 
 air. The roads were muddy, the meadows damp and 
 bedraggled. Of course, the morning of the feast-day was 
 bearable, for everybody was in church. No one, except 
 the bedridden, would miss ' ' seeing Christ ascend. ' ' 
 
 "What would you?" demanded the priest of Edwards 
 as they stood talking in the sacristy, just before the mass 
 began. "It's an abuse, a liturgical abuse, I admit. 
 Like the Holy Graves on Good Friday. But just try to 
 take it away and see what happens. Why, in 1809, it 
 wasn 't the Habsburgs and liberty that these hard-headed 
 people fought for. It was for their ascending Christ, 
 their Easter Graves, and all their old familiar abuses 
 that the good Bavarian king had tried to reform. 
 'Tolerari potest,' my friend. Can be put up with, in- 
 deed ! Must be put up with, say I. Run along to your 
 seat. The acolyte has got his censer red-hot and is burn- 
 ing holes in his new cassock. We must begin, or he'll 
 set the whole church on fire. ' ' 
 
 The parish church of Thiersee possessed one treasure, 
 which Edwards did most particularly detest. It was a 
 life-sized figure of wood that sat, for most of the Chris- 
 tian year, in a niche of the church wall, behind iron bars,
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 131 
 
 dressed in a purple robe and wearing a crown of thorns. 
 A representation to the faithful of the Savior's flagella- 
 tion and bitter suffering. On Easter Even it was arrayed 
 in white, and was pulled up by cords over the empty 
 cardboard grave, at the breathless moment when the 
 priest sings out into the expectant silence, ' ' Der Heiland 
 ist erstanden. ' ' In this position it swung until Ascension 
 Day, and then it was given a red flag with a white cross 
 on it, a rope was run up to the highest pitch of the church 
 roof, and the image concealed beneath a cloth in the 
 organ-loft. It was Kassian's duty to keep hold of the 
 free end of the rope, and, when the sacring-bell rang, to 
 pull. 
 
 Edwards had a real affection for the homely interior of 
 the little church. The priest at the altar was not only his 
 friend, but a man of God. And he had grown almost 
 accustomed to the bad music. Yet on this Ascension Day 
 he could find but little devotion in the ancient liturgy, 
 although he remembered how his boyish heart used to 
 thrill to "King All Glorious," and tried vainly to cast 
 back his mind to those years of unquestioning belief. 
 His eyes, and the eyes of everybody else, kept wandering 
 to the swinging rope that hung from the roof. He did 
 not realize the importance which it bore to the people 
 about him. They all believed that, as "the Lord 
 ascended into heaven" (by means of Kassian's pulling on 
 the rope), He would turn His face that is, the image 
 would swing round to that particular point of the com- 
 pass from which the farmer might expect the worst 
 storms during the coming year. And how important 
 such a matter is to the man whose whole year 's work may 
 be ruined by too much or too little rain, only a farmer 
 knows. 
 
 The harsh sacring-bell rang out. Edwards fell on 
 his knees and covered his face with his hands. He was 
 utterly ashamed of himself. Never before had he done 
 more than bow his head at the moment of the sacrifice, 
 and now he was acting a devotion he did not feel, so that 
 
 so that he might not watch that awful ridiculous 
 
 figure go swaying through the church, whirling about,
 
 132 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 jerked higher and higher until it banged against the 
 roof. 
 
 When at last he rose to his feet, shamed and humiliated, 
 he saw Kassian wiping the sweat from his brow. His 
 neighbor, the Biirgermeister, pointed upwards to where 
 the figure swung aloft, holding out its red, shaking ban- 
 ner, and said in a loud whisper 
 
 ' ' The storms '11 be coming up the valley this year from, 
 Kufstein way. Though I've lived here, man and boy, 
 and never seen 'em come that way yet." 
 
 As the people streamed out of church, Edwards passed 
 Rosine, who was smoothing down the back of Kassian 's 
 jacket. She seemed immensely proud of him, and Ed- 
 wards heard her say 
 
 "Well, go then. Thou must be thirsty enough after 
 that pull. I '11 hold thy dinner hot for thee half an hour. 
 No more." 
 
 But that same afternoon, after Rosary, when the play- 
 ers gathered for their rehearsal on the lake shore, the 
 rehearsal had to take place without St. Peter. 
 
 "He went back to the Drachen-Wirt after dinner," 
 said Gipfl-Marie disdainfully. "And Rosine can't hold 
 
 him. I know what it is, a brandy-drinker. Their 
 
 victuals has to be just so; and when they've once started 
 drinking they won 't hear no reason. ' ' 
 
 Still later it was after sunset Edwards was stand- 
 ing outside Nani's window, leaning across the sill and 
 looking down, as he loved to do, at the outline of her 
 bended head and neck, when Franzl, followed by a crowd 
 of stragglers, came running up the road from the village. 
 He gave Edwards a surly glance as he caught sight of 
 Nani 's face at the window. 
 
 "The Herr Doktor must come at once/' he said. 
 * ' Kassian has put his arm through a pane of glass at the 
 ' Drachen ' and is bleeding to death. We can 't stop it. ' ' 
 
 Edwards was off in an instant. Ever since he had 
 been in Thiersee he had been expecting something of 
 this kind. Now he knew where to lay his hand on ex- 
 actly what he needed. In a few moments he was hurry- 
 ing after Franzl down the darkening road.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 133 
 
 Kassian was lying on the floor of the inn in a pool of 
 blood, his right arm bound round and round with towels 
 and napkins, through which the red drops oozed slowly. 
 It did not take Edwards long to get things to rights. 
 He slit up the sleeve and bound an "Esmarch" rubber 
 bandage tightly around the arm, just above the elbow, 
 till all the vessels of the hand were cut off from the heart. 
 Then, throwing aside the towels that hid the wrist, he 
 set boundaries to the wound with sterile cloths, sopped 
 up the little remaining blood with aseptic gauze, selected 
 a clamp and held it open, ready to clasp it on the severed 
 radial artery. 
 
 But where was the artery ? 
 
 He remembered so well the picture in his anatomical 
 atlas: a transverse section, laid through the arm just 
 above the wrist, where all the muscles were clearly out- 
 lined, the nerves colored white, the blood-vessels red. 
 He remembered, too, his old teacher of practical surgery 
 demonstrating on the "cadaver" and saying, "At the 
 wrist, gentlemen, the radial and ulnar arteries look each 
 other in the face across the hand; the nerves are on the 
 outside." 
 
 But these memory-pictures and he strained himself 
 to bring them clearly before his mind's eye had little 
 or nothing in common with the jagged wound that gaped 
 beneath his fingers. The cut ran unevenly across the 
 wrist and up into the thumb; the ligaments under the 
 corium were severed and sprung apart, so that the ten- 
 dons and tendon-sheaths were no longer held together 
 in compact bundles, but lay all mixed up together like 
 tangled strands of shining silk. And in the depths of 
 this mass of tendon and bleeding muscle somewhere were 
 the nerves, the veins, above all, the ends of the severed 
 radial artery. 
 
 And while he mopped out the wound for the 
 "Esinarch" above the elbow had stopped the bleeding, 
 or at least the spouting of the, larger vessels, while he 
 called up again and again in his mind the pictures from 
 his anatomical atlas, the little group of onlookers at his 
 shoulder waited and watched their Wonder-Man, breath-
 
 134 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 ing heavily on the back of his neck, cutting off his light, 
 making him more and more nervous as moment after 
 moment passed by. 
 
 He had pictured the scene quite differently. As he 
 had hastened down the road, he had planned out the 
 entire operation. It was to be one of those imposing 
 little matters that he did with such zest. "Big Medi- 
 cine, ' ' as Father Mathias would have said. He expected 
 to find the artery severed a minor detail. He would 
 ligature that. Then, no doubt, several tendons would be 
 cut also, and here he could show his people something. 
 He would do a ' ' tendon-suture ' ' under their noses ; would 
 pick up the loose ends. True, these same ends sometimes 
 snapped back into their sheaths like cut elastic bands, and 
 were hard to find. But he would find them. And if 
 they were difficult to join he would make one of those 
 clever diverging incisions by means of which the length 
 of a tendon is increased by the few necessary millimeters 
 without weakening it at all. And perhaps, he had 
 thought as he ran on perhaps one of the nerves would 
 be severed too; probably the superficial strand of the 
 radial nerve. In that case he would close the wound 
 temporarily, and later he could do a plastic nerve opera- 
 tion. They required great skill; but he had watched 
 Professor Schroeder at work on just such a case. He 
 ought to be able to do the trick. 
 
 And now, here he was fussing about in the open 
 wound. He did not even know which was artery, which 
 nerve. 
 
 And there at his shoulder stood the expectant group 
 of onlookers. 
 
 Aha, that must be it ! 
 
 From beneath a ragged mass of connective tissue his 
 forceps had drawn up one end of a vessel, a tiny col- 
 lapsed tube, cut neatly through. From the open end he 
 could press a single drop of blood. This was no nerve, 
 then. Good ! 
 
 In a moment he had slipped the silk beneath it, had 
 tied it fast. Then he made two more ligatures a few
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 135 
 
 millimeters higher up for safety's sake. So that was 
 done. 
 
 He picked out the distal end of one of the severed 
 tendons. Where was the other end that belonged to it? 
 
 He poked about ; he laid the unhurt tendons aside ; 
 he looked and looked. Not one but three tendons were 
 severed, and of their proximal ends not a thing was to 
 be seen. "Like elastic bands," he remembered. They 
 had snapped upwards, towards the muscle from which 
 they sprang. To recover them he would have to increase 
 the size of the wound, make a long incision in the direc- 
 tion of the elbow. And even then, would he surely 
 find them ? 
 
 Fifteen minutes had passed already. The group be- 
 hind him was getting restless. 
 
 The sweat poured down his face. After all he had 
 better leave the tendons alone, for to-day. Later, when 
 the wound had healed a bit and the stiffness of certain 
 fingers had shown him which tendons were cut, then he 
 could make a fresh incision and do a plastic operation, 
 rejoin the nerve, too, if it were severed. Perhaps. He 
 was not so certain of that now. 
 
 He sopped the wound clean of the small amount of 
 blood that had meanwhile trickled from the tiny capil- 
 laries, looked once more at his ligature of the artery, 
 and brought the unhurt tendons into such order as he 
 could. Now he felt surer of himself ; he worked quickly. 
 And now he had caught together the gaping edges with a 
 few stitches that could be easily removed did the wound 
 not do well. Then he dabbed the whole wrist with iodine 
 and bandaged. 
 
 He was proud of his bandaging. 
 
 "When it was done the arm really looked first-rate. 
 The folds of the bandage lay so evenly over one another ; 
 not a wrinkle anywhere. 
 
 Meanwhile, sobered by the loss of blood, Kassian had 
 opened his eyes. He glanced down contentedly at his 
 neatly-bandaged wrist. 
 
 "He's to be taken home at once," said Edwards.
 
 136 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Two or three of you go with him and see that he's 
 put to bed. He has lost a lot of blood, remember. ' ' 
 
 He did not follow his patient. What was the use? 
 He would come and see him in the morning. 
 
 As he turned away, however, he heard the Biirger- 
 meister say to his son Franzl, who had thrown a coat 
 over Kassian's shoulders and was helping him to 'his 
 feet, "And then thou'll fetch the priest." 
 
 Edwards was on the point of protesting. There was 
 no danger. Why fetch the priest, then ? For a moment 
 he thought of explaining to the Biirgermeister how sim- 
 ple the whole thing was, how sure of healing ; thought of 
 explaining what he intended to do for the severed ten- 
 dons, so that Kassian should not even have a stiff, use- 
 less finger as a memento of this Ascension Day. But 
 then he remembered something that the priest had said 
 to him only a few days before, "A man who makes 'Big 
 Medicine,' like you and me, must keep to himself his 
 little ways of making it. Religion never explains. Sci- 
 ence, so far as the layman is concerned, ought to be proud 
 enough to follow her example. ' ' 
 
 So Edwards told the Biirgermeister nothing. If these 
 people thought that Kassian had been or was in great 
 danger, let them think so. All the greater glory to him 
 when they found themselves mistaken. 
 
 But to Joncke, whom he met hurrying towards him 
 down the road, he had to speak. The little operation 
 had somewhat shaken his nerves. By describing it to 
 another, not exactly as it had been but as he had orig- 
 inally planned it in his mind, he felt instinctively that 
 his self-confidence would be strengthened anew. 
 
 "You needn't be in such a hurry," he said, detaining 
 Joncke. "Kassian's right enough. I tied up the ar- 
 tery." 
 
 He began to describe the wound. Suddenly he 
 stopped; his jaw dropped. 
 
 "What's the matter?" Joncke demanded. 
 
 Edwards did not answer. Then, after a moment's 
 silence, he said 
 
 "Something had slipped my mind, and I've just re-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 137 
 
 membered it. Please run down to Kassian's house and 
 tell Rosine to take off the rubber bandage that I put 
 round his upper arm to stop the bleeding. ' ' 
 
 Joncke hurried off. But Edwards did not move. 
 
 The"Esmarch"! 
 
 He had quite forgotten to unwind it after tying up 
 the artery. He must have been badly frightened to do 
 that. The idiots who were looking after Kassian might 
 have supposed it to be part of the dressing and have kept 
 it on all night. And a wounded hand, with all blood- 
 nourishment cut off from it for twelve hours ! Heavens, 
 how could such a wound even begin to heal ? 
 
 Well, there was no harm done. 
 
 But but 
 
 If he had removed the "Esmarch," as he ought to 
 have done after tying up the severed artery, the rush of 
 blood would have shown him whether any other smaller 
 vessels had been injured. He could have ligatured these. 
 Then, too, he would have been sure that he had found 
 had found 
 
 "What a fool I am," he told himself angrily. "I've 
 lost my balance, just because I had to work fifteen min- 
 utes instead of five over that confounded wound. It 
 wasn't typical. That was the trouble. With a normal 
 typical wound I'd have been all right. Such unusual 
 cases happen to everyone. I won't think about it any 
 more. ' ' 
 
 And he did not. When Joncke came back, carrying 
 the roll of rubber-bandage, and told him how he had 
 found Kassian being shriven by the hurriedly-summoned 
 priest, they laughed together over the terror that besets 
 most men at the visible loss of blood, while a deadly in- 
 ternal malady leaves them unmoved. And then, together 
 with Nani, they held their "evening visit" in their tiny 
 Clinic, absorbed all three in discussing the possibility 
 of making room for still another bed. 
 
 Moreover, the auditing of the last week's accounts, 
 after supper in the kitchen downstairs, drove all minor 
 worries from Edwards' mind. For his own small sav- 
 ings were rapidly dwindling, and from the Burger-
 
 138 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 meister he could claim nothing until quarter-day. But 
 Joncke 's enthusiasm prevailed over Frau Speckbacher 's 
 anxious warnings. There would be a third bed. A few 
 boards, some straw, and Joncke had insisted on offering 
 one of his own sheets. It was long ; cut in half it would 
 make two sheets for Greier-Susi 's baby, that had been 
 left alone to fall across the hot stove and burn its thin 
 little body most cruelly. Greier-Susi 's young man was 
 doing his military service, and she did work by the day 
 at different farmhouses, dropping the child one of the 
 Unexpected that had broken poor Father Holtzmann's 
 heart here or there, as she would drop her hat or cloak, 
 when she went out to work in field or stable. 
 
 As Edwards counted over his small store of ready 
 money that same night, he came across Professor 
 Schroeder's card, on which his kind old friend had 
 written those mysterious words, "GYGES HIS RING." It 
 was strange, Edwards thought, that he had had no an- 
 swer to the letter of thanks he had sent to the Professor 
 almost a month ago, and that Kassian had taken into 
 Kufstein to post, when he drove off after his wedding, 
 with Rosine at his side. But Schroeder was a busy man, 
 as Edwards well knew. Perhaps if he wrote again, ex- 
 plaining the conditions at Thiersee and the pressing needs 
 of his little clinic, perhaps the Schroeders might help. 
 They had done so much for him already. And had not 
 Father Mathias once said that they had a country place 
 somewhere in the neighborhood? 
 
 With these hopeful plans still in his mind, he w r oke 
 next morning to the sound of the children's voices as 
 they gathered from all directions around the steps of 
 the schoolhouse. He was humming contentedly, while 
 shaving in front of his tiny distorting mirror, when he 
 heard heavy footsteps outside the door. It opened, and 
 he caught Joncke 's troubled tones as he spoke over his 
 shoulder to Nani, who followed at his heels. 
 
 "No. I '11 tell him myself. ' ' 
 
 " Kassian 's dead," said Joncke with embarrassed di- 
 rectness. ' ' The wound must have started bleeding again 
 last night. They found him this morning early."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 139 
 
 Edwards went on shaving. He wondered why he did 
 not cut himself . But he didn't. His hand was perfectly 
 steady. 
 
 "You mustn't mind," Joncke added, as Edwards made 
 no answer. "It's no great loss. I never did want him 
 to play St. Peter, you know." 
 
 "You'll be late for school," was all that Edwards 
 said. 
 
 Joncke left the room utterly wretched. 
 
 When he had gone, Edwards dropped into a chair 
 and looked out of his window down the road towards 
 the peaceful little lake. He might as well say good-by 
 to it now. 
 
 So it was no mere loss of nerve that had tormented 
 him last night; no groundless fear that had lain heavy 
 in his subconsciousness all through the long dark hours. 
 He had made a mistake. 
 
 He had ligatured the vein. Not the artery at all. 
 
 The compression of the bandaging, the stitches in the 
 closed wound had held back the stream of blood for a 
 while. Then gradually it had made its way through 
 the few clots that blocked its path, through the lips of 
 the wound and the layers of aseptic gauze. He could 
 see them appearing one by one, the tell-tale spots of 
 bright red, spreading slowly on the whiteness of his 
 bandages. The bandages of which he had been so proud. 
 
 If he had only remembered to take off the ' ' Esmarch ' ' 
 at the right time. Then he must have seen the spouting 
 of the still open artery ; must have realized that he had 
 tied up a useless vein. If he had only remembered! 
 
 This, then, would be the end of his practice. 
 
 Everything was against him. Even his reputation as 
 a Worker of Wonders among these people. He had 
 made no mistakes before ; all things had prospered under 
 his hand. And now they would feel and resent all the 
 more this blunder, this murderous blunder. Their con- 
 fidence in him was at an end. 
 
 But that was not the worst. Rosine would welcome 
 the chance to avenge her newly-wedded husband. He 
 had seen and heard of such cases only too often at
 
 140 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Innsbruck, in the clinics. She would get hold of some 
 low-class lawyer and file a "claim for compensation." 
 Then the whole thing would come before the courts; 
 his practicing without proper qualification and all the 
 rest of it. They might go still further back into his past 
 life, might dig up so much that was better left buried. 
 They were like hyenas, these zealous petty lawyers. He 
 knew the type. A nice tale, too, for the local news- 
 papers. There would be enough scandal there to break 
 any man. And it would mean that he could never finish 
 his work in Austria; never get a place in one of the 
 clinics; never even go up for his examinations and take 
 his degree. The fine imposed by the courts would be 
 enormous. He had no money. And prison was the only 
 alternative. 
 
 And Professor Schroeder, the friend who had trusted 
 him, would not he too be dragged into the very midst 
 of this discreditable affair? 
 
 The best thing he could do was to disappear. 
 
 That very morning he would pack all the instru- 
 ments the Professor had lent him; he would entrust 
 them to Joncke, who would see that they reached their 
 owner somehow. And then he would simply walk into 
 Kufstein and take the train for Munich. He would 
 have to leave all his belongings behind, so as not to 
 excite suspicion. It would be hard to part from his 
 microscope. In order to pay for it he had gone about 
 almost in rags for three long years. And his books! 
 But that was just his luck. 
 
 Abruptly he laughed. 
 
 Why, he had been through this same thing once be- 
 fore. Almost exactly. The same sort of a sudden blow, 
 unexpected, unforeseen; and with it the abrupt ending 
 of a part of his life, which he had thought would never 
 end. This strange sense of unreality, this uncanny gid- 
 diness and pain over his heart, he had felt them all be- 
 fore. And the same thing would happen here. He 
 would walk out of these surroundings, from among these 
 friends, quietly, no one suspecting that he was speaking
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 141 
 
 with them for the last time. And he would never see 
 them again, never. 
 
 Somewhere out in the world he would wander about 
 until he chanced on some attractive town or village, 
 where he was an outsider, as he had been in Inns- 
 bruck; and after many months, perhaps years of loneli- 
 ness, he would make for himself some small place in the 
 hearts of this stranger people; some small work for 
 his hands to do, some small happiness. And then 
 something would happen. 
 
 And it would be all to do again; to win and to lose 
 once more. 
 
 Would it not be better, wiser, to make an end now? 
 
 His life in Tyrol was finished. Why not finish it 
 wholly, once for all? 
 
 Not yet. And not here. For the sake of Schroeder, 
 who had been kind to him, for Joncke's sake, and be- 
 cause of the priest's friendship. He must let no one sus- 
 pect what had become of him. 
 
 He finished dressing and left the room. But in the 
 hall-way Toni called him. 
 
 ' ' Herr Doktor, aren 't you coming soon ? The coffee 's 
 getting all cold." 
 
 It had been his custom of late to take his morning 
 coffee with the two patients in his "Clinic." Little 
 Helena and Toni always waited for him, and he had a 
 chance to observe them then that had given him the 
 first idea of many a ruse in his fight with disease. But 
 to-day he could not go in. He called through the open 
 door, not trusting himself even to raise his eyes. 
 
 "Drink your coffee at once, both of you. Toni, you 
 break Helena's bread up for her. I must go down to 
 the village." 
 
 "But my 'Bussi' my 'Bussi.' ' 
 
 Helena's shrill little voice was not to be gainsaid. 
 He kissed her; gave her her "Bussi," as Tyrolese chil- 
 dren call their morning kiss, and hurried out of the 
 house. 
 
 The evil weather of the previous day had given place
 
 142 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 to unexpected sunshine. A soft haze hung over every- 
 thing, blurring the outlines of the mountains. And it 
 added to the sense of unreality that Edwards felt. 
 Half-way down the hill he stopped for an instant, his 
 hand pressed to his heart. 
 
 "That would be the simplest way," he muttered, as 
 the pain passed. " But no such luck. Not for me." 
 
 At Kassian's front door there was a group of people 
 whispering with their heads close together. As they 
 saw Edwards coming down the road they made way 
 for him. The men took off their hats; the women 
 curtsied. Edwards did not dare look into their faces; 
 he feared the hostility which he felt must be lowering 
 there. 
 
 In the living-room, with their backs against the huge 
 stove, were the Biirgermeister and the priest. The Bur- 
 germeister stepped forward. Edwards heard his great 
 hob-nailed shoes creak on the flooring. 
 
 "Well, he thought, I must not stand here like a beaten 
 schoolboy. I've some pride still. I can look even my 
 enemies in the face. 
 
 As he lifted his head, one of the Biirgermeister 's heavy 
 hands fell on his shoulder ; and the eyes that looked down 
 into his were kindly, were full of the sympathy of a slow 
 hard man moved to deep feeling at last. 
 
 "You mustn't take it so to heart," Edwards heard 
 him say. "Could you could anyone have done more? 
 Didn't I watch you yesterday, how hard you worked? 
 I saw the sweat run down into your eyes myself." He 
 turned to the priest. ' ' Hochwiirden, my tongue's 
 clumsy. You tell him." 
 
 "It's only this," said the priest's deep voice. "We 
 don't want you to worry. You did your best. But God 
 overrules even your science and skill sometimes. ' ' 
 
 Edwards felt the room begin to whirl around him. 
 Then, in an instant, the sense of unreality, as if he 
 himself had no connection with all that was going on 
 about him, fell away; he was once more among his 
 own people, the people who trusted and cared for him 
 still.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 143 
 
 "And Rosine?" he stammered. 
 
 At that moment she appeared on the threshold of the 
 inner room. She had thrown a black shawl over her 
 shoulders : her eyes were red and swollen. She came for- 
 ward, bent down and lifted Edwards' hand to her lips. 
 
 ' ' We must thank you, me and my Kassian. God rest 
 him in His Sacred Heart." 
 
 "But for what? Rosine, I'm afraid I I didn't " 
 
 "Herr Doktor," she interposed, drawing the black 
 shawl closer about her shoulders, "before you came to 
 Thiersee, when a man cut open his wrist as Kassian did 
 (God give him rest!), he bled to death there where he 
 lay, drunk, in his sins. And his house, his farm, he 
 left in disorder. It couldn't be otherwise. And it was 
 hard on the wife. But now since you've been 
 here " 
 
 She hesitated ; then went on more rapidly 
 
 "Look, Herr Doktor. "When Kassian was brought 
 back to me I put him to bed. He was weak. But his 
 mind was clear. Then the priest came. He had time, 
 my Kassian did (God rest him soft!) ; time to make his 
 peace. Didn't he, Hochwiirden? And then he bade us 
 get paper and ink; and at his bidding Hochwiirden here 
 drew up his will. He'd been putting it off. We'd been 
 married so short a time. Ah, he didn't know he was near 
 his end, God rest him. But it was a warning, he said, 
 this cutting open of his arm. So he made order in his 
 household, as he'd made order in his soul. By-and-by 
 the Herr Lehrer came; you sent him for the rubber 
 bandage. That had pained my man a little. And when 
 it was off, he said he felt so comfortable that he'd try 
 to doze a while. So I covered him up to the chin with 
 the best coverlet. He was soon asleep. Then I went to 
 bed too. What with the worry and all I was tired out. 
 And this morning Oh Mother of God the bed-clothes 
 under him were soaked through and through with blood. 
 My own nightgown was stained with it. God rest him. 
 He did drink. But he was a good man, a good man. 
 And, Herr Doktor, that's what you've done for us for 
 Kassian and me. Without you he'd have gone with
 
 144 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 his sins thick on him, and 'd have left me, perhaps 
 not mistress here, where he'd been master so many 
 years." 
 
 Edwards' knees began to tremble; he let himself fall 
 on a bench near the stove. 
 
 For a passing moment he had an impulse to jump up 
 and tell these people the truth. But he caught the 
 priest's watchful eye fixed on him, and behind the Bur- 
 germeister's back Father Mathias laid a fat finger sig- 
 nificantly on his lips. 
 
 Well, he would profit then by chance. It would be 
 the first time that chance had stood him in good stead. 
 
 "Will you come in and see him?" said Rosine. "I'm 
 trying to get him into his best coat, the coat he was 
 married in and that he wouldn't wear on our honeymoon. 
 'Twas too fine, he said." 
 
 Edwards followed her. And, as he lifted the stiffen- 
 ing arm of the dead man to thrust it into the sleeve of 
 black broadcloth, he felt something crinkle under his 
 hand in the inside pocket. He drew out two letters, 
 directed in his own handwriting, to Professor and to 
 Frau Professor Schroeder in Innsbruck. 
 
 An hour later, when he got back to the schoolhouse, 
 where Joncke's violin was leading the harsh voices of 
 the children in a hymn for Pentecost, Edwards stopped 
 at the door of his ' ' Clinic ' ' and went in. Little Helena 
 was playing with a rag doll, Toni was deep in a book. 
 Edwards picked up the child and kissed her. 
 
 "That was a real 'Bussi,' " she said.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 EDWARDS could never quite decide when it began, his 
 own insidious illness. It was the harder to recognize 
 at its root because it was an illness of the mind, com- 
 bined with the reactive results of his over-sensitive nerv- 
 ous system; almost impossible to combat, because it 
 was upon him in its strength before he had understood 
 what was happening. And then it was too late. But 
 three things stood out in his memory always the mental 
 shock at Kassian's death, Franzl's ill-natured gossip, and 
 the bottle of Scotch whisky. 
 
 The whisky was an offering from Rosine. At Kas- 
 sian's funeral Edwards had refused a glass of schnaps. 
 Rosine had asked him what he did drink; and in a mo- 
 ment of thoughtlessness he had said, "Scotch whisky, 
 when I can get it." She had, as he thought, feigned a 
 polite interest, had even made him write down the Eng- 
 lish words for her. Then, two weeks later, the Biirger- 
 meister, returning from a business journey to Innsbruck, 
 had left at the schoolhouse for the Herr Doktor a bot- 
 tle "Mit Gruss, von Rosine." 
 
 Next evening the Biirgermeister called : the bottle was 
 opened with due ceremony. But the Biirgermeister 
 found it ''poor stuff." When he had gone Edwards lit 
 his pipe and mixed himself a long drink ; a mixture which 
 no Tyroler would have understood, for a schnaps must 
 be vile indeed if one must dilute it with water. 
 
 And that same night Edwards had slept as he had not 
 slept for weeks. 
 
 He had slipped lazily into bed and had lain there on 
 his back not tossing to and fro as his custom had been 
 of late, but resting at perfect peace with the world, his 
 tired body dissolved in a luxurious sense of wellbeing. 
 The worries of the past day, that usually presented them- 
 
 145
 
 146 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 selves to his tired brain as extravagantly troublesome, 
 the planning of seemingly impossible tasks for the day 
 to come, or, worst of all, the revival of old memories that 
 flogged him with whips of shame, all these torments had 
 now given place to a sense of contentment, to a pleasant 
 borderland of peace where he could think of the past 
 without bitterness, of the present and the future without 
 anxiety. 
 
 "When he woke next morning his mouth had an evil 
 taste, and he passed an unpleasant ten minutes until 
 he had bathed. Nor did his cup of coffee, taken with 
 Toni and little Helena, taste quite as delicious as usual. 
 
 For two whole weeks he nursed that single bottle of 
 whisky. 
 
 "When it was done he slept badly for three nights. 
 He tried to tell himself that the small amount of alcohol 
 he had been taking could not possibly have had much 
 effect on his sleeping; that the whole thing was self- 
 suggestion, and that if he filled the empty bottle with 
 yellow water and could believe it whisky, he would sleep 
 as he had slept before. It was no use. The fourth night 
 was a Sunday, and on his way home from his usual sup- 
 per at the "Widum" he had passed the Drachen-Wirt's 
 house. Before he realized what he was doing, he found 
 himself tapping at the front window. The Drachen- 
 "Wirt himself had opened it, and Edwards had heard his 
 own voice saying, "Could you give me a dram of good 
 schnaps, Herr Wirt ? I 'm a bit out of order inside. 1 11 
 take it with me, please." 
 
 When he took count of his surroundings once more, 
 he was walking on up the road, his hand clasped round 
 the tiny glass decanter in which innkeepers serve "Ein 
 Achtel Schnaps" to their better customers. He stopped 
 in the middle of the road and poured out the spirits in 
 the mud. 
 
 All but a few drops. 
 
 Yet, as soon as he was safe in his own room, he 
 emptied those few drops into a glass, washed out the 
 decanter with water, filled up the glass with the wash- 
 ings, and drank the mixture off, reproaching himself for
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 147 
 
 having been so idiotic as to waste the good stuff. That 
 night he slept better. Or he thought so. 
 
 Thereafter, afraid of his subconscious self, he made a 
 rule that he never broke. Once every week Nani fetched 
 from the inn "Em Viertel Schnaps"; and Edwards 
 amused himself, by exercising really exercising his 
 self-control, by pouring out a small nightly portion of 
 this half-pint, and then tipping half of that out of the 
 window before he drank the rest. 
 
 But schnaps or no schnaps, he slept worse and worse. 
 
 There were other signs of coming trouble, had he but 
 given thought to them. But he was too taken up with 
 others to spend much time worrying about himself. 
 
 Gradually a sort of iron-clad ceremonial grouped itself 
 around certain ordinary actions. The number ' ' Seven, ' ' 
 for instance, began to dominate him everywhere. When 
 he stepped across the threshold of a door, he took care 
 that it should be the seventh step that crossed it. If by 
 mistake he took that seventh step with his left foot, he 
 would go back furtively, if no one were looking, and 
 cross the threshold once again, right foot foremost. 
 
 And it took him longer and longer to get to bed at 
 night. 
 
 His clothes, for instance, had to be lain out in certain 
 exact positions. If his socks seemed but a trifle out 
 of line, he would be compelled to get up and rearrange 
 them. His cravat, ready for the morrow under his turn- 
 down collar, had to have the two protruding ends of ex- 
 actly the same length. Otherwise, he could not get into 
 bed. He laughed at himself at first. Then he tried to 
 free himself. But he only partially succeeded; and 
 where one series of ceremonial acts was overcome, another 
 sprang up in its stead. 
 
 There was that foolish superstition about his bedroom 
 candle. 
 
 When he blew it out, as he lay in bed, he had to 
 blow seven times. The seventh blow must extinguish 
 it. If the sixth one did so, he would get up, relight 
 the candle, and go through the whole ceremony again. 
 Once he roused his will and extinguished the candle
 
 148 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 with one strong puff. As a result he lay in bed wide 
 awake, obsessed by an overpowering idea that now he 
 must die in the night because he had disregarded the 
 usual ceremonial. It was as if this strange habitual 
 rite held misfortune at bay. Were it omitted, Nemesis 
 must descend suddenly upon him in some form or other. 
 
 After half an hour of torment, he relit the candle, 
 blew it out with the seventh puff, and slept in peace. 
 
 Thus in his own person, gradually, subconsciously, he 
 passed through a process reflecting the mental develop- 
 ment of the entire race. He began to attach objective 
 power to these senseless habits. They became true cere- 
 monies ; they became live things ; powerful, in some mys- 
 terious way, to ward off evil. And from a sense of 
 superstition to some form of religion is but a short step. 
 
 In every Tyrolese house in the country, at least 
 there hangs on the wall, beside the door of each bed- 
 room, a little white porcelain cup of holy-water. It 
 hangs high up : to dip into it, one must lift one 's hand. 
 And because one can never see what is in it, it is seldom, 
 if ever, washed out, but is filled and refilled until the 
 water in it is thick with dust and dirt and all unclean- 
 ness. 
 
 There was, of course, such a cup on the wall by 
 Edwards' door. When he first came, he had tipped 
 out the water and washed the cup himself. Nani had 
 religiously refilled it. Of late he had acquired a new 
 habit in connection with it or rather, he had re-ac- 
 quired a habit of his childhood. One night, when he 
 had been sleeping badly for weeks, he had dipped his 
 fingers in the holy-water and had sprinkled his bed with 
 it. He slept better that night he thought. And from 
 that time on he could not physically could not get 
 into bed without first performing this lustral rite. 
 
 He sought and found excuses. He told himself that 
 he did not believe in the efficacy of the holy- water; 
 that he was merely repeating a symbolical act, a sign of 
 cleanness of body and mind; an ancient rite Roman, 
 Buddhistic, too common to all religions. He filled up 
 the holy-water cup with ordinary water from his wash-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 149 
 
 pitcher; but he sprinkled his bed with it all the same. 
 He could not have slept else. 
 
 Curiously enough these "fixed ideas" were the prod- 
 ucts of darkness. When he woke in the morning, they 
 were gone. Then he was as a man released from bond- 
 age. But at night, as soon as bedtime drew near, the 
 old habit of these senseless ceremonies resumed its sway, 
 and if he wished to rest well he must go through with 
 them all. 
 
 Perhaps the concentration of his mind on such petty 
 acts during the evening hours, at supper and afterwards, 
 when he and Joncke were often alone together, kept 
 him from noticing a change in the schoolmaster. Or 
 if he felt the change, it was not unpleasantly. For of 
 late Joncke had come somewhat out of himself. He 
 talked more. But he talked continually of Edwards : of 
 what he had done for this person or that; of what a 
 wonderful thing it was for Thiersee anyhow to have 
 such a man in their midst even for a time; and of 
 how wickedly ungrateful people were for all these bene- 
 fits. His compliments were fulsome. A keener observer 
 than Edwards would have realized that some hostile force 
 was impinging on Joncke 's devotion to his companion, 
 and by its adverse action was hypertrophying his un- 
 conscious need of giving words to the persistence of his 
 own fidelity. 
 
 April was over, and Edwards' last balance-sheet had 
 caused him much worry. Not yet had he been able to 
 finish his letter of explanations to Professor Schroeder, 
 for together with his new abnormal habits had come a 
 tendency to procrastinate, that he yielded to more and 
 more. But the sight of this last balance-sheet deter- 
 mined him, and he was half-way through a letter en- 
 closing the strayed ones found in Kassian's pocket, 
 when a message came from Gipfl-Paul, the shoemaker, 
 that his wife was ill again. 
 
 Edwards set off at once. Gipfl-Paul lived only a 
 stone's throw from the schoolhouse, in a dusty tumble- 
 down cottage, the oldest as well as the most pictur- 
 esque in the village. He was a little man, mostly beard,
 
 150 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 and, because of his beard, chosen to take Kassian 's place 
 in the Play as St. Peter. The community had but one 
 grudge against him: he was not Tyrolese born, but had 
 come from the Salzkammergut years before, and had 
 cobbled for the villagers ever since. There was scarcely 
 enough cobbling in Thiersee to keep a single man, but 
 somehow or other Gipfl-Paul managed to support a large 
 family. 
 
 Edwards had heard that the occasional tourists 
 mostly Germans from the north who passed through 
 Thiersee on summer walking tours, would almost al- 
 ways stop at Gipfl's house; for local tradition claimed 
 (indeed Gipfl said the red Guide-Books claimed it too) 
 that the great Andreas Hofer had once made his head- 
 quarters there during the last hopeless months of his 
 struggle against the overpowering French, when, dis- 
 avowed by his own sovereign, distrusted by the well-to- 
 do, and deserted by all but his little band of fanatics, 
 he was still fighting for the God, the Kaiser, and the 
 Fatherland, who had left him in the lurch to die. 
 
 Most houses in Tyrol, in which Andreas Hofer un- 
 doubtedly did stay, have nothing of the picturesque 
 about them: they have been rebuilt or freshly painted; 
 they do not appeal to the tourist. But Gipfl's house 
 did appeal. Perhaps that was one reason why he never 
 rebuilt, or painted, or even washed. 
 
 Edwards found the Gipfl-Marie propped up in bed 
 and fighting for breath. Her broad chest was heaving, 
 all the accessory muscles working at their highest ten- 
 sion to bring her the air that she was gasping for. 
 Bronchial Asthma. Edwards knew it well enough. 
 Since he had been at Thiersee the woman had had three 
 of these bad attacks, and he had exhausted all his knowl- 
 edge to help her, without much success. But to-day he 
 carried with him a new weapon Adrenalin. He had 
 once seen it used in the clinic. And at his request one 
 of his friends in Innsbruck had sent him a small amount 
 in tabloids. 
 
 Marie's husband was sitting in a dim dusty corner 
 of the room, and, as Edwards came in, he put some-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 151 
 
 thing hastily aside. He seemed more than usually sulky, 
 but Edwards did not mind. 
 
 "I've got some new medicine for you, Marie," he 
 said. "I don't know whether it will cure you. But 
 I'm pretty sure it will put a quick stop to your bad 
 breathing. I suppose you haven't slept all night." 
 
 The woman shook her head. In spite of her big 
 strong body, the asthma made her a helpless invalid 
 for a good part of every year. Edwards sent Gipfl off 
 for a glass of fresh water. Here in the country one 
 could not afford the luxury of ' ' aqua distillata. ' ' While 
 Gipfl was gone he sat down on the cobbler's bench; 
 there were no other chairs; and his eyes happened to 
 rest on the thing that Gipfl had been bending over as 
 he came in. 
 
 It was one of those wide Tyrolese leather belts, of 
 a girth that one seldom sees now, except in pictures 
 of the men who fought with Andreas Hofer in 1809. 
 It was very dusty, the leather dry as if with age. And 
 in the front of the belt, as the custom still is in Tyrol, 
 were embroidered in faded letters the initials of its 
 owner's name. Edwards was trying to decipher these 
 when Gipfl returned. Mechanically he dissolved his 
 tabloid of Adrenalin and injected the solution into 
 Marie 's sun-browned arm ; but his thoughts were on that 
 old belt, and before Gipfl had time to slip away he had 
 turned and taken from his hands the broad band of 
 leather which the cobbler seemed so anxious to conceal. 
 
 "Where did you get that?" Edwards demanded. 
 
 " 'Tisn't nothing but an old belt. Not worth ten 
 kreutzer. I was going to use the leather for patches. 
 I found it this morning stuck away behind that beam 
 yonder, all covered with cobwebs." 
 
 Edwards seized it and carried it to the light. His 
 first glance then had not deceived him. There were 
 the embroidered initials, A. H. Gipfl had found it 
 tucked away in some corner where it had lain for years 
 a hundred years. And local tradition, even the guide- 
 books, said that in this very house 
 
 A belt, a real belt once worn by Andreas Hofer !
 
 152 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 There was only one such in existence. In the Inns- 
 bruck Museum. And there were a hundred collectors 
 of Tyroliana who would give almost anything in reason 
 for another. What they would give would put another 
 bed, perhaps two beds, in his little Clinic at the school- 
 house; would keep it going for months; would make 
 his begging letter to Professor Schroeder unnecessary 
 after all. 
 
 For an instant he was tempted to say nothing to 
 Gipfl, merely to buy the belt as a bit of old leather and 
 pocket the results of its sale. But the poverty of the 
 room in which he stood gave him pause. Gipfl would 
 need the money. They would halve the profits between 
 them. So, his voice trembling with excitement, he ex- 
 plained to Gipfl the nature and value of his find. 
 
 "What's that you say!" exclaimed Gipfl, without 
 showing much enthusiasm. ' ' Belonged to Andra Hof er ! 
 There be many Andra Hofers and Hausers and 
 Holtzmanns in Tyrol. Maybe 'tisn't even an old belt. 
 Do you know aught of leather work ? No. Well, I can 't 
 say myself. It might be. And again it might not. ' ' 
 
 Edwards explained his plan. He would take the belt 
 to Innsbruck, and would divide with Gipfl what he could 
 get for it. He knew slightly the Curator of the National 
 Museum: he would submit the belt to him. 
 
 To his surprise Gipfl did not seem at all pleased. 
 
 "Nay, nay," he said. "I'll not be letting the belt out 
 of my sight. If them sly city-people get hold of it, 
 111 never see it again. And there's plenty of tourists 
 coming along now who'll buy the thing if it's worth 
 buying. How do I know that it belonged to Andra 
 Hof er ? I 'm a poor man ; but if the Herr Doktor wants 
 to buy it himself now, and take the risk of its being 
 what he thinks, why, that's different. Perhaps then 
 I might " 
 
 "Herr Doktor," said Marie's voice from behind Gipfl, 
 "Herr Doktor, I can breathe breathe." 
 
 In the heat of his discussion Edwards had forgotten 
 his patient. Now, as he bent over the bed, it seemed 
 almost miraculous, this sudden loosening of the bron-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 153 
 
 chial cramp. She was taking full deep breaths ; her face 
 was healthily suffused; her heaving shoulders were at 
 rest. 
 
 "Vergelt's Gott, Herr Doktor, " she added, smiling. 
 "If my man will take his cobbling out into the sun 
 where it won't disturb me, I think I could sleep now. 
 What 's that you 've got there ? Not a belt ? ' ' 
 
 She clung to his sleeve and tried to draw his face down 
 to her own. But Gipfl pushed in between them. 
 
 "We'd better talk outside," he whispered, as he al- 
 most forced Edwards out of the room. "The poor wife 
 don't know what she's a-saying. She's that feverish. 
 But she ain't making such a nasty noise with her breath- 
 ing. I'll say that for your needle-prick medicine. 
 .We'll leave her to go to sleep." 
 
 Outside the house they bargained. And finally Ed- 
 wards agreed to part with the last fifty crowns that he 
 possessed. As Gipfl said: "For a rich man like you 
 fifty crowns ain't much to risk. If the belt was Andra 
 Hof er 's you '11 get five hundred for it easy. Not that I 'm 
 saying it was. Though I've looked at the one in the 
 Innsbruck Museum many a time, and this old belt does 
 look like the belt there, it do. So that's my price. 
 Fifty crowns now. And if the thing turns out genuine 
 you're to give me one hundred crowns more. Why, you 
 might get eight hundred. Even a thousand. I'm sure 
 I 'm making you a very fair offer. ' ' 
 
 It did seem a fair offer, too. Edwards held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "Agreed," he said. "Bring the belt to the school- 
 house this evening, and you shall have your fifty crowns. 
 I don't carry so much money with me." 
 
 It seemed to disappoint Gipfl that the transaction 
 could not be completed at once. But he resigned him- 
 self to the inevitable, and bade Edwards a surly good- 
 
 ky. 
 
 Edwards had gone only a few steps from the house 
 when he remembered that in his haste he had left his 
 hypodermic syringe on the table by Marie's bed. He 
 turned back.
 
 154 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 As he stepped once more into the shadow of the cob- 
 bler's porch he heard high voices; he could not help 
 but hear. 
 
 "Ach, was!" Gipfl was saying, his voice shaking with 
 rage. "Could you earn fifty crowns as easily? And 
 was it my fault that he got hold of the belt ? You know 
 well enough that I make them for the summer tourists. 
 For the Prussians and the fool English. ' ' 
 
 Marie's voice, still weak from her asthma, inter- 
 rupted 
 
 "Do you think he has fifty crowns to throw away? 
 Look at his clothes. You shall not cheat him as if he 
 were an accursed Prussian." 
 
 ' ' Why not ? He doesn 't belong here in Tyrol. Some 
 day he'll disappear as suddenly as he came. 'Ein Zug- 
 ereister!' ! 
 
 Edwards heard the thud of Marie's bare feet on the 
 floor as she jumped out of bed. 
 
 "What? Say that again! A 'Zugereister' is he? 
 And he speaks our tongue, and loves our people, and 
 goes to Sunday supper at the 'Widum,' and and he's 
 Pontius Pilate in the Play. He a ' Zugereister ' ? Then 
 so was the Savior in Galilee." 
 
 Gipfl 's tone rose in angry answer; he was evidently 
 trying to force his wife back into bed. 
 
 "Hold your noise, Gipfl-Marie. If you aren't quiet 
 you'll get another fit of bad breathing, and it makes 
 me nervous to have to sit here and hear you wheeze. 
 And mind your own business. If I want to take fifty 
 crowns from this from the Herr Doktor, why not? 
 I'll wager he's had his hand in other people's pockets 
 oftener than I have. Didn't you hear what the young 
 fellows at the 'Drachen' have been saying about him? 
 I thought there was something wrong with him from 
 the first. Why should a man like him bury himself in 
 Thiersee? 'So ein feiner Herr?' ' 
 
 "It's all a dirty lie. As for that idiot Franzl 
 
 She began to cough. Edwards heard the bed creak 
 as she dropped back among the pillows.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 155 
 
 " God will punish him. Has he no eyes? Have 
 
 you none? Could a bad man do what he does, the 
 Herr Doktor? Do I not know how I have used a thou- 
 sand things, tormented myself and you, trying to get 
 well when my bad breathing came. To the old Herr 
 Benefiziat I went on my knees. But the pine-needles 
 that he told me to burn and snuff in, the holy-water 
 he gave me to drink, the long prayers, did they help 
 much? And now while I am lying here in torment, 
 and you, precious soul, made nervous by my wheezing, 
 in he comes like light in a dark room. And he makes 
 new medicine for me with a piece of white powder. 
 Not even does he trouble me to swallow it. He pricks 
 my skin with it. And in a few moments I have air, I 
 can breathe. May God reward him." 
 
 "Ach, you women are all in love with him. You'd 
 all like to " 
 
 A heavy shoe came sailing through the open door and 
 almost knocked Edwards' hat from his head. 
 
 ' ' Out of my sight, ' ' said the trembling voice of Gipfl- 
 Marie, "or, weak as I am, I'll get up for the broom- 
 stick. You, you hoary old liar, you! As if Andra 
 Hofer ever put a foot in this house. You and your 
 belts ! I take shame to myself that a native-born woman 
 like me, a Tyrolerin, must house together with such 
 as you. You you ' Zugereister ! ' ' 
 
 Gipfl retreated, muttering in his beard and dragging 
 his cobbling bench after him. On the threshold he 
 found himself face to face with Edwards. 
 
 "I want my instruments," Edwards explained. "I 
 left them on your table." 
 
 "When he came out of the house again, after straighten- 
 ing out Marie's disordered bed and making her promise 
 to try and sleep at once, he stopped for a minute by 
 Gipfl 's side. The cobbler was bent double over his work, 
 hammering for dear life at the sole of a huge nailed 
 shoe. 
 
 "I heard what your wife said to you just now," Ed- 
 wards began. "But that makes no difference. No one
 
 156 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 need ever know except us three. Send up the belt and 
 you shall have your fifty crowns. I promised them 
 to you, and I try never to break my word." 
 
 He left Gipfl staring stupidly after him, and walked 
 on down the road, turning to the right towards the 
 lake. He had no heart to go home now. He had 
 thrown away his last fifty crowns for the sake of pro- 
 ducing a foolish theatrical effect. It would have no 
 result: Gipfl would only think him an idiot. And that 
 was exactly what he was. 
 
 Why had he done it? 
 
 He knew the answer to that question well enough. 
 
 He had reacted instinctively against another's dis- 
 honesty by the doing of what seemed an honorable action 
 as a protest against the scandalous tales that were evi- 
 dently afloat in the parish. What could they be? 
 Marie had mentioned Franzl's name. But how could he 
 have any knowledge of of 
 
 From out of the past, from its hiding-place in a distant 
 land, it seemed to Edwards as if some many-armed mon- 
 ster were reaching out at him ; some evil demon whom he 
 had thought to escape by flight, whom he had sup- 
 posed gradually growing old, and so by age reft of his 
 power to harm. And now it appeared that the evil, or 
 the memory of it, was not dead at all. It had stretched 
 out its long hands across thousands of miles, had pursed 
 up its cruel lips, and had whispered to some one, in this 
 far-off valley, a story, some story, distorted no doubt, 
 perhaps quite untrue, but therefore all the more likely 
 of belief; some echo of acts done long ago. 
 
 A whole complex of memories rose in Edwards' mind, 
 together with the picture of that street corner in a 
 provincial American town, together with that outlook 
 on the wooded valley where the chapel tower of his old 
 school rose above the trees; memories that clothed him 
 in a sudden flaming garment of impotent shame, that 
 stood between him and the places that he still called 
 home. 
 
 How had they come here to this guarded valley?
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 157 
 
 And who had brought them ? Was there no escape any- 
 where from these things? 
 
 He passed through the quiet village. The place was 
 absolutely deserted at this hour; the men in the fields, 
 the children at school, the women busy at their house- 
 work. At the entrance to the churchyard he paused, 
 and then walked in among the graves. 
 
 Here lay little Helena's mother. He remembered to 
 have heard some story or other about her. Her husband 
 had once surprised her with the Ah, he remem- 
 bered the tale now. He had often laughed at it. It had 
 quite a Boccaccio-like flavor. Doubtless it was absolutely 
 untrue. 
 
 And over there lay Franzl's great-uncle, a former 
 Biirgermeister. There was a story about him too. He 
 had appropriated money entrusted to him, or something 
 of the kind. A lie also, no doubt. 
 
 Even the dead had no rest: no rest from the evil 
 tongues that perpetuated false traditions of their past 
 misdeeds. 
 
 No, there was no freedom in death from the coil of 
 circumstance, from the interwoven net of cause and 
 effect. 
 
 He expanded his chest, and drew a deep breath of 
 the soft fragrant mountain air. 
 
 And then he wondered how it was with the various 
 cells that line the infmitesimally tiny alveoles of the 
 lungs, the cells that come into direct contact with 
 the air. They were not all of the same size, nor do their 
 nuclei all look exactly alike. Probably some let the 
 air through into the minute blood-vessels that twine 
 them round more easily than others; others that are 
 slightly torpid perhaps, or clogged; not quite so func- 
 tionally perfect as the remaining cells of their immediate 
 environment. Did the many cells that were alike blame 
 the few others that could not work exactly as they did? 
 Did they not realize that there could be no blame at- 
 taching to these few ? that they were what they were be- 
 cause of a thousand complicated chemical processes that
 
 158 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 took place in far-off regions of the body, where there 
 were no lung-cells at all, and of whose existence a lung- 
 cell, as such, could not have even the faintest concep- 
 tion? 
 
 Or suppose the lung was tuberculous. Suppose that 
 almost all the cells around some alveole were poisoned 
 and useless. Would this majority set itself up in judg- 
 ment upon the one or two healthy cells that still acted 
 normally? No doubt they might. And they would be 
 acting as ridiculously as would the few normal cells, 
 should they begin to condemn their tuberculous neigh- 
 bors, demanding from them a mode of life that they 
 were not capable of leading, because they were not 
 what they were through their own choice, but as the 
 inevitable result of forces acting not only in this 
 macrocosm called the body, of whose various other com- 
 plicated regions and their mutually interacting centers 
 the lung-cell could have no understanding, but in 
 spheres even more remote still, forces that impinged 
 on the entity of the body from the immeasurably greater 
 sphere of being without, forces set at such immense 
 distances from the single tiny tuberculous lung-cell that 
 they were unthinkable, from the lung-cell's point of 
 view, be the lung-cell never so clever. 
 
 All true enough, perhaps. But it did not help him 
 much. And he needed help. 
 
 The door leading into the church was open. As Ed- 
 wards passed from the warm summer sun into the dim 
 interior, the damp cold of the place seemed to rise like 
 a fog from the ground and crawl gradually up his 
 limbs, until it had invaded his entire body. The figure 
 of the Ascended Christ no longer dangled from the 
 center of the roof. It stood in its old place, behind 
 the iron bars, clothed in its purple robe and thorny 
 crown. 
 
 It was hideous. So was the entire church. Hid- 
 eous. 
 
 "When it was full, of a Sunday, it had seemed only 
 homely, like the lined unlovely face of some great- 
 hearted mother.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 159 
 
 He turned to go. What had he come here for any- 
 way? 
 
 His eye caught the twinkling flame of the "Ewige 
 Lampe" before the altar. 
 
 He had come here to look for something that might 
 make life less cruel, less unreasonable; that might lend 
 it some moments of peace, some sense of final unity. 
 
 He had come here to seek God. 
 
 And he found the tawdry thorn-crowned image, and 
 this wavering uncertain point of flame. 
 
 The image was a dead thing. The facts, dogmas, 
 ideals that it represented, however crudely, were dead 
 to him too. 
 
 In one of the seats some worshiper had left his 
 prayer-book. Edwards picked it up. It fell open at 
 the Order and Canon of the Mass: the Latin on one 
 side, the heavily-printed German on the other side of 
 the well-thumbed page. And there lay the words that, 
 as a boy, had so often thrilled his inmost being 
 
 ET IDEO CUM ANGELIS ET ARCHANGELIS, CUM THRONIS 
 ET DOMINATIONIBUS, CUMQUE OMNI MILITIA 
 COELESTIS EXERCITUS. 
 
 "All the army of the Heavenly Host." How real 
 they had been to him then! 
 
 And on the next page, in still heavier type, were 
 those other words. Words spoken everywhere and in 
 a never-ending whisper of awe, all over the whole world. 
 Words that had absorbed so much concentrated faith 
 and devotion through hundreds of years that they must 
 have power still 
 
 QUI PRIDIE QUAM PATERETUR, ACCEPIT PANEM. . . . 
 . . . HOC EST CORPUS MEUM. . . . 
 
 He repeated them slowly, hesitatingly, like a fool- 
 hardy "famulus" who opens the book of his master, 
 the magician, and dares to read some mighty charm 
 aloud. 
 
 But they were dead, the words. 
 
 How often in his youth had he bowed, not only his
 
 160 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 knees, but his whole soul and body, in an agony of 
 devotion before the mystery of the Passion, enacted 
 anew on the altar before his eyes! 
 
 And now it was all dead. Dead as that wooden image 
 behind the iron bars, with its crown of thorns and 
 tattered purple robe. 
 
 There was no help here. 
 
 Had he but known it, there never had been help here 
 for him. But when he was a boy, something within 
 him had cried out for expression, and had found a 
 temporary outlet in these acts of worship, in all these 
 complicated forms of word and sacramental rite, which 
 were empty of all meaning now, dead beyond all hope 
 of resurrection. 
 
 Dead dead ! 
 
 As he turned to go, he felt a hand on his shoulder. 
 The parish priest was standing at his elbow. 
 
 "You've forgotten the 'Ewige Lampe,' " he said softly. 
 "That burns; that is consumed; changes its form; be- 
 comes invisible. But it does not cease to exist. 
 
 That's life. A symbol, if you please. But a living 
 
 symbol. It's not all death here. Come in and have 
 
 a chat with me. It's a bad habit you've grown into 
 lately of talking aloud to yourself." 
 
 Edwards had no desire for company just then, but 
 his will seemed broken for the moment. He let the 
 priest lead him where he wished. It was at least a 
 comfort that the kind-hearted, fat little man did not 
 talk much to-day. He found Edwards a comfortable 
 chair in his study, gave him tobacco for his pipe, and 
 then disappeared into the next room, leaving the door 
 between wide open. 
 
 Then, as Edwards sat there, utterly passive, he heard 
 the soft vibrating notes of a 'cello. They floated in 
 from the room beyond, as if from an enchanted dis- 
 tance. 
 
 It was no definite melody that reached him. There 
 were old folk-songs, mingled with bits of simple har- 
 monies, like the memories of a half-forgotten childhood. 
 Now and then the player would stop for a moment, as
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 161 
 
 if he expected some word from his listener in the other 
 room. 
 
 Edwards did not speak. He was conscious of a feel- 
 ing of surprise that the priest should play the 'cello, 
 not as a mere musician, but as a man who found in his 
 music some outlet for the conflicts of his hidden soul. 
 Yet that was all. No other thoughts came to him; the 
 melody did not touch him. 
 
 He had loved music once. Was that dead too? 
 
 The priest was playing the ancient chant of the Pref- 
 ace 
 
 "Therefore with angels and archangels " 
 
 He finished it, and stopped again. Still Edwards 
 made no sign. Nevertheless, the music pleased him. 
 He was willing to listen as long as the priest cared to 
 play. 
 
 In the next room the priest gave a little sigh of dis- 
 appointment. Then he bent over his instrument once 
 again. 
 
 He began the melody of a simple hymn. But he 
 had scarcely reached the middle of the first verse, when 
 Edwards appeared suddenly in the open door. 
 
 "Stop," he said, and his voice was harsh with emo- 
 tion. "You mustn't play that. I can't bear it." 
 
 The priest looked up and motioned to a chair at his 
 side. 
 
 "You must hear it," he said, his face aglow with 
 satisfaction. Then he added in English, "So you have 
 deceived me. You are not a Catholic." 
 
 Edwards shrugged his shoulders. His collar seemed 
 to have grown too tight; he loosened it with his fore- 
 finger. 
 
 "My mother my mother was a Protestant," he said. 
 "She never conformed. But we children were brought 
 up in the Church. Not that father was a very zealous 
 Catholic. Until we were sent away to school, he let her 
 teach us our prayers. She we " 
 
 He swallowed, then cleared his throat. 
 
 ' ' She used to sing hymns with us on Sunday evenings.
 
 162 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "We stood round her at the piano. And the last hymn 
 
 we sang was always was always How is it that you, 
 
 play English Protestant hymns, I'd like to know." 
 
 "Never mind that now. I will play it all through 
 for you again, 'Jesus, tender Shepherd.' The melody 
 is German, as a matter of fact. But the Church of Eng- 
 land has always been fortunate in picking up things 
 that never originally belonged to her." 
 
 "No," interposed Edwards. "You shall not play 
 that hymn. If you do, I shall leave the house." 
 
 The priest rose, and laid his 'cello lovingly aside. 
 
 "You see, my friend," he said, tapping on Edwards' 
 breast with a fat forefinger, ' ' there 's a live spot in there 
 after all. Not all dead yet.' 
 
 "It is not a live spot. It's an open wound." 
 
 "Wounds won't heal unless they are kept healthy, 
 unless the tissues around them have got strength enough 
 to do the healing work. As a surgeon, you must know 
 that. But how can your wounds heal, my friend, when 
 you cover them up, when you will not even look on them 
 quietly with your own eyes? May it not be that they 
 have healed already, and you only imagine that they are 
 open still?" 
 
 "A healed wound doesn't ache at a touch. You 
 touched me on the raw a moment ago. You meant to." 
 
 "I know. But perhaps it's only the very last sensi- 
 tive edge of the healing tissues, over the place where 
 the hurt went deepest. Cannot you trust me? Oh, 1 
 don't mean in the matter of your wounds. Not at all. 
 Nor do I want to hear you call yourself 'Vile earth and 
 a miserable sinner.' But I should like to know what's 
 troubling you." 
 
 In a few halting words Edwards explained. 
 
 "What a self -tormentor you are," said the priest. 
 "As if it made any difference what these people here 
 say. Of course, I recognize that it does make a differ- 
 ence, to you. It would have made a difference to me, 
 once. By the way, have you not a surprise at how 
 I speak English? Now, consider for a moment, my 
 friend. As in London, they say 'Half a mo'.' This
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 163 
 
 talk about you in the village is rot. What you call 
 ' utter rot.' You must have said something to Franzl 
 that gave him the idea that you had of late been been 
 living at the expense of the King's Majesty. So the 
 old wives make up an interesting tale. You have come 
 here to bury yourself in the country, having been but 
 lately released from prison. No doubt they have already 
 decided on the particular jail which had the honor 
 of your presence." 
 
 "But I've never been in jail," interposed Edwards. 
 "How ridiculous!" 
 
 He felt unspeakably relieved. For he had always 
 had a strong compelling respect for the law of the land 
 he lived in. 
 
 "Why should such things not always be ridiculous? 
 It seems ridiculous to you now, because you know it's 
 not true not in the slightest! Why shouldn't it be 
 ridiculous, too, when the thing, the gossip, is true, 
 wholly or in part? Ah, my friend, that is what you 
 must strive for; to find the things that jump at you 
 out of your past ridiculous. Just as a grown man 
 merely laughs at a silly boy who pops out of a hiding- 
 place at him and says ' Boo ! ' But it frightens a child. ' ' 
 
 "It hurts me, though, that Franzl of all people 
 
 "You have hurt him too and sorely. You were, 
 what you are to so many of these people, his god. But 
 a god should be how says the English Article? 'with- 
 out parts or passions.' Remember, Nani is as much his 
 as if they were married. If you took her from him now, 
 he would feel his honor more stained than if you paid 
 court to her later as his wife. For the other young 
 men mock him. They say he is not able to keep the girl 
 he has loved so long. That makes him see red. All 
 the more red, because it is his god you who has done 
 this thing. Take care, take care, or he will cure you of 
 your 'parts and passions.' But I will speak with him. 
 I should not have let the matter go so far. Only I am 
 very lazy. I leave undone the things that I ought to 
 have done. And now I must throw you out; for, as 
 you say, 'This is my busy day.' "
 
 164 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 He took a small volume from his pocket and held it 
 out to Edwards. 
 
 "I want you to have this," he said, dropping back 
 into German, ' ' in memory of this morning. See, I have 
 written your name on the fly-leaf. Do you know the 
 man?" 
 
 Edwards glanced at the author's name: "Brother 
 Andreas." A name well known in Tyrol as the 
 pseudonym of a poet whose small collections of verse, 
 appearing now and then, had found their way into 
 many libraries and not a few hearts. Not a great poet, 
 no ; but a man who loved his own people, and who spoke 
 to them in words that they understood. Of course, 
 Edwards had heard of him. 
 
 "This volume," said the priest, "isn't meant for the 
 general public. The author sent me a copy or two. 
 I'd like to give you this one, because because " 
 
 He took off his great blue goggles and wiped his red- 
 rimmed eyes. 
 
 "Well, because to-day I have had a look at my 
 
 worst, my deepest wound. And I find it really I think 
 I may say so healed. Except for a swear-word here 
 and there, I have not spoken your language aloud for 
 over twenty years. I did not know that I should ever 
 be able to speak it again. But I speak. And behold 
 it does not hurt. 'Paete, non dolet.' ' 
 
 Edwards took the little volume. The priest led him 
 to the top of the "Widum" steps, patting his shoulder 
 as they went. 
 
 "The time will come for you too," he said, "when 
 you will be able to say 'Non dolet.' Meanwhile, 
 'Tolerari potest.' Is it not so? Your Anglican Book 
 of Common Prayer is nice English, but it's full of silly 
 things. It says: 'The remembrance of them is griev- 
 ous unto us; the burden of them is intolerable.' Non- 
 sense eh ? Nonsense ! ' ' 
 
 Edwards spent an hour that evening reading through 
 the little volume of verse. Portions of some lines seemed 
 to him familiar. But it was not until he had reached 
 a sonnet, called "The Comfort of the Stars," that he
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 165 
 
 realized whose work it was that lay between his hands. 
 
 Next Sunday morning, however, there was nothing 
 suggestive of the poet about Father Mathias, when, at 
 the end of his sermon, he said 
 
 "Evil tongues have been spreading among us a story 
 that concerns a man who is the friend of every person 
 in this valley. Have you forgotten what things were 
 like before he came? Are you anxious to drive him 
 away ? That story is a lie from beginning to end. Any- 
 one who repeats or mentions it commits willful deadly 
 sin. And I shall know how to deal with that. 'In 
 Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.' ' 
 
 When Edwards came out of church after mass he felt 
 intensely self-conscious. The people of Thiersee felt 
 self-conscious too. The young men of the village were 
 drawn up along the path through the churchyard, for 
 it was their custom so to stand and watch the girls of 
 the congregation go by; and as Edwards reached the 
 top of this long line, some instinct prompted him to put 
 out his hand. 
 
 The first young fellow, a great strapping lad of over 
 six feet, met it with a grip that almost broke Edwards' 
 fingers. And the others, at his side, pushed forward to 
 give greeting in their turn, until the older men, not to 
 be outdone, joined the little crowd around the Herr 
 Doktor, while the girls and women, gathered by the 
 churchyard gate, curtsied and smiled as Edwards passed 
 out with the men pressing close behind him. 
 
 But look where he might, Edwards could see Franzl 
 nowhere. He would have known the grasp of his hand 
 among a thousand. Yet he had not felt it meet his 
 own.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AN almost empty purse is never an encouraging sight. 
 
 Edwards was looking into one constantly now. He 
 had insisted on giving Gipfl the fifty covenanted crowns, 
 and the counterfeit belt of the great Andreas hung over 
 his looking-glass as a reminder of his unhappy effort to 
 make money by speculating in Tyrolese antiquities. He 
 had at last written to Professor Schroeder, and had sent 
 the letter to Kuf stein by the Burgermeister 's sure hand. 
 As yet no answer had come. 
 
 His first quarter's salary had been paid. He had 
 gone in person to the meeting of the "Select Men," 
 who sat around the table in the back room of the 
 Drachen-Wirt 's, all looking very uncomfortable, but evi- 
 dently clothed upon with authority. The Biirgermeister 
 had counted out the money in soiled old notes and greasy 
 coins. Less the local taxes. Edwards had forgotten the 
 taxes. They made a distressing hole in what he had ex- 
 pected to receive. Then, as he signed the receipt, the 
 Biirgermeister had said gruffly 
 
 "Money's not everything in this world, Herr Doktor. 
 There be better things." 
 
 And then he had given Edwards his hand, and the 
 other Select Men had thumped on the table with their 
 beer-mugs and grunted their approval. 
 
 But in a community where one had to pay constantly 
 in cash, this quarter's salary was soon exhausted. Ed- 
 wards had begun to fret over expenses again; and it 
 took him longer than ever to get into bed each night, so 
 tyrannically complicated had his ceremonial of bed-go- 
 ing become. 
 
 The weather, too, had been evilly cold. Snow in 
 April was no uncommon thing, but not so much snow. 
 And now. at the beginning of May, with one of those 
 
 166
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 167 
 
 abrupt changes that make the weather of Tyrol such a 
 torment to the stranger, the "Foehn" had begun to 
 blow; or rather, it was already blowing across the tops 
 of the surrounding mountains, and only the still hot 
 atmosphere that accompanies it had sunk down into the 
 Thiersee valley. It was as if one were imprisoned in 
 some inverted cauldron, held over a fire and into which 
 the heated air came pouring and then remained motion- 
 less, until all the freshness seemed to have gone out of 
 life. 
 
 This sense of oppression weighed hard on everyone. 
 It made the women nervous and cross ; the men quarrel- 
 some, boorish, and lustful. And if the native-born felt 
 it, Edwards, the "Zugereister," felt it a thousand times 
 more. 
 
 In the midst of it the Biirgermeister returned from 
 his monthly trip to Innsbruck, reporting that he had 
 posted Edwards' letters, had actually heard them rattle 
 as they fell into the letter-box. And he brought with 
 him, as a gift from himself this time, another bottle 
 of Scotch whisky. 
 
 ' ' A nasty schnaps you drink, Herr Doktor, ' ' he grum- 
 bled, as he laid the bottle on Edwards' table. "Nasty 
 
 expensive too. But then every man has his vice My 
 
 compliments. ' ' 
 
 That night the third patient in the tiny Clinic slipped 
 suddenly out of life, the little child that had been so 
 badly burned. It was their first death in the house; 
 and Edwards and Jon eke stared at one another hope- 
 lessly, in the light of early dawn, across the narrow bed 
 where the dead child lay. After breakfast, while Joncke 
 was busy with his school children, Edwards went out for 
 a walk. The hot depressing air had not lifted; under 
 foot the roads were a mass of yellow mud, and the purple 
 gentians in the fields looked wilted and forlorn. 
 
 He stopped at the carpenter's shop to order the little 
 coffin. 
 
 Strumpl-Jonas, the carpenter, who had played Judas 
 in the last two Passion-Plays, and was proud of his 
 acting, especially in the "Suicide Scene," was, for
 
 168 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Thiersee, a man of substance. Houses had to be built or 
 repaired now and then. And people must have coffins. 
 He possessed a greasy old note-book, in which he had 
 written the waist measure of everybody of importance 
 in the village, much as the editor of some great daily 
 newspaper keeps at hand obituary notices of all promin- 
 ent men. 
 
 But his note-book did not include the illegitimate chil- 
 dren; and Edwards had not thought to measure the 
 child's thin little body. 
 
 "But we must be exact, Herr Doktor," persisted 
 Strumpl-Jonas, running a tape-measure through his 
 fingers. "You say, about sixty centimetres long. Very 
 well. But perhaps fifty would have done. Then you'd 
 have ten centimetres of good wood wasted. And I must 
 charge for that, you know. What's the use of throwing 
 money away? Who pays for the coffin, anyhow?" 
 
 Edwards had no idea of that. 
 
 "The mother can't pay," the carpenter went on. 
 "And I don't see why the village should. I'm one of 
 the Select Men, and I 'm for economy. Perhaps the Herr 
 Doktor, as the child died in his house. Then an extra 
 ten centimetres needn't worry us, need it?" 
 
 "It's no use telling you people that I'm poor," Ed- 
 wards answered hopelessly. "No one believes me. 
 What will the coffin cost?" 
 
 "With the extra ten centimetres?" 
 
 Edwards nodded. He could not bear to haggle over 
 the child's last resting-place. He took out his purse. 
 
 Strumpl-Jonas spat on his pencil, and made long 
 laborious calculations on the end of a board. Edwards 
 emptied his purse at the carpenter's elbow. 
 
 "That's all I have," he said. "Unless unless you 
 can wait a while for the money." 
 
 The carpenter counted the coins spread out before 
 him. 
 
 "By rights," he said; "by rights that 11 only pay for 
 fifty centimetres. But I'm not a close-fisted man. I'd 
 like to show the Herr Doktor that I'm a friend too. I 
 can't bring you English schnaps like the Herr Burger-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 169 
 
 meister; but I'll make it sixty centimetres. You shall 
 have the ten extra for nothing. Yes, you shall have 
 them." 
 
 He swept the money into his palm, pocketed it; and 
 then, as if ashamed of a moment of weakness, he added 
 
 "Perhaps Herr Doktor will be kind enough to stand 
 for an instant against the jamb of my door." 
 
 Edwards obeyed, wonderingly. Strumpl- Jonas laid 
 a ruler on a level with the top of his head, and then, 
 pushing him gently aside, made on the wood of the 
 door-post a long black mark. And opposite it, he wrote 
 in his sprawling hand "Der Herr Doktor." 
 
 Before Edwards could protest the carpenter's tape- 
 measure had spanned his shoulders. 
 
 "My humble thanks," said Strumpl- Jonas, producing 
 his old note-book, and selecting a page less dirty than 
 the rest. "Now I can be ready for the Herr Doktor 
 himself at any time. Griiss Gott." 
 
 Edwards went out. As he crossed the threshold, he 
 glanced up at the door-post where Strumpl-Jonas had 
 but now written his name. The jamb was a mass of 
 names and marks; some of them down near the floor, 
 others higher up. And against many of them was 
 scratched a blank cross. 
 
 In front of the carpenter's shop two coffins lay dry- 
 ing in the sun; mere boxes of bare white boards, the 
 bottoms of them clumsily covered with a layer of sticky 
 pitch. And on such a hard bed the little child was to 
 lie ; the child he had bedded so softly all these last nights, 
 so that its tortured burned body might have rest ! 
 
 It was a hideous thing this laying of the dead upon 
 wooden boards, and then hiding them out of sight in 
 the damp earth. Intolerable! 
 
 And this his own body, in which he had moved and suf- 
 fered and rejoiced ! In a box like that ! 
 
 He had just now been measured for it. 
 
 And in this respect the good people of Thiersee would 
 be pitiless. Whatever he might make them promise, 
 as he lay dying, they would surely buy him such a box, 
 made to measure, not even with ten centimetres to
 
 170 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 spare. They were a frugal lot. Then they would hide 
 him in the damp earth. And there he would lie, for cen- 
 turies perhaps, the cells of his body unable to return 
 quickly and cleanly to the world of insentiate matter. 
 
 He must not die in Thicrsee. 
 
 He must not even grow ill there. Supposing he did 
 get ill, with typhoid, with something that would make 
 it impossible for him to be moved, or that might end 
 in delirium, so that he would know nothing, could say 
 nothing to prevent Strumpl-Jonas coming with his long, 
 white, pitch-covered box! 
 
 Was he not ill already? Had he not been feeling 
 wretchedly for the last month ? 
 
 The old trouble with his heart. That had no terrors 
 for him ; he knew all about that. But other things that 
 he did not know and could not guard against ! He was 
 exposed to so many dangers every day. He had so 
 many enemies to fight. And to be able to withstand 
 them he must keep well. 
 
 Need he withstand them all, though? To some things 
 it was wisest to surrender. 
 
 He plodded on through the mud, up the road, away 
 from the lake, until he saw the stretch of Nani 's pasture 
 opening before him. She was walking there to and fro, 
 knitting as she walked, and singing to herself. 
 
 As she heard his footsteps she turned to meet him. 
 She looked so strong, so self-possessed, so healthful. 
 And to all this there had been added of late a new look 
 of secret happiness that gave her lips an almost constant 
 smile, her eyes a soft brightness. 
 
 "But, Herr Doktor," she said, to Edwards her glance 
 was like a caress, "how tired you do look." 
 
 It was this glance, this direct unexpected intonation 
 of sympathy, that broke through his habitual self-con- 
 trol. 
 
 Standing in front of her, his face close to hers, he 
 stammered out a confused confession. 
 
 He took her hands. She let them rest passively in 
 his. 
 
 But his tongue soon grew heavy. He stumbled in
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 171 
 
 his speech, then stopped and looked beseechingly into 
 her eyes. 
 
 After a long silence, while his breath came short 
 and she stood there utterly unmoved by the storm of 
 passion that had swept him from his feet, she began 
 to answer him as best she could, choosing her words 
 slowly, leaving long pauses between each phrase. 
 
 "I am not a clever girl. It is hard to say what I 
 
 mean. But I must try. You see, Herr Doktor, we 
 
 have given you a place in our lives. And we want you 
 to be so happy in that place that you will not wish to 
 leave it, ever. But if you get ill you will not care to 
 stay. You must not get ill," she repeated, her whole 
 body tense with insistent earnestness. "You must not. 
 Because, then, how can you make other people well? 
 Oh, don't you see, you have no right to be ill at all. 
 Not even to be unhappy. But if you think that I " 
 
 She hesitated. Edwards broke in. 
 
 "I am a man like any other." 
 
 She looked at him as a mother looks at her child 
 who stretches its hands towards the fire and demands 
 to play with the dancing flames; half amused at his 
 insistence, yet sad because she cannot give him what he 
 asks. 
 
 "Ever since the first night I was here I've thought 
 of you," Edwards stumbled on. "That night, when I 
 saw Franzl " 
 
 Her even tones interrupted him. 
 
 "He was your friend." 
 
 "He isn't now. Why should he stand in my way? 
 He slandered me. He has avoided me; has refused me 
 even his hand. I owe him nothing. And if you if 
 you care " 
 
 Her quiet voice interrupted him again. 
 
 "And would you cross the same window-sill? You, 
 Herr Doktor! Climb into a girl's room, like any silly 
 love-sick boy? You!" 
 
 He nodded defiantly. Then suddenly her eyes cleared, 
 the tension of her body relaxed. 
 
 She put out her hand and softly touched his arm.
 
 "I am a little disappointed," she murmured. "But 
 but I will help you if I can." 
 
 She spoke so directly, her eyes on his, that he did 
 not at once understand. 
 
 ' ' Then then to-night ? ' ' 
 
 She gravely bent her head. 
 
 Edwards seized her arm and drew her towards him. 
 
 But gently she freed herself. Her strength was twice 
 his, and she made him feel it gently. 
 
 "You must not do that," she said. "It will spoil my 
 medicine. ' ' 
 
 Then, turning away, she left him standing there alone.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE patients who came under Edwards' care that day 
 thought they had never seen the Herr Doktor in such 
 good spirits. He whistled; he told old jokes with such 
 fresh zest that they seemed hilariously new; he was 
 like a man drunk with good tidings. And at sunset, 
 as he came into his little clinic, his hat on the back of 
 his head, humming some song of his boyhood, little 
 Helena sat up in bed and clapped her hands with de- 
 light, while Joncke's brown head, that was bent close 
 to Toni's red one over a geography book, was raised 
 with such a comic air of surprise that Edwards sat down 
 on the bed and laughed. 
 
 He sat there while Joncke and Frau Speckbacher 
 brought the two children their supper; he watched the 
 intricate processes of little Helena's evening tub; he 
 rumpled Toni's red hair; in fact, he behaved in a way 
 that fascinated the children quite. Only Joncke's stern 
 mouth never relaxed. And at last, during a pause in 
 the children's laughter, he said to Edwards in an under- 
 tone 
 
 "If you don't mind, I'll sleep on the sofa in your 
 room to-night. Strumpl-Jonas has just brought the 
 coffin. I've laid little Mimi in it and set it in my bed- 
 room. Will you come and see?" 
 
 Edwards got up and went out of the room. He had 
 forgotten all about little Mimi and her coffin. All about 
 his own coffin too. And he had been measured for it 
 only that morning. Nevertheless he did not go in to 
 look at the dead child. There would be plenty of time 
 to-morrow. 
 
 Later on, when Joncke joined him at their solitary 
 supper, he said 
 
 "You had better put my sofa in the clinic and sleep 
 
 173
 
 174 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 there. The children might need someone in the night. 
 Besides, I I well, I can't get to sleep when I'm not 
 alone in my bedroom. And that's all there is about it." 
 
 His good spirits had left him as abruptly as they had 
 come. He resented their going. Why should he feel 
 so closely in touch with life at one moment, and the 
 next so out of all conceit with the world and him- 
 self? 
 
 " What's the matter with you, anyway?" he snarled, 
 as Joncke gazed intently at the table-cloth. "I think 
 I ought to know how much whisky I need. ' ' 
 
 Joncke looked up, surprised. 
 
 "I didn't even see that you had got the bottle out," 
 he answered. "I was thinking of little Mimi. It must 
 feel good to be dead." 
 
 Edwards stared at his companion. Then he added 
 more whisky to a drink already stronger than usual. 
 
 "Because life seems such a mistake," Joncke went 
 on. "At least, my life does." 
 
 "Here," interrupted Edwards, pushing the bottle 
 towards his companion. "Mix a little of that with 
 water and drink it. Do as I tell you. It will cheer 
 you up." 
 
 Joncke obeyed meekly. But the alcohol seemed only 
 to increase his despondency, although it gradually 
 loosened his tongue. After a few minutes he began to 
 speak again. 
 
 "I don't often talk about myself; now, do I? You'd 
 think my life would seem too useless even to talk about. 
 But to-night with little Mimi lying in there it's dif- 
 ferent somehow. You see, I've never been quite so close 
 to death before. And death 's about the most fascinating 
 thing I've ever seen." 
 
 "For the Lord's sake, man," said Edwards, "do be a 
 little less doleful." 
 
 Nani was clearing away the supper. His eyes fol- 
 lowed her, and once she answered his smile. To the 
 memory of that smile his whole consciousness clung 
 fast. Joncke 's voice seemed to come from far away. 
 
 "I made a mistake from the beginning," it went on.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 175 
 
 ' ' Perhaps I couldn 't have done otherwise, being the sort 
 of man I am. The trouble is, I've lived what people 
 call a pure life." 
 
 With his forefinger in the water he had spilt on the 
 table near his glass he drew strange symbols, that seemed 
 to suggest the secrets of his soul. 
 
 "When I was younger I hated the coarse, nasty jests 
 that my older brothers made. I hated the coarse things 
 they did. So I built a wall around myself and wouldn 't 
 let anyone come inside. I thought, because of what I 
 saw my brothers do, that all things like like that must 
 be coarse and nasty. And by-and-by, when I found 
 out that a a pure life means only a lonely sterile life, 
 it was too late. Some men can be lonely and sterile 
 and happy, I suppose. But I'm not one of them. 
 Only I had built up my wall, and when I wanted to 
 pull it down and let people in I couldn't. It was too 
 
 high, and too thick; much too thick. You've made 
 
 a little hole in it, Edwards. I'll never forget that. But 
 though it may let you in when you want to come, it isn 't 
 big enough to let me out. So my life has gone bad in 
 itself, like a good wine that's been bottled up too long. 
 My nerves are all shaky. I can't sleep. I fly into 
 tempers, and from tempers into a cold sweat. And my 
 head aches sometimes so that I think I'll have to blow 
 the top of it off to let in more air. My brothers are all 
 great healthy men. They don't know what a nerve is. 
 You see, " 
 
 He leaned forward again, delighting in some impossi- 
 ble outline that he had traced upon the table. 
 
 " you see, they've none of them lived pure lives. 
 
 Not they. They had too much common-sense. And 
 father wouldn't have let me lead one either if he had 
 guessed what I was doing. ' ' 
 
 Edwards stood up and stretched himself. 
 
 "Better turn in now," he said. "But you're right, 
 of course. Why have you never told me all this before ? 
 I might have prevented some of it. For yours isn't a 
 hard case to diagnose. A touch of neurasthenia, coming 
 from we all know where. However, the cure is not far
 
 176 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 to seek. And a man who can't find some way to it 
 doesn't deserve a man's name. "We'll talk of this again 
 some other time. I'll help you. We've all got to help 
 
 one another in order to make the world livable. 
 
 Only, not to-night. To-night, I " 
 
 He broke off abruptly. 
 
 "Let me give you a hand into the next room with 
 that sofa." 
 
 ' ' To-night ! ' ' stammered Joncke. ' ' Oh, not not that ! 
 Not you. Not you!" 
 
 "But, yes. And now, good-night." 
 
 An hour later, when Edwards put out the candle in 
 his bedroom, the moonlight lay on the worn floor in 
 long yellow bars. He peered out of his window. To 
 his right, on the same level, another window stood open 
 also the window of his little ' ' Clinic. ' ' He could hear 
 the soft breathing of the two children. Joncke, he sup- 
 posed, was still lying awake. 
 
 Poor Joncke! How much he had missed. 
 
 Below him stretched the garden that surrounded the 
 schoolhouse, with its clumps of bushes and solitary trees 
 just beginning to bud. Round the house ran a narrow 
 gravel path. From that path to the low sill of Nani's 
 window was only a few feet. Two steps across the 
 grass, one step up, then leg over and in. 
 
 He waited a few minutes longer. 
 
 Far down below him, beyond the village, lay the quiet 
 lake. The reflections of the snow-covered mountains 
 were blurred to-night. It must be the "Foehn," he 
 thought, that had troubled the waters, like some evil 
 angel. 
 
 He stole out of his room, along the corridor, and 
 down the creaking stairs. The broad hall where the 
 school-children often romped was ghostly in the moon- 
 light that fell through the window over the front door. 
 And towards this door that gave on the garden he was 
 stealthily making his way, when he heard another door 
 on the upper floor open and close. 
 
 It must be Joncke, confound him. What was he up 
 to now?
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 177 
 
 Silence settled down again. Edwards stepped for- 
 ward once more. 
 
 Then a line of light cut the shadows. 
 
 A door on his left that led into the Speckbachers ' 
 little apartment opened wide, and he saw Nani stand- 
 ing on the threshold. In silence she led him through 
 the kitchen, pointing warningly to the further room, 
 where her mother slept. 
 
 And now at last he stood beside her in her own tiny 
 bedroom, and saw through her open curtains the moon- 
 light on the gravel-path of the garden outside. 
 
 "I could not bear to have you come through the 
 window," she whispered. 
 
 He put both his arms about her. This time she did 
 not free herself or make him feel her strength, but 
 spoke with her mouth close against his shoulder. 
 
 "You are no love-sick boy so out of his senses that 
 he doesn't know what he's doing. Be still for a mo- 
 ment. I have yet something to say. ' ' 
 
 His only reply was to press his lips to hers. 
 
 She pushed his face away with the flat of her hand, 
 gently. 
 
 "Very well, then." 
 
 She released herself from his arms. 
 
 "Only, first, you must look at what I have been 
 knitting. ' ' 
 
 In the dim light of her bedroom candle she held 
 up the thing that had been concealed under her 
 apron. 
 
 "For Franzl's child," she whispered. "His child 
 and mine." 
 
 Then, as Edwards made no answer, she came close to 
 him again. 
 
 "Thou seest," she said, using the friendly "Du" for 
 the first time; "thou seest, since thou hast been here, 
 I I have not been afraid." 
 
 Edwards' hands dropped to his side. 
 
 "Thy coming to this village," she went on, with a 
 simple gesture that included the entire silent valley, 
 "has made me unafraid of what you men call love.
 
 178 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Shall thy coming to this room of mine make me once 
 more afraid of it ? " 
 
 He sank down on the edge of the bed. 
 
 He could not have put his feeling into words; but 
 he knew that he had been standing perilously near the 
 border-line of a sin from which no power in heaven or 
 earth could speak him free. Not even he himself, he 
 himself least of all. 
 
 ' ' I am sorry, ' ' he said. And his voice broke in a sob. 
 
 She was beside him in an instant. 
 
 "Ah, but," she said, throwing one arm about his 
 neck and rubbing her soft cheek against his, "ah, but 
 thou art a dear man." 
 
 He buried his hot shamed face in her lap, pressing 
 his brimming eyes against the bit of knitted wool that 
 she still held, close to the new life, of which he knew 
 himself at last the unselfish consecrated priest. 
 
 "Herr Lehrer, Herr Lehrer." 
 
 Toni's voice quavered eagerly through the stillness 
 of the little clinic upstairs. 
 
 "Herr Lehrer, I see someone in the garden." 
 
 The boy was leaning out of the window. 
 
 Joncke stole from his improvised bed and joined him. 
 
 "I couldn't sleep," Toni went on. "So I came here 
 to watch the stars. And I noticed someone slink along 
 behind those bushes over there. See there he goes 
 again across that patch of moonlight. It's Franzl. 
 Or it looks like him." 
 
 "And he the Herr Doktor," stammered Joncke, his 
 lips a-tremble with excitement and fear. "He's not in 
 his bedroom. I looked in a few minutes ago. I heard 
 him go downstairs to to " 
 
 He caught the boy by the arm, covered his shoulders 
 with a blanket, and then whispered 
 
 "Don't move from the window. Keep good watch 
 on that man you saw, whoever he is. There's danger, I 
 think. Oh, Toni, this is my chance, my chance at 
 last." 
 
 Left alone Toni peered down into the garden. Per-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 179 
 
 haps the man was a robber. He tried not to be fright- 
 ened. But his hands began to shake, and his lame leg 
 hurt him badly. 
 
 There was a step on the gravel of the garden path. 
 A dark figure came hurrying along. It wore the Herr 
 Doktor's stiff hat, and thrown about its shoulders was 
 the Herr Doktor's old rain-cloak. Yet somehow it did 
 not walk exactly like the Herr Doktor. Toni's quick 
 eyes noticed that at once. 
 
 The figure stopped in front of an open window on 
 the ground-floor. Nani's window. It stopped and 
 looked in. 
 
 In the stillness of the night Toni heard an exclama- 
 tion of surprise from someone inside the room below 
 him. Then the same voice called softly. 
 
 The figure crossed the bit of lawn between the win- 
 dow and the path, and leaned over the low sill as if 
 speaking to someone within. 
 
 Suddenly Toni's clear tones rang out in warning. 
 
 "Herr Doktor look out. Herr Doktor look behind 
 you." 
 
 But before the man at the window could turn, an- 
 other dark figure had come springing across the grass. 
 It held a knife in its hand; the moonlight glinted on 
 the blade. It flung itself upon the other, and struck 
 twice. 
 
 The figure at the window pitched head first into the 
 room. 
 
 And beyond it, in the light of Nani's bedroom candle, 
 Franzl saw the man, whom he had just thought to kill, 
 staring at him with terrified eyes over the motionless 
 body of the schoolmaster.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 EDWARDS had already gone out, next morning, when 
 Joncke, who lay in the doctor's bed, opened his eyes 
 and caught sight of Toni 's red head. 
 
 "So I'm not going to get my chance after all, Toni," 
 he said. "They'll be burying little Mimi to-day. And 
 I'd made up my mind to be with her. I do seem to 
 make a mess of everything. "What's the matter with 
 me anyway?" 
 
 Toni explained that Franzl's knife had plowed a deep 
 wound from the top of the shoulder, down the back and 
 along the ribs. Had he struck a few inches further 
 forwards, the blade would have gone between first rib 
 and collar-bone. And then ' ' the Herr Lehrer would have 
 been with little Mimi right enough." The second blow 
 had made no wound at all, but the impact of the assail- 
 ant's fist had sent Joncke headlong, knocking the wind 
 and the senses out of him. 
 
 A few hours later Edwards came in from the funeral. 
 He sat down by the bed. 
 
 "You might have warned me without dressing up in 
 my clothes, ' ' he said, taking Joncke 's hand. ' ' Of course 
 Nani saw you outside and called to you. We couldn't 
 tell who you were. And that gave Franzl his chance. 
 But I shan't forget it, Emil. And," he added gruffly, 
 "if you ever call me anything but Charley I shall be 
 very angry indeed." 
 
 Joncke 's face lighted up with delight. 
 
 "And Franzl?" he asked. 
 
 Edwards scowled. He had not forgiven the blazing 
 look of hatred that he had seen in the eyes of his former 
 friend. 
 
 "Oh, nothing will happen to him. He says 'Nichts 
 fiir unguat,' like all the rest of them, and thinks he 
 
 180
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 181 
 
 has made everything right. He and Nani are off to- 
 gether somewhere. They're as thick as thieves again. 
 Nani explained that I only came down to her room last 
 night because she felt faint. She has confided to him 
 the reason of her faintness, so that he's in the seventh 
 heaven. Just the same, he ought to be ashamed of him- 
 self." 
 
 Then he added, in a lower voice 
 
 "I know that I am." 
 
 Joncke made a rapid recovery. The blood-letting 
 seemed to have done him good. As for the school chil- 
 dren, when he appeared after their unexpected four 
 days' holiday, his arm in a sling and leaning on Toni's 
 shoulder, they threw discipline to the winds and crowded 
 about him, shouting with delight. Edwards, who had 
 stopped outside the schoolroom door, caught the quick 
 reflection of their happiness on Joncke 's face, and act- 
 ually envied him. "For," as he said to himself, "this 
 man's work is his highest possible joy. He loves chil- 
 dren, not as the ordinary man does, but like a childless 
 woman whose whole being yearns towards them and 
 whose love enfolds them all. Without his stupid peasant 
 forebears and his solid training in Innsbruck he would 
 be a mere sentimentalist, whom his pupils would not 
 long respect. But as it is, he ought to be the most con- 
 tented man in the world. If he isn't, it is because he 
 has not yet realized his own happiness. I must make 
 him realize it. ' ' 
 
 Apparently the "Foehn" has ceased blowing on the 
 heights above, for in the valley the hot heavy air had 
 lifted and a cool refreshing breeze was wandering among 
 the scattered houses of the village, touching the budding 
 trees and rippling the surface of the placid little lake. 
 A sense of having been freed from bondage lay over 
 everything. Even the bare fresh mound of earth in 
 the churchyard that marked the place where little Mimi 
 rested did not look so bare or so desolate as it had seemed 
 to Edwards a few days ago, when he had stood beside 
 it with Mimi's mother, holding her rough hand in his. 
 She, "die Greier-Susi, " had said, "I hope Our Lady,
 
 182 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 will be kind to my little Mimi. I never had time to be. 
 I suppose they don't mind out-of- wedlock babies in 
 heaven. But down here, a child like that is always in 
 the way. And plenty of men had rather not marry its 
 mother, and put the food they earn into a mouth that 
 was made by somebody else. It's hard on the child 
 'Aber das Leben ist halt so.' " x 
 
 "You might have thought of all this before," Ed- 
 wards had answered. 
 
 And the Greier-Susi, as she threw her handful of earth 
 on the little coffin, had retorted 
 
 "We think often enough of it we women. We have 
 to. It's you men that never think. It don't seem fair 
 somehow, does it?" 
 
 She sighed, and dribbled a palmful of very muddy 
 holy-water into the open grave. 
 
 Edwards had found no answer then. Even now he 
 found none as he passed the graveyard on the way to 
 his daily round of visits. But the fresher air, the sense 
 of freedom and of spring, did him good. Greier-Susi 's 
 words crept into his thoughts, and he repeated them 
 aloud as if conscious of some hidden meaning in them 
 that had escaped him hitherto. 
 
 "Das Leben ist halt so." 
 
 And no doubt this was the only answer possible. 
 
 That same evening he was surprised when Frau Speck- 
 bacher herself came in to clear away the supper things. 
 
 "Nani's gone into the mountains for a day or two," 
 she explained. "She got it into her head that it would 
 do Franzl good if she could take him away from here for 
 a while. They'll spend the night at the ' Alpen-Verein ' 
 hut, and climb up to the top early to-morrow, Sunday 
 too : and they not getting to mass to greet the dear Lord. 
 No good will come of it, I warrant. And when they've 
 seen the sunrise they '11 be starting down homewards over 
 the glacier. Between those two peaks " 
 
 She pointed through the window at the twin moun- 
 
 i "Aber das Leben ist halt so." "But that's the way life goes." 
 One of the thousand fatalistic sayings that one so constantly hears 
 among Tyrolese peasants.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 183 
 
 tain-tops that rose high above the rest, still tinged with 
 the red of the setting sun. 
 
 As she leaned across Joncke, helping him to cut up 
 his meat (he could not yet use his wounded arm), the 
 schoolmaster whispered in her ear 
 
 "Don't let the Herr Doktor know you're worrying. 
 It would only keep him awake. ' ' 
 
 Frau Speckbacher nodded. Then, assuring herself 
 with a look that Edwards was deep in his newspaper, 
 she whispered back 
 
 "Nani knows every inch of the way. But after such 
 a long, hot wind, and all the fresh snow that fell before 
 it came, you understand how it is. I begged her not 
 to go. But it was for Franzl. Everything for Franzl. 
 The good-f or-naught ! Letting my Nani torture her old 
 mother with worry just to get the evil thoughts out of 
 his thick head ! And him not at peace with his soul ! 
 Twice the Herr Doktor offered him his hand. But he 
 would not take it, the sulky brute." 
 
 "What are you two whispering about?" interposed 
 Edwards. He looked up from his paper for an instant. 
 
 "It was only about to-morrow's supper. Frau 
 Speckbacher was suggesting that ' 
 
 But Edwards heard no more. A name in the paper 
 before him had caught his attention. It was an old 
 Innsbruck paper, an unusual luxury, and he had read, 
 as he thought, every line of it, all except the ad- 
 vertisements and the list of hotel arrivals. But, as he 
 had raised his eyes to look over the top of it at Joncke, 
 a single name, in the middle of a long, finely-printed 
 paragraph, had leaped out at him. He read it again 
 and again. Then he glanced at the date of the paper. 
 Two weeks old. 
 
 And the paragraph was not from the hotels. It 
 was a list of subscribers to some local charity "The 
 Society for the Prevention of Tuberculosis in Tyrol." 
 
 She was in Innsbruck, then. For it must be she. 
 
 She knew he lived there. She had promised to write 
 if she were ever to be passing through. And she had 
 not written.
 
 184 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 He went to the open window, turning his back on 
 the others and looking up at the encircling mountains. 
 They had always given him a feeling of protection, as if 
 standing guard against evil things that sought to reach 
 him from the outside world. But now he sensed them 
 as obstacles, placed between him and his dreams, block- 
 ing the road to his Impossible Land. 
 
 He took from his pocket the thin leather wallet, and 
 separated from the others the last of the five worn letters. 
 Her last letter. The letter in which she had written of 
 hoping to see him in Europe ; in which she had promised 
 to write soon again, the moment that her plans had taken 
 shape. A year ago. 
 
 And she had not written. 
 
 With a sudden sense of shock he realized that this 
 Easter, for the first time in five years, he had had no 
 letter from her. Deep in his subconsciousness, he had 
 never given up the hope of receiving one. In former 
 years her greetings had never come exactly in the Easter- 
 tide. Always a week or two later than the Feast itself. 
 And his custom had been never to write to her except in 
 answer. 
 
 And now he knew that this year there would be no 
 letter. She had been in Innsbruck; had known his ad- 
 dress; and she had not written. Had not even tried to 
 see him. 
 
 So that was the end of his Impossible Land. 
 
 During these last months something must have hap- 
 pened; something that had put an end to her letters; 
 something that she had heard, no doubt, about him. 
 Whatever it was, it had cut the friendly ties that bound 
 them. She had dropped him without a word. At least 
 she might have given him a chance to know what 
 her reasons were, a chance to defend himself. But 
 then, women were like that, mostly. Yet he had thought 
 her not quite like other women. 
 
 Her husband, blessed old John, would never have 
 been so unjust. 
 
 Slowly he folded up the letter he held, laid it on top
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 185 
 
 of the others, and then tore the little packet across and 
 across again, until the tiny squares of worn paper began 
 to drop from his fingers, blown off by the breeze into 
 the shadows of the garden below. 
 
 His leathern wallet was empty now. These letters 
 had gone the way of all the other things it had once 
 contained. The last link that bound him to his old life 
 had snapped. The road to his Impossible Land was 
 closed to him forever. 
 
 But it had been a link of his own forging, had it not ? 
 A land of his own making. He could blame no one be- 
 cause it had suddenly ceased to be. 
 
 "With uncertain fingers he thrust the wallet back into 
 his pocket. It was not quite empty. Something hard 
 met his touch. 
 
 The little photograph of his dead friend's child. 
 
 He took it out; was about to tear it in half. Then, 
 with a quick glance over his shoulder, as if ashamed 
 before unseen presences, he slipped the picture back 
 into its accustomed place. 
 
 The child would grow into a man. Perhaps, if his 
 luck ever turned, he might be able to render him some 
 service. His imagination began to run riot. 
 
 He saw a man with the face of his dear friend with 
 John Bowman's smile fighting vainly against some 
 disease. And then he, Edwards, would come in; he 
 would conquer the fever or whatever the danger might 
 be, would make the sick man well and strong. Then, 
 before he bade him good-by, he would show him the 
 worn photograph of a little child's face, taken from an 
 old leather wallet. And he, Edwards, would say, ' ' Your 
 father, your father and I 
 
 A dull rumbling sound like distant thunder inter- 
 rupted the course of his thought. 
 
 He laughed, without bitterness, at himself. What a 
 sentimental idiot he was! Worse than Joncke in his 
 softest moments. But he would not destroy the photo- 
 graph. It might prove the key to some newly-discovered 
 Impossible Land.
 
 186 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 And a man must have something to dream about. 
 
 Joncke was standing close behind him, looking out 
 over his shoulder at the silent mountains. 
 
 "Did you hear that avalanche," he asked. "Hark! 
 There goes another." 
 
 The air was softly shaken by low distant vibrations, 
 like sound-waves from some enormous organ-pipe, too 
 deep to be heard as a distinct note. Joncke 's voice fell 
 to a whisper 
 
 "That was death passing by," he said.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ON the following morning, Sunday, all Thiersee was 
 gathered about the graves in the churchyard, waiting 
 for the mass to begin, when the bad news came. 
 
 Half a dozen of the young men, armed with ice-axes 
 and ropes, started at once. The others stood by the 
 churchyard wall and watched them go. Then the bell 
 rang, and the people went quietly in to mass, to wait. 
 
 To Edwards that mass seemed endless. 
 
 He had been anxious to join the rescue-party, but 
 they would not take him. He did not know the moun- 
 tains, was no climber, and there was undoubted danger. 
 "Were he on the spot of the accident he could do noth- 
 ing if the people were dead. If they were only injured 
 they could be better treated at Thiersee than up in the 
 hut of the "Alpen Verein." And in either case, the 
 rescue-party would be back that same evening. 
 
 From the man who had brought the news, Edwards 
 heard something of what had happened. 
 
 Six people had spent the night at the hut, and be- 
 fore sunrise next morning had started out for the sum- 
 mit. They had gone very carefully, for they saw that 
 the drifts were far more treacherous than they had sup- 
 posed. Then, well, then no one remembered much 
 more. 
 
 Three of them had found themselves buried in snow; 
 one was standing on his head. Somehow they had 
 worked themselves loose. They had been on the edge of 
 the avalanche, and had not been buried very deep. They 
 had looked about for their companions, but there was 
 nothing to be seen except an expanse of quivering white. 
 
 "But one of them," said the bearer of the ill news, 
 "was a clever chap. He knew there was no time to be 
 lost if the other three were to be got out alive. Yet 
 
 187
 
 188 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 where they lay he couldn't tell. The main sweep of the 
 avalanche might have carried them a hundred meters 
 away, covered them under twenty meters of snow. So 
 he whipped out his knife, took his alpenstock, and slit 
 it down the middle. The whole stick would have been 
 too thick. The thicker half he threw away; held one 
 end of the other half fast between his back teeth, and 
 then sank the other end in the snow. Never heard of 
 that trick? "Well, you try it. If anything for quite a 
 distance under the snow moves or struggles, you feel it 
 in your back teeth. It's a fact. And that's how he 
 found her, after sounding three times. But she was 
 unconscious. Maybe she 's dead by now. The two others 
 they hadn 't found yet when they sent me down from the 
 hut for help. Well, yes, I will take another small glass, 
 as you 're so kind. ' ' 
 
 Edwards made what preparations he could. But the 
 suspense was sickening. 
 
 Who were the two that had "not been found"? Who 
 were the uninjured? 
 
 The messenger had known no names, nor had he been 
 able to describe the survivors. 
 
 Moreover, if the unfortunate people had come from 
 other places than Thiersee, they would surely be car- 
 ried directly down to the nearest railway station. 
 Thiersee was entirely out of their road. There were 
 only Franzl and Nani to think of. 
 
 During the suspense of that long afternoon Edwards 
 had a chance to admire the self-control of the simple- 
 hearted peasants. The Bin-germeister, after the mass, 
 had walked home with Frau Speckbacher. And now 
 the two sat side by side in the schoolhouse kitchen, he 
 puffing at his pipe, she busy with her mending. Only 
 now and then they exchanged a few gruff words. 
 
 "A good lad, thy Franzl." 
 
 "Aye, a good lad. Thy Nani, too, is none so ill." 
 
 "That she 'snot." 
 
 "A fine pair." 
 
 "Might be worse." 
 
 "I mean, if it be the Lord's will."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 189 
 
 "His will be done." 
 
 "How much longer now, think ye?" 
 
 * ' Three to four hours yet. ' ' 
 
 "I'll be staying it out with ye." 
 
 "That'll be neighborly. I'll put on water for fresh 
 coffee." 
 
 "Aye, do ye now." 
 
 And while Edwards fluttered nervously about the 
 house, attended by Joncke like some impatient uneasy 
 sprite, these two old people sat motionless in the kitchen 
 waiting God's will. 
 
 Frau Speckbacher may have taken more coffee than 
 her custom was of a Sunday afternoon; certainly the 
 Herr Biirgermeister smoked endless pipes; but other- 
 wise they were the same as usual. Towards five o 'clock, 
 however, when Toni 's resonant voice announced from the 
 upper window that he saw the rescue-party coming up 
 the road, the two old people could stand the uncertainty 
 no longer. They came out into the garden. 
 
 "What be they carrying, Toni?" the Biirgermeister 
 called up to the bobbing red head at the window above 
 him. "Canst see?" 
 
 " 'Tis a litter made of boughs." 
 
 "One litter or two?" 
 
 The old man's voice shook. 
 
 "Only one, Herr Biirgermeister. And they're all 
 coming this way." 
 
 The Biirgermeister turned and laid his hand on Frau 
 Speckbacher 's arm. 
 
 "They've brought home only one," he said slowly. 
 
 As if by common consent the two old people turned 
 back into the house. They knew the worst now. One 
 of their children lay crushed beneath the snow high 
 up there on the mountains. 
 
 Steps crunched on the gravel of the garden path. A 
 shadow fell across the threshold of the open kitchen door. 
 The Biirgermeister rubbed his great horn spectacles, put 
 them on, and then his short pipe with its porcelain 
 bowl clattered to the floor and smashed into pieces on 
 the flagging.
 
 190 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Franzl, his Franzl was standing in the doorway ! 
 
 "We've had a bit of a misadventure, father," he said 
 in a matter-of-fact tone, as if misadventures were the 
 ordinary happenings of every day. " I 've brought Nani 
 down on a litter. She was under the avalanche for a 
 while, and she's dazed-like still." 
 
 The old man shook his head disapprovingly. 
 
 "Th'art a fool, Franzl," he said, "to take a girl into 
 the mountains this time of year. But the dear Lord 
 has a care for fools, they say. What of the others ? ' ' 
 
 Franzl crossed himself. 
 
 "Two are missing. God knows where they lie. 
 We've asked for a company of infantry from Innsbruck 
 to help search." 
 
 "God give them everlasting rest," said Frau Speck- 
 bacher. 
 
 There was silence in the kitchen while the two old 
 people sat with folded hands, praying for the dead. One 
 "Pater Noster," three "Aves," and a "Requiem aetar- 
 nam." 
 
 After a few moments the Bin-germeister signed him- 
 self with unsteady fingers, and rose to his feet. 
 
 "We'll be a-going now, Frau Speckbacher, " he said. 
 "Here come the lads with thy Nani. I'll be sending 
 up to ask news of her soon. Franzl, let me lean a bit 
 on thy arm." 
 
 Nani's bed had been made ready for her, but Edwards 
 gave one look at the girl's face, and instantly changed his 
 mind. There was only one really sunny room, only one 
 tolerably comfortable bed in the house. Into that she 
 must go. 
 
 An hour later he came softly out of his own bedroom 
 where Nani lay. Joncke was waiting for him in the hall. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 Edwards shook his head. 
 
 "No, it isn't at all well," he said, "but whether it 
 is only a concussion that will pass in a few hours, or 
 whether it is something far more dangerous, I can't tell 
 yet. If the pulse gets much slower, and if there are other
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 191 
 
 symptoms of pressure on the brain from the inside, I 
 shall be at my wits' end. Brain-surgery is beyond me. 
 We shouldn't have time to get a surgeon from Inns- 
 bruck, even if he would come, for nothing. And any- 
 one except a first-class operator would be of no use." 
 
 Joncke moved away despondently. Never before had 
 he heard Edwards give up so easily, admit so completely 
 his own powerlessness to help. He wandered into the 
 little "Clinic," and, as he often did, talked to Toni too 
 openly and too much. 
 
 And Toni, who admired Franzl with the whole 
 strength of his boyish soul, was delighted to have so 
 much exciting news to give his idol, when the young 
 man came early next morning to ask how Nani did. 
 School had not yet begun, but the children had been 
 warned; their voices were hushed, and they stepped on 
 tiptoe through the shadowy hall. 
 
 Franzl did not believe all that Toni had said. Never- 
 theless he was troubled ; and as soon as the children had 
 been called into school he knocked at Frau Speckbacher's 
 door. No one answered. He walked in. There was no 
 one in the kitchen. Then he saw that the door of Nani 's 
 little room was ajar. He pushed it open softly. 
 
 Nani's bed was empty. It had not even been turned 
 down. 
 
 So something was really wrong. Toni had not been 
 lying. 
 
 He hurried up the steps that led to the second floor. 
 At the door of Edwards' bedroom he stopped; he heard 
 low voices inside, but no voice answered his knock. 
 Then, as he lifted the latch and stood hesitating on the 
 threshold, he saw Frau Speckbacher coming towards 
 him. The tears were running down her lined face, drip- 
 ping on something that she carried in her apron. 
 
 Franzl stammered out a question. She could not an- 
 swer, but she opened her apron and let him look. 
 
 Her apron was filled with thick brown locks. Nani's 
 hair! 
 
 Franzl stared stupidly, until Frau Speckbacher walked 
 past him out of the room. It was then he got his first
 
 192 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 good view of the bed. And at first he saw nothing, 
 except the white pillow. 
 
 Then against this white background something moved 
 slightly : a white face, and a shorn head wrapped in white 
 bandages. 
 
 How he got out of the room he never knew. Half 
 an hour later Edwards found him standing in a corner 
 of the lower hall, shifting from one foot to the other, 
 and fumbling with his hat. And he looked at the doctor 
 with such unhappy dog-like eyes that Edwards' ill-will 
 vanished in an instant. He slipped his hand through 
 Franzl's arm, and they walked up and down together. 
 
 To this day Franzl can never pass through that hall, 
 and hear the sound of the children's voices at their 
 lessons behind the door of the schoolroom, without feel- 
 ing anew the grip of the ever-deepening fear which lay 
 over all things on that May morning after the accident 
 in the mountains. 
 
 "Yes, there's grave danger," he heard Edwards say. 
 "I'll try to explain it to you. Something has burst 
 inside her head, or something is pressing on her brain, on 
 the machine we think with. Just over the right temple 
 here I can feel a soft spot, as if the bone, that 's very 
 thin just there, had been crushed in, broken into little 
 pieces perhaps. One of these splinters may be doing the 
 mischief. More likely it's a broken blood-vessel, deep 
 down somewhere inside. In either case, I 'm helpless. ' ' 
 
 "Helpless!" 
 
 Franzl gazed dumbly at his companion: there was 
 doubt and suspicion in his eyes. 
 
 This man, whom his people revered as a god, with 
 power over life and death, and whom he had once 
 hated because of this very halo of almost divine strength, 
 before which even his best-beloved had bowed down, 
 this man helpless ! It could not be. His old antagonism 
 flared out suddenly. He shook Edwards' hand from his 
 arm. 
 
 "You want her to die," he cried, his open twitching 
 fingers held menacingly close to Edwards' throat. "You 
 can't have her yourself, so you won't help. I know.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 193 
 
 But if she dies, I'll I'll send you after her. And then 
 I'll follow you hot-foot to hell, I will." 
 
 Edwards took the two threatening hands gently by the 
 wrists and laid them on his shoulders, so that Franzl's 
 furious eyes looked straight into his own. 
 
 "You were my friend once," he said. "And you may 
 kill me, if you like. Perhaps that would be the easier 
 way out. Life has not been so pleasant that I desire 
 it overmuch. But you must believe what I say. Here, 
 I can do nothing." 
 
 Then, in a voice that shook with restrained emotion, 
 he added 
 
 "Man, man, don't you see that I'd cut off my right 
 hand to save her, that I'm in torment because I can't 
 help." 
 
 And in that moment Franzl saw. 
 
 Here, face to face with him, was no longer that god 
 of power, of whom he had been so jealous; no longer a 
 being so high that he could not reach him, even with 
 his hatred and his knife: but only a man like himself, 
 a companion a friend. His friend. And both of them 
 helpless in the presence of death. 
 
 He swayed forward and hid his face for an instant 
 on Edwards' shoulder. After all, he was scarcely more 
 than a boy. 
 
 But in Thiersee even boys do not cry. 
 
 Franzl's whole body shook. But when he raised his 
 head his eyes were dry. 
 
 "It's my fault," he said. "If I hadn't had those 
 murder-thoughts about you she wouldn't have wanted 
 to take me up into the hills. I've killed her. I might 
 just as well have cut her throat. And I love her so, I 
 love her so. ' ' 
 
 He turned away, wringing his hands in an agony of 
 despair. 
 
 ' ' God has done it all on purpose, ' ' he muttered. ' ' He 
 don't like it when a man gets to hate another man after 
 he's been that man's friend. And it's no good asking 
 the saints to help. God's too mad with me. He 
 wouldn't listen to a word they said."
 
 194 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 His utter discouragement was contagious. Edwards 
 made an effort to shake himself free of it. 
 
 "But she isn't dead yet," he said. "The symptoms 
 may change for the better. It may be only shock. Come 
 up with me and see what you think. It will do you 
 good, and it can't hurt her now." 
 
 All that was visible of Nani was a white face and 
 neck and two brown hands that lay motionless on the 
 coverlet. But she was not unconscious. When she saw 
 Franzl, with Edwards standing at his side, she smiled 
 and tried to speak. 
 
 "I want to dance. Oh, please, I am so dancy so 
 terribly dancy." 
 
 Franzl 's face became twisted with horror. Pain and 
 the sight of it he could bear, for he knew it well; but 
 delirium was to him something strange and terrible. He 
 stared at Edwards. 
 
 "Oh, she knows where she is," Edwards explained. 
 "But she's lost her power of remembering words. 
 'Dance' is one of the few she has left." 
 
 He followed the direction of her eyes, took up the 
 glass of water at which she was gazing, and gave her to 
 drink. She sighed contentedly. 
 
 ' ' I had such a dance, ' ' she murmured. 
 
 "We were going to dance that very night," whispered 
 Franzl, and his eyes brimmed now with sudden tears. 
 "We'd just been talking about it when the the aval- 
 anche came." 
 
 "Now watch," Edwards said, "and you'll see what's 
 wrong with her." 
 
 He took out a pencil and held it in front of Nani's 
 eyes. 
 
 "Nani, what's this?" 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "Have you ever seen such a thing before? Yes. 
 Well, what is it? Can't you remember its name? Is 
 it a fork? No. A glass? No. A watch ? No. Is it 
 a pencil? " 
 
 Nani's face lighted up. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered, "a pencil."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 195 
 
 Edwards pushed Franzl forward. 
 
 "And who is this, Nani?" 
 
 Again the girl shook her head. 
 
 "But you know him? Yes, of course. Only you can't 
 give him his name " 
 
 Franzl covered his twitching face with his hat. 
 
 "Ach, alle Sieben Nothelfer!" he sobbed. "She 
 doesn't remember even my name." 
 
 "Is it your mother? No. The Herr Lehrer? 
 
 No. Is it Franzl? " 
 
 Again Nani smiled ; again her eyes lit up ; and her lips 
 formed the word over and over again. 
 
 ' ' Franzl Franzl Franzl. ' ' 
 
 Franzl would have cast himself down on his knees 
 beside the bed, but Edwards held him back gently and 
 then drew him aside. 
 
 "You see," he said, "there's something pressing on 
 the part of her thinking-machine that puts the right 
 names to the right things. That part isn't working. 
 And the thing that 's pressing there will, I 'm afraid, soon 
 begin to press on other parts too. And I'm helpless." 
 
 "Why don't you open her head and take the thing 
 out ? You made me a new ear. ' ' 
 
 Edwards' glance fell before Franzl 's insistent eyes. 
 
 "It would be too big a risk," he said. "I'm not a 
 surgeon. And I 've no experience in what you call ' open- 
 ing heads.' I might write to Innsbruck. The Herr 
 Professor, out of kindness, might send an assistant. 
 Only, Franzl, I'm sure he wouldn't get here in time." 
 
 "She'd be dead?" 
 
 "Perhaps not dead. But the operation would come 
 too late. The thinking-machine the thing that makes 
 Nani our Nani would be so spoiled by then that even 
 the biggest professor couldn't help." 
 
 "But it might not be spoiled quite." 
 
 Edwards caught Franzl by the shoulders and pushed 
 him out of the room. Facing him in the hall outside, 
 his self-control broke down in the stress of his excite- 
 ment, and he spoke in hurried disconnected sentences. 
 
 "Can't you see what's driving me crazy, idiot? If I
 
 196 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 wait, she may get well, somehow. Only that's a very 
 long chance. Her pulse is slowing down with every 
 
 hour. And if I try to do anything But that's 
 
 out of the question, I shouldn't dare." 
 
 " You wouldn't dare!" 
 
 Franzl's self-possession had suddenly returned to him. 
 He understood now. There was a fighting chance. A 
 chance to dare. He straightened up ; he seemed to tower 
 above Edwards. 
 
 "I wish I had a chance to dare for her. But I 
 haven't. So you Ve got to got to! Understand. And 
 you'd better lose no time. I'll fetch Nani's mother." 
 
 Edwards went back quickly into the sick-room. He 
 bent over the bed, consulted the pulse- and temperature- 
 chart that he had roughly drawn up the night before. 
 There was no doubt of it she was worse. Every symp- 
 tom pointed to increasing pressure somewhere on the 
 brain. And the chances were that the danger came from 
 that indentation in the region of the temporal bone. If 
 he could lift those broken fragments out, if he 
 dared 
 
 He stood despairingly at the window, looking down, 
 as he had looked so often, at the sharp reflection of the 
 snow-capped mountains in the waters of the little lake. 
 And, as if across the background of his consciousness, 
 there passed a sharply outlined picture of himself stand- 
 ing by the notice-board outside the porter's lodge in 
 Innsbruck, listening inattentively to the little Freiherr 
 von Atems, who looked like a Jew, and who was in a 
 state of transcendent joy because he was going home. 
 He seemed to hear the voice of the merry, black-bearded 
 little man telling him about, about an operation, an 
 operation he had just seen. 
 
 ' ' Oh, he 's got a lot of chic yet, old Schroeder has. ' ' 
 
 And then the description ! The skin-incision ; the lift- 
 ing of the crushed temporal bone ; the covering of the ex- 
 posed brain with with With what? Oh yes, he 
 
 remembered now. "With a piece from the fascia lata of 
 the thigh. 
 
 A transplantation !
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 197 
 
 But that was too difficult. Out of the question. He 
 had seen one such operation long ago. But to do it 
 himself 
 
 Mechanically he went to the closet where he kept 
 his instruments and selected what seemed necessary. He 
 had not all the proper tools. But the thing could be 
 done by a skillful experienced hand. 
 
 He lighted the flame under the vessel in which he 
 usually sterilized his instruments. 
 
 A skillful experienced hand ! 
 
 And, looking down at his own, he saw that the fingers 
 were cramped and trembling. 
 
 It was impossible. He could not do it. 
 
 Then Franzl appeared with Frau Speckbacher. He 
 could not face them, for he knew well enough that 
 Franzl would already have explained the situation. So 
 he temporized. 
 
 "I'm hoping," he said lamely, "that all may go well 
 without our running the risk of an operation." 
 
 Then, as Franzl stared distrustfully at him, he 
 added 
 
 "We'll get everything in readiness. I'll wait an 
 hour or two yet. Then, if necessary, we can begin at 
 once." 
 
 Quickly, with an effort to appear sure of himself, 
 he gave his two companions such directions as were 
 possible. They would use his writing-table, and could 
 boil some old sheets to enclose the field of the opera- 
 tion. He thanked heaven that he had a good supply 
 of aseptic surgical gauze. And there was plenty of 
 sterilized silk in the tiny vials of carbolic acid. 
 
 And iodine, he would need lots of that. He must 
 sterilize a big field over the fascia lata of the thigh. 
 
 Here again his nerve failed him. 
 
 That transplantation of connecting-tissue! Never 
 would he be able to do that. 
 
 And a bad patch of septic fascia sewed into the dura 
 mater of the brain ! Why, it was murder ! 
 
 His hand began to shake again. 
 
 And then he caught sight of his half-filled bottle of
 
 198 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 whisky. While the others hastened softly to and fro 
 he slipped it into his pocket, hurried downstairs, and 
 sat down on a bench in the garden. He leaned back 
 against the sun-warmed wall. 
 
 "What was the matter with him? Except in Kassian's 
 case he had hitherto worked with an accuracy and a self- 
 assurance that had never faltered. 
 
 But this, this was a case in which the patient might 
 well die under his knife. How much simpler to let her 
 die quietly, if die she must. No one would blame him 
 then ; no one who understood. A country doctor couldn 't 
 be expected to do complicated operations on the brain. 
 Whereas, if he did try and failed, his colleagues would 
 have just cause for complaint. The facts would be 
 known, would be commented upon, brought into the 
 courts perhaps. 
 
 An unlicensed practitioner daring to open a patient's 
 skull! 
 
 No. It was impossible. 
 
 A shadow fell across him. Franzl stood waiting. 
 
 "I think she's got worse these last few minutes," 
 he said. "I wanted to make her say my name 
 again. But she can't speak. She just looks. Come. 
 Hurry." 
 
 Edwards leaned forward, looking down at the ground. 
 
 "I'm not going to risk an operation after all," he 
 burst out. "If I make a mess of it, as I probably shall, 
 I '11 have killed her. And besides, I 've just realized that 
 such an operation is out of the question without proper 
 assistance. You 'd be no good. You 're not used to such 
 things. Neither is Frau Speckbacher. No matter how 
 able a surgeon I might be, I couldn 't do the work single- 
 handed. You say she 's worse. All the more reason then 
 for letting her alone. ' ' 
 
 Franzl took Edwards firmly by the throat and forced 
 his head up. 
 
 "I don't want to hurt you," he said between his 
 teeth. ' ' 'Cause you '11 need all the cleverness you 've got 
 in your clever head and hands. But you said before that 
 there was a chance if a fellow dared to take it. I told
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 199 
 
 you you'd got to dare. And if you won't come I'll 
 carry you/'' 
 
 " Look at that." 
 
 Edwards stretched out his hand. It was shaky and 
 uncertain. 
 
 "Take a drink, then," persisted Franzl, uncorking the 
 whisky-bottle that stood by Edwards' side. "Once 
 you've opened her head right, you can fall down dead 
 drunk if you like. Why," he added, with sudden sur- 
 prise, "I thought you were a man." 
 
 Edwards pushed aside the bottle that Franzl pressed 
 to his lips. The smell revolted him; he had scarcely 
 taken a single swallow of the stinging spirits. 
 
 ' ' No, ' ' he said, ' ' I will not come. You 're only a child, 
 and you shan't force me to do murder at your bid- 
 ding." 
 
 "But she '11 die." 
 
 "I daresay." 
 
 "Then you must come. You must." 
 
 Franzl seized Edwards' arm and tried to pull him 
 up from the bench. Edwards shrank away, resisting, 
 furiously angry. 
 
 As they struggled together a voice spoke behind them, 
 a calm, clear-toned voice that spoke in broken German 
 with a strange accent. 
 
 ' ' Shame ! Drunk and fighting so early ! In front 
 of the schoolhouse too. A nice example for the children. 
 Please tell me where I can find the Herr Doktor." 
 
 Franzl stood aside while Edwards rose unsteadily to 
 his feet. 
 
 She seemed to have come out of the sun itself; and 
 this sense of her never left him. It was not merely 
 the coppery gold of her hair, nor the slim strength of 
 her figure in its tight-fitting riding habit; nor even 
 the sun behind her, shining in his eyes. It was some- 
 thing more, some sense of new victorious life and beauty 
 that spoke to him through her. 
 
 ' ' I am the Herr Doktor, ' ' he stammered. 
 
 Then, as he followed the indignant pointing of her 
 gloved finger at the overturned whisky-bottle and caught
 
 200 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 the sharp odor of spirits that permeated the warm air, he 
 dropped back helplessly on the bench. 
 
 And he saw a look of intense disappointment and dis- 
 tress sweep across her face, like the "Foehn" that dis- 
 torts the reflection of the mountains when it blows across 
 the lake. 
 
 "Ah," she said. " Ah, indeed. Thank you." 
 
 And she turned to go. 
 
 Then something gave her pause. She stopped and 
 beckoned Franzl towards her. He stood before her awk- 
 wardly, and she looked him over slowly from head to 
 foot. 
 
 "You do not seem so very drunk," she said at last. 
 Then, in a lower tone, with a nod over her shoulder 
 towards Edwards. "Is he is he often like like this 
 now?" 
 
 "Like this!" 
 
 "Yes. Drunk, stupefied, unfit for his work!" 
 
 Franzl threw back his head with a snort of rage. 
 
 Who was this strange person, in these strange gar- 
 ments, who interfered with him and dared to speak evil 
 of his friend? 
 
 He began to protest angrily, to explain. The deep, 
 guttural vowels of his dialect sounded as rough as the 
 scraping of a rusty saw. 
 
 The "strange person" gazed at him, puzzled. 
 
 "I don't understand a word you're saying. Can't he 
 speak to me himself, your Herr Doktor? Or is he too 
 too ?" 
 
 Edwards had come slowly forward. An intense shame 
 seemed to strangle the words in his throat. He was the 
 last man in the world to make excuses, to defend him- 
 self. Nevertheless he felt that somehow he must keep 
 this woman from leaving him. What she thought mat- 
 tered nothing. Only she must stay. She who had come 
 to him out of the sun. 
 
 "I do not know how I can be of service to you," he 
 said, laying a hand on Franzl 's shoulder. "But my 
 friend Franzl, here, has only been trying to explain to 
 you that as I had no courage inside me he was trying
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 201 
 
 to put some into me from a bottle. Unfortunately with- 
 out much success. We have had an accident ; a fatal one, 
 I fear. And he thinks that, if I will, I can bid Death 
 keep his hands off. That I am like Nebuchadnezzar. 
 You remember how it goes in the Bible, 'Whom he would, 
 he slew ; and whom he would, he kept alive. ' ' 
 
 The look of disappointment on the stranger's face 
 had given place to an expression of curious interest. 
 
 "Tell me about it," she said. 
 
 Briefly, as concisely as he could, he told her. Once 
 or twice she interrupted him. 
 
 "I don't understand all these German technical terms. 
 What is the English equivalent?" 
 
 He answered in English. And, although he did not 
 realize it, he continued speaking in his own tongue. 
 
 When he had finished she laid her riding-whip aside, 
 and, to his surprise, took off her hat and smoothed down 
 her hair. 
 
 "I know something of operative surgery," she said. 
 "At home I was at the head of our Red Cross work for 
 a time. And I put in a whole year in the surgical 
 wards. If you can use me " 
 
 Edwards jumped to his feet and stood beside her, 
 radiant. 
 
 Yes, it was not mere imagination; she had come to 
 him out of the sun. 
 
 He wasted no words. 
 
 "Thanks," he said. "I will show you what you have 
 to do." 
 
 And with each step towards the house at her side he 
 felt his old confidence return, felt the full measure of 
 his knowledge well up within him, and knew that he 
 had come into his manhood once again.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHEN the final touch had been given to the bandages, 
 Edwards looked up from the curious round crown, cut 
 out of cardboard, that protected the wound in Nani's 
 head, and met the smile of the woman who had stood so 
 close to him during the last two hours. 
 
 How quiet she had been! Yet so ever ready. With 
 such a marvelous power of seeming to know what he 
 wanted and when. 
 
 She had followed his thought as he operated, abreast 
 of his thought, ahead of his hands, so that often, before 
 he had time to ask for some needed instrument, it had 
 been placed squarely in his grasp. There had been 
 some bad moments; many of them. But not once had 
 she shown the slightest tremor, not once had ill-sup- 
 pressed excitement marred the placid perfection of her 
 service. 
 
 "I'm afraid," said Edwards, "that I swore at you 
 twice." 
 
 "Three times." 
 
 Then they both laughed. 
 
 "Lucky the dura wasn't injured," Edwards went on. 
 "I should never have had nerve enough to take that 
 strip from the thigh to cover it with. ' ' 
 
 ' ' Oh yes, you would, ' ' she answered. 
 
 Edwards laughed again. That was true: he would 
 have. With her to help. 
 
 Nani was still under the effect of the anaesthetic. 
 But the pulse was stronger already. Without a doubt, 
 now that the crushed temporal bone had been lifted 
 from the brain and patched together, the symptoms of 
 internal pressure would cease. She would recover. Ed- 
 wards felt sure, sure. 
 
 "And now," he said, as he drew off his rubber gloves 
 
 202.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 203 
 
 and untied the white operating-tunic with its splotches 
 of dried red blood, "now we'll go and eat. I am most 
 immensely hungry. And afterwards we'll talk." 
 
 It seemed strange to him that he was not more curious, 
 that a thousand questions did not force their way to his 
 lips. But he was content merely to have her there. Per- 
 haps he dreaded lest an undue curiosity might send her 
 back again from whence she had come : into the sun. At 
 any rate he asked no questions. He talked, however; 
 talked incessantly. Told her about his tiny "Clinic"; 
 took her on tiptoe past Nani's bed into the adjoining 
 room, and introduced her to Toni and to little Helena. 
 
 The children looked at her with misty eyes of wonder. 
 It pleased him to see it ; for he wondered too. 
 
 Then down they went through the lower hall, and he 
 opened the door of the schoolroom only just a little to 
 let her have a glimpse of Joncke, who should have been 
 at his dinner long since, but who was sitting with three 
 of his stupidest pupils, helping them with some task 
 they had not understood. He even took her into the 
 kitchen, empty now, for Frau Speckbacher was watching 
 beside Nani upstairs. But one room he did not show 
 her : Nani 's little bedroom, that looked out on the garden. 
 
 Standing on the steps of the schoolhouse, he pointed 
 out to her the various divisions of the village below 
 them, the church, the ' ' Widum, ' ' the little lake with its 
 reflections of the snow-covered mountains. 
 
 She said but little; she let him talk. For she was a 
 wise woman, even though she had not come out of the 
 sun, really. 
 
 He insisted on her taking dinner with him. They 
 walked together down the hill to the "Drachen." The 
 priest and the Biirgermeister had finished their meal 
 long since. Father Mathias was gone; the Biirger- 
 meister was having his after-dinner nap. So Edwards 
 and his companion had the little table all to themselves. 
 
 The Drachen-Wirt was a man of great self-control. 
 An innkeeper learns to keep his thoughts to himself if 
 he is to please all his guests. And to the Drachen-Wirt 's 
 credit be it said, that he laid an extra place opposite
 
 204 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Edwards, and served the meal himself without a twitch 
 of his lined red face. But once out of sight inside the 
 house he stole to the window that overlooked Edwards' 
 table and glued his little pig's-eye to the pane, scratch- 
 ing the back of his head meanwhile and whistling softly 
 through the gap in his false teeth. 
 
 For all that Edwards would have heard he might 
 have whistled as shrilly as the raggedest boy in Joncke 's 
 school. And he might have served the vilest dinner in 
 his kitchen, and that would have been very vile in- 
 deed ! it would have made no difference. For although 
 he did not realize it, Edwards had found something that 
 he had been longing for for years, and that he did not 
 recognize now that it was given him, a breath of the 
 atmosphere in which he had been born; someone who 
 meant "home." 
 
 "This is rotten soup-meat," he remarked genially, as 
 he watched his guest's hopeless efforts to cut into the 
 brown rough slab on her plate. "Looks like old blot- 
 ting-paper. You'll never manage it with that knife. 
 Let me have a try." 
 
 He took out his heavy pocket-knife, and with the sharp- 
 est blade separated the meat into square chunks. 
 
 "You'll have to chew hard, you know," he added, 
 "But that's no misfortune. And after all, what's 
 food!" 
 
 While he was busy cutting his own portion his guest 
 slyly gave her chunks, one by one, to the landlord's 
 prowling puppy, who snuggled blissfully at her feet. 
 
 At last, as the reaction of his exciting morning died 
 down, Edwards' speech grew less voluble. He pushed 
 his plate aside, and filled two of the chipped glasses 
 with the bright red stream of the Drachen-Wirt 's very 
 watery wine. Then he held his glass towards his guest. 
 Their glasses clinked together; their hands touched too. 
 And 
 
 "Prosit!" he said. "Now, where do you come from? 
 How may I begin to thank you ? And who are you, any- 
 way?" 
 
 She took a long deep draught from the glass, not as
 
 .THE GOOD SHEPHERD 205 
 
 a woman sips, but as a comrade a thirsty comrade, 
 Edwards thought who pledges his friend in the cup of 
 fellowship. 
 
 "I rode over from Schloss Liebenegg early this morn- 
 ing," she said, but so diffidently and in such uncertain 
 tones that Edwards was conscious at once that she had 
 no desire to answer his questions. "We had a letter 
 about you from the Herr Professor, and his wife wanted 
 me to to " 
 
 "Oh, I know who you are, then," Edwards interposed. 
 His one dominating idea was to set her at her ease. 
 While he had talked she had seemed so contented, so 
 ready to stay with him. But at his questioning she had 
 become restless. He thought he understood, and hast- 
 ened to answer himself the questions he had asked. 
 
 "You're Miss Sparks. I ought to have realized that 
 at once. I was told, in Innsbruck, that you often spend 
 your summers with the Schroeders as a as a sort of a 
 companion." 
 
 How stupid of me, he thought. She's a lady, and for 
 the sake of her daily bread has to be dependent on others. 
 No doubt the Frau Professor is hard to get along with. 
 She hates the life ; she 's glad of a day away from it all. 
 And here I am chattering to her about what she wants 
 most to forget. 
 
 ' ' I suppose, ' ' he went on aloud, as she made no reply, 
 "I've often met you on the street. But I'm so absent- 
 minded I'd pass my own mother without recognizing 
 her. Of course, though, I 've heard of you and of your 
 your plucky fight. Forgive me for speaking of it. Of 
 how you turned to and fended for yourself when you 
 were left alone after your father's sudden death. He 
 was in the Indian Civil Service, wasn't he? Pensioned 
 and on his way home, when you and he stopped over in 
 
 Innsbruck for a month, and he I say, I oughtn 't to 
 
 talk about these things. But I wanted you to know that 
 'you weren't quite a stranger to me." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind," she answered. And she settled 
 back in her chair with such evident intention of remain* 
 ing there, her voice had become again so clear and self-
 
 206 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 assured, that Edwards inwardly complimented himself 
 upon his tactfulness. 
 
 "English-speaking people ought to hang together in a 
 strange country," Edwards went on, clasping his hands 
 and leaning towards her across the table. "And I'd 
 have come to see you. But, well, I 'm a procrastinating 
 wretch, you see. And I hadn't much time. I did send 
 you one pupil, though. You remember him, don 't you ? 
 Little von Atems. He said you were a first-rate teacher. 
 "What do you think of him?" 
 
 He paused. But speechlessness seemed again to have 
 fallen upon her. She shrugged her shoulders slightly, 
 smiling with apparent effort. 
 
 Now I've mucked it all, said Edwards to himself. 
 Of course she doesn't like to be reminded of having 
 to teach that stupid little jackass. So he added has- 
 tily 
 
 "No doubt you've seen me in Innsbruck. It's such a 
 tiny place." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation, with the same apparent 
 effort, came a little nod of assent. 
 
 Edwards became confused. He drank off half a glass 
 of his wine. Silence settled down. 
 
 At last she picked up her riding-crop. 
 
 "I must be going back to Liebenegg." 
 
 "But you'll come again?" 
 
 "If it's possible." 
 
 "Perhaps I could ride over to you. I want to seo 
 the Herr Professor and " 
 
 She interrupted him suddenly. It was as if she had 
 thrown off something that was oppressing her ; as if she 
 had come to an abrupt decision. 
 
 "No, don't do that. I mean, I wouldn't come now, 
 for the Professor isn't there. Besides, Frau Schroeder 
 has guests, Americans, mother and son, and she's out 
 with them almost all day. That's why," she added, 
 with an uncertain laugh, "I've so much time to myself. 
 It will be a pleasure to ride over again." 
 
 "Soon?" 
 
 "Why not? I must have a look at Nani. That's
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 207 
 
 her name, isn't it? Will you ask that boy there to 
 
 bring my horse. I left it in the inn stable." 
 
 The "boy" in question happened to be Franzl, who 
 had wandered down from the schoolhouse, bursting with 
 good news. But he went off on a run at Miss Sparks' 
 command. And silence fell again between Edwards and 
 his guest, an uncomfortable pause that neither seemed 
 able to break, and that only ended when Franzl appeared 
 from behind the inn, leading a light sorrel mare, whose 
 beauty moved him to strokings and whisperings of rap- 
 ture. Edwards knew nothing about horses; but he felt 
 that this was a wonderful animal indeed, a proper 
 mount for her who had come riding out of the sun. 
 
 He hung back slightly. He feared she would ask 
 him to help her mount, and he did not know how. 
 
 To his surprise she did not ask him at all, and, per- 
 versely enough, he felt hurt when he saw her take 
 Franzl 's knee and hand to reach her saddle. Once there, 
 she beckoned to him. 
 
 He came close to her side, while Franzl stood at the 
 mare's head rubbing his cheek against her velvety nose 
 and murmuring sweet nothings of admiration into her 
 twitching ear. 
 
 "Professor Schroeder is much exercised over your 
 whereabouts," she said, bending down towards him. 
 "He feels that you have treated him somewhat thought- 
 lessly. It is more than three months since he bade you 
 good-by in Innsbruck, and he had no letter from you 
 until a few days ago. We had no idea you were in 
 Thiersee at all." 
 
 Edwards made haste to explain the miscarrying of 
 his first letter. He blamed himself for having taken 
 so long in sending the second. 
 
 "But how did you get here?" she asked, a trace of 
 suspicion in her voice. "Why didn't you pass through 
 Kufstein? For weeks we asked constantly for you at 
 all the hotels." 
 
 "But I was in Kuf stein at the 'Goldener Schwann' 
 for a night. Then I walked in. 'Twas early in 
 March. My, but the roads were bad!"
 
 208 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "You walked in!" she repeated, then added abruptly, 
 "But then then oh, was it you, I wonder, whom we 
 passed on horseback? It must have been. You were 
 singing singing a song I " 
 
 She broke off quickly and held out her hand. 
 
 " It 's only ' Auf Wiedersehen, ' " she said. ' ' I '11 try to 
 be over soon again. You might write. No, I forgot, 
 don't. It would take days for a letter to reach me. 
 'Twould have to go round by way of Kuf stein. But I '11 
 come." She picked up her reins, then dropped them 
 again. "I'd almost forgotten something important. I 
 was to give you this. The Herr Professor sent it. And 
 you're to follow the directions it contains on pain of his 
 grievous displeasure. He'll be glad to hear that your 
 long three months' silence was not intentional." 
 
 "But I explained how it was in my last letter to 
 him." 
 
 "Yes, he got that; but he didn't know he wasn't 
 sure " 
 
 Edwards lowered his eyes from hers. He understood. 
 They had not trusted him quite; were not entirely sure 
 of what he had been doing with himself during these last 
 months, and she had been sent over to find out. 
 
 So it was not out of the sun that she had come, but 
 from the shadows of distrust. 
 
 He looked up at her again, and his lips wore the old 
 twisted bitter smile that had become strange to them 
 of late. She read him easily. Bending down from her 
 saddle, she thrust an envelope into the upper pocket of 
 his coat. Then her hand rested for an instant on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Don't let me leave you as I found you this morning. 
 And make no mistake. The Schroeders believe in you. 
 I want to believe, too. It's been a hideous mess this 
 whole business; but it's not too late to straighten it 
 out. Good-by." 
 
 She spoke to her mare. It started forward, delighted 
 to be on the road again, prancing daintily a little from 
 side to side as it bore its mistress up the hill. Edwards 
 gazed after her, hoping that she would turn her head
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 209 
 
 before reaching the bend of the highway, but she rode 
 straight on. 
 
 Why should she have turned her head? She could 
 not have seen him, for her eyes were full of tears. 
 
 Edwards and Franzl walked slowly back to the school- 
 house. At the door Joncke met them. His sallow face 
 was radiant. 
 
 "Herr Doktor," he called "Herr Doktor, she's bet- 
 ter. When she came out of the chloroform she looked 
 at me and said, 'I want a a dance.' But then she cor- 
 rected herself. 'I mean a drink.' I was so excited. 
 I remembered what you'd told me. So I held up a 
 pencil. 'What's that?' I asked. At first she shook her 
 head; not much, because you've bandaged it so she can't 
 move. But then she said quite distinctly, 'Why, a pencil 
 of course. ' She 's going to get well ! ' ' 
 
 When Joncke came at midnight to relieve Edwards, 
 who had taken the first watch at Nani's bedside, he 
 met Frau Speckbacher standing outside the bedroom 
 door. 
 
 "I'll be sitting a while with you, Herr Lehrer," she 
 said. "I can't sleep downstairs with my child lying 
 here." 
 
 Then her curiosity finding sudden vent, she added in 
 a whisper 
 
 ' ' I thought I 'd be asking you about about her. ' ' 
 
 Joncke nodded. He was even more curious than the 
 good Frau herself. 
 
 "He says she's an English lady, poor, who gives les- 
 sons for a living. The Professor at Liebenegg pays her 
 to stay with them in the summer." 
 
 ' ' And does he believe that ? ' ' 
 
 ' ' Believe it ! Of course. Don 't you ? ' ' 
 
 Frau Speckbacher shrugged her fat shoulders. 
 
 "And him so clever too! Why, Herr Lehrer, he cut 
 with his scissors deep down into the quick of my toe- 
 nail, so that I never felt him a-doing it. And yet he 
 lets a woman put it over him like that. Well, well; no 
 man's so wise, but he's an ass to some woman."
 
 210 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 And with that she opened the door of the sick-room 
 and sent Edwards off to bed. 
 
 He had to sleep in Nani's room. It was stuffy, so he 
 opened the window on the garden and lingered there 
 for a moment looking down on the lake. A step on the 
 gravel outside startled him, and a figure passed along 
 the path. 
 
 It was Franzl keeping watch. 
 
 As he neared Nani's window he turned his head. 
 With two quick steps he crossed the intervening 
 strip of grass and stood below Edwards, his elbows 
 on the low window-sill, his face turned upwards, 
 his eyes fixed on the doctor's face. He put out 
 an uncertain hand and groped for Edwards ' arm. Then 
 his fingers felt downwards until they had clasped his 
 friend's hand in his. Helplessly he sought for words. 
 At last he said 
 
 "In the Play you know I didn't want to be St. 
 John. Seemed too sissy for me. I'd rather been a 
 soldier; but I'd do it gladly now, if thou" (he fell 
 unconsciously into the familiar use of the pronoun) 
 "if thou wert to be the Master. Should 'st rightly play 
 that part too. Art most like what they say He was 
 to me." 
 
 Then, turning abruptly away, he disappeared in the 
 shadows. 
 
 Edwards threw off his clothes carelessly and crept 
 into Nani's narrow bed. For a moment, as he was 
 falling asleep, he realized that he had omitted all the 
 lengthy ceremonial with which he was used gradually 
 to win his way to rest. He was free of all that servi- 
 tude. He saw it as it really was, the expression of a 
 weakened sickly will. And he knew too that, thanks 
 to something that had come into his life, he could never 
 be in such bondage again. 
 
 Towards three o'clock he woke suddenly to find him- 
 self lying in a cold sweat. His night clothes, even the 
 sheets, were drenched. 
 
 He got up, dried himself, and went to bed again, 
 shivering.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 211 
 
 As he lay there a new specter took form in his 
 thoughts a new domination that he knew could not 
 be cast out, for it was not of the mind, but of the 
 body. He clenched his fist, and shook it as if in the 
 specter's face. 
 
 "I won't give in," he said aloud. "You may poison 
 me all you please; but so long as I'm alive I won't give 
 in. I will not. ' ' 
 
 And then at last he fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THERE were scarcely four weeks left before the two won- 
 derful Sundays on which Thiersee was to give its Pas- 
 sion-Play. The little community spoke now of nothing 
 else. 
 
 Each new item of news was hurried from mouth to 
 mouth, commented upon, approved or criticised. The 
 parish priest was almost purple in the face with feverish 
 activity. After many searchings of heart, he had de- 
 cided to post two written notices of the performance 
 one in the chief hotel in Kufstein, the other outside the 
 parish church in Innsbruck. But he knew that no one 
 would see them. Even if someone did, Thiersee was 
 too inaccessible to attract many visitors. And indeed 
 he did not want people from outside strangers, infidels, 
 heretics. The two or three hundred villagers from the 
 neighboring valleys would be audience enough. 
 
 He did, however, write to the ' ' Bezirkshauptman- 
 schaft" 1 in Kufstein, and to the "Ordinariat" 2 of the 
 Prince-Bishop in Brixen. The community was honored 
 to hear that one of the gentlemen from the ' ' Hauptman- 
 schaft" would appear in uniform. But it went quite 
 wild with excitement over the announcement that the 
 Prince-Bishop himself, but newly returned from Rome, 
 where he had received his Pallium from the Pope, had 
 made known to Father Mathias his intention of coming 
 over from Kufstein, where he would be making his first 
 visitation, if the weather were good and the roads passa- 
 ble. 
 
 Now so short a time remained for rehearsals, that they 
 were begun on Sundays in the morning, directly after 
 the nine o'clock mass. 
 
 1 The office of the provincial government. 
 
 2 The business headquarters of a bishop. 
 
 212
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 213 
 
 Edwards was going through the opening lines of his 
 first scene, standing amidst the little group of peasants, 
 under the great trees by the lake, where the natural 
 stage was to be, the sunlight streaking his hair with 
 yellow gleams as it fell through open spaces in the thick 
 leaves. He was in the best of spirits. The one spectre, 
 that had of late begun to haunt him, he had put out of 
 his mind, even though he knew that he could not put it 
 out of his body. Otherwise, all was well. Nani had 
 made remarkable progress. The results of the shock 
 and the brain pressure had almost disappeared. She 
 would be strong enough to see the Play, even though 
 she could not take part in it. And best of all, for the 
 time being, his money troubles were over. For the en- 
 velope which Miss Sparks had thrust into his pocket had 
 contained a hundred crowns, together with a card of 
 Professor Schroeder's, on which was written, in the form 
 of a physician's prescription 
 
 "B. 
 
 Coronarum Austriacarum. 100.00. 
 D.S. For instant external application." 
 
 And then, scribbled in one corner 
 
 "Have no hesitation about using this. It isn't for 
 you. It's for Thiersee. Also, to propitiate the gods. 
 
 "GYGES." 
 
 The old man's jokes are often too far-fetched for me 
 to grasp, thought Edwards. But he had done as the 
 note bade him, and had felt no qualms of pride about it 
 at all. 
 
 At the rehearsal on this particular Sunday, he had 
 thrown his entire strength into an effort to make his 
 scene with Christus move naturally. And, as an unseen 
 guest from Liebenegg came riding down to the water's 
 edge, her mare's hoofs falling silently on the soft grass, 
 she overlooked the little stage as from a royal box. Ed- 
 wards had seated himself on an old broken chair that
 
 214 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 threatened to collapse at any moment. Around him, the 
 young men of the village were gathered, two of them in 
 infantry uniform, gray sober figures among the bright 
 colors of their companions' Sunday finery. And in 
 front of him was another group, in the center of which 
 stood Joncke, the schoolmaster, his hands behind his 
 back as if bound there, his shoulders stooping in a very 
 agonized delight of suffering and abasement. At some 
 distance from them all was Father Mathias, his old black 
 straw hat far on the back of his head, waving sheets of 
 type-written paper in his little fat hands. 
 
 The listener on horseback, screened by the trees, heard 
 Pilate begin. 
 
 "Art thou a king, then?" 
 
 Then the sad, low voice of Christ answered 
 
 "Thou sayest that I am a king. For this end was I 
 born and " 
 
 But Pilate had jumped up from his rickety throne. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, Joncke," he interrupted, "don't 
 stand like that. Throw back your shoulders. Look me 
 in the face. You are of the line and lineage of David. 
 .And he was a king, mind you. When I see you stand- 
 ing all hunched up there, I don't feel like crucifying 
 you at all. I only want to shake you. As if I'd like 
 to say: 'Are you,' with a sort of sneer on the 'you' 
 'are YOU a king, then?' But I don't say that. I 
 Pilate I'm impressed. I know you're a worker of 
 miracles, that you're a big man, a man who has stirred 
 up my province from Dan to Beersheba. And so I ask, 
 And now let's do it all again." 
 
 He sat down on his wobbly chair. 
 
 "So I ask, 'Art thou a king, then?' ' 
 
 On the word "king," his voice ran up a whole fifth, 
 in an interrogation that provoked response. 
 
 But the schoolmaster only lifted his head slightly ; his 
 voice was still the voice of the suffering humble car- 
 penter's son of Nazareth. 
 
 "Thou sayest that I am a king." 
 
 In an instant, Pilate was up again. He pushed Joncke 
 aside and stood in his place. He was no longer angry ;
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 215 
 
 he pleaded with the other, as if reasoning with a dull 
 child. 
 
 "Nay, but see, Emil. So ist es nicht. Let me show 
 thee how it should be spoken." 
 
 Then, catching the eyes of everyone in the group 
 fastened on him, he shook his head and moved back to 
 his seat. 
 
 ' ' I am sorry, ' ' he said quietly, to the little priest who 
 had looked on in silence. "The Herr Lehrer knows 
 best. He is playing the part, not I." 
 
 Once more they went through the scene. The patient 
 Christ answered no whit differently than before. But 
 Pilate did not stir from his throne. And the scene was 
 played on to the end. 
 
 They hurried through the next one, and Pilate was 
 sitting with his head in his hands, when, looking up to 
 answer his anxious wife in the person of Gipfl-Marie, 
 he caught sight of a face, crowned as with an aureole 
 of gold, smiling down at him through the leaves. A 
 sudden shyness overcame him. He could no longer 
 throw himself into the make-believe of the rehearsal. 
 Things real and enduring were beckoning him. 
 
 He mumbled hurriedly through his part. 
 
 "You won't need me any more, will you?" he said 
 to the astonished priest. "There is someone waiting, I 
 think, for me." 
 
 Then the priest saw the new-comer too. He bowed. 
 All the other actors looked in the same direction, and 
 were, at a stroke, transformed into self-conscious clumsy 
 sons and daughters of the soil. 
 
 "Come, Hochwiirden. And you too, Emil. I want 
 to introduce you to Miss Sparks, from Liebenegg. ' ' 
 
 "To whom did you say?" demanded the priest. But 
 he let Edwards lead him forward up the slope. 
 
 Joncke, however, turned and fled; and as he fled, he 
 cast over his shoulder a look of malice that was not 
 Christ-like, to say the least. 
 
 "Miss Sparks, this is Father Mathias. One of the 
 best friends a man ever had. He speaks English too." 
 
 The little priest took off his black straw hat with a
 
 216 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 flourish; then he raised the visitor's gloved hand gal- 
 lantly to his lips. 
 
 ' ' I am delighted, ' ' he said, ' ' to make the acquaintance 
 of Miss Miss Sparks. ' ' 
 
 He made a long pause before the name. But her 
 eyes met his fearlessly, and priests are trained to read 
 in others' faces the answers to their unasked questions. 
 "Whatever it was that he read there, it satisfied him. 
 With some insignificant excuse, he passed on, leaving 
 the two together. Edwards took the mare by the bridle. 
 
 ''You've come to dinner, haven't you?" he asked. 
 
 "I've come with dinner. I can't say that I think 
 much of your cordon-bleu at the 'Drachen.' I'd a day 
 off, you see. So I persuaded the Frau Professor to put 
 me up a good luncheon and send it over by a groom. 
 It's waiting at the inn now." 
 
 "Then you won't eat with me?" 
 
 "Of course. But you shall eat of mine. Can't you 
 think of some pleasant place, not too far from the vil- 
 lage, where we could go together and enjoy what I've 
 brought ? Or are you too busy ? ' ' 
 
 He leaned his cheek against the mare's neck and 
 looked up at her. 
 
 "Don't let's waste time or words in asking one an- 
 other useless questions. You know I'm not too busy. 
 Otherwise, you'd never have brought the lunch. Now 
 would you?" 
 
 "I'm sorry. But we women have a habit of filling in 
 odd seconds with inane remarks. Especially, when we 're 
 not quite at our ease." 
 
 "Not quite at your ease?" he repeated. 
 
 "Well, not with the whole village staring at us, and 
 with you making dazzled eyes at me down there. Give 
 me a hand." 
 
 She stood beside him now, the aureole of her hair on a 
 level with his eyes, and Edwards was a tall man. 
 
 As they walked through the village side by side, the 
 mare following quietly at the end of the reversed bridle, 
 the old women who were sitting at home peered out over 
 the green herbs planted in boxes on their spotless win-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 217 
 
 dow-sills, and greeted one another across the street with 
 dubious winks and disapproving shrugs ; for, although 
 Edwards did not guess it, not one of these old women 
 would have been satisfied to see him mate with Venus 
 Aphrodite herself : she would not have been good enough. 
 
 Edwards stabled the mare, shouldered the lunch-bas- 
 ket, and they set off together, for he knew at once where 
 he wanted to go. They climbed the hill past the school- 
 house, waving a greeting to little Helena at the window 
 of the "Clinic," left the village behind, and came out 
 at last on the wooded brow of the slope, just where the 
 road plunges into the forest and makes a wide turn be- 
 fore leaving Thiersee behind. 
 
 "There's the place I've chosen," said Edwards. 
 
 He pointed to the little wayside chapel, with its faded 
 painting of the Crucifixion behind the rusty iron bars. 
 Someone had filled the tawdry glass vases with fresh 
 wild-flowers. The cracked wooden bench, where the wor- 
 shipers knelt and where Kassian had fallen asleep on the 
 day he had come out to welcome Edwards, still stood in 
 its old place. He laid aside the basket, then turned and 
 motioned to his companion to look down into the valley 
 below. 
 
 It was very quiet. Not a sound anywhere, except the 
 far-distant tinkle of a cow-bell from some unseen meadow 
 where the cattle fed in peace. Behind them was the 
 green of the forest; and on either side rose the high 
 peaks of the mountains, still snow-capped, still dazzling 
 in the white of winter, and stretching on and on until 
 they closed in together on the far horizon; below, clus- 
 tered about the lake, lay the village ; and there was the 
 lake itself, with its deep blue circle of water untouched 
 by the faintest breeze silent still. 
 
 "Gracious lady, are you pleased?" 
 
 She thanked him with a look, and they fell to un- 
 packing the basket, as happy as two children over the 
 unexpected good things that were gradually disclosed. 
 Edwards set them all out on the stone ledge before the 
 iron bars of the little chapel. 
 
 They did look delicious.
 
 218 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 If you have been living for months on "pig-cutlets" 
 and "calf soup-meat" of a very questionable quality, 
 served on greasy dishes and eaten with forks that taste 
 tinny, you may well be forgiven a weakness for pate-de- 
 foie-gras, for cool lettuce-sandwiches, for shining silver 
 and white linen, especially for a marvelous vegetable 
 salad in an old Dresden bowl, and delightful little cold 
 custards in cut-glass cups. 
 
 And there was ice, there was mineral water, and a 
 flask of Scotch whisky the good thick, yellow, liquor 
 kind. 
 
 To begin with, a long cold drink. 
 
 He mixed one for her: it was to her taste as well as 
 his. And then they ate side by side on the bench, bend- 
 ing forward over the plates on their knees, or reaching 
 further forward still towards the good things arranged 
 on the stone ledge before them. 
 
 "I'm very hungry," she had said. "Don't let's talk. 
 Let's simply devote ourselves to our vile bodies." 
 
 When they had finished eating, and were sitting on 
 the grass below the edge of the road, when she had 
 found in the basket a cigar for him and her own 
 cigarette-case, even then they kept silence for a long 
 time. 
 
 "Would the world be better, I wonder," he said ab- 
 ruptly, "if everybody always had good things to eat?" 
 
 * 'You'd be better," she retorted, "if you had the 
 things you're accustomed to. That's the trouble. 
 You 've fitted yourself into the lives of people who don 't 
 need the same things that you do. And to stay with 
 them means going hungry in more ways than one." 
 
 "We all eat too much in more ways than one." 
 
 "Maybe. But hunger is dangerous. Suppose you've 
 had nothing to eat for a whole day. You're ravenous, 
 of course. Then suddenly, in the dirt of the road, you 
 see a piece of bread. It's dry and it's old and it's filthy, 
 full of disease, maybe, for all you know. Yet it seems 
 attractive to you, because you're hungry. It's only a 
 crust. You would turn from it in disgust if you'd had 
 a hearty meal; but you pounce on it now, you devour
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 219 
 
 it because you're hungry. That's the danger of hun- 
 ger. Of more kinds of hunger than one." 
 
 "You are right," he said. "I have felt it so." 
 
 She turned quickly and laid her hand for a moment 
 on his shoulder, as she had done once before. It was 
 a friendly gesture that told only of her desire to help 
 nothing more. 
 
 There was another long pause. 
 
 Then he began talking of his work. And he talked 
 well. 
 
 He told her of the tuberculosis in the village; of the 
 limping children limping always on towards death; 
 and of his dream of finding some spot on a high hill 
 near by, where he could bring two or three of the worst 
 cases to try the effect of the new open-air treatment. 
 He told her of what he had read about the wonderful 
 cures that the sun only the sun had worked in Switz- 
 erland, at Lysin, and other places. He felt sure that 
 something of the same kind might be done for this part 
 of the world. 
 
 Then, with an abruptness that startled her, he stopped 
 short and threw away the end of his second cigar. 
 
 A sense of shadow had stolen over them. Although 
 the valley below was still flooded with light, the sun, at 
 their backs, was already down behind the mountains. 
 
 ' ' How I talk ! " he said, helping her to her feet. ' ' And 
 while I babble life moves on, and I have accomplished 
 nothing. 'The night cometh when no man can work.' 
 I think we'd better be going." 
 
 As he raised her, the heel of her riding-boot caught in 
 her habit and she slipped feet foremost down the steep 
 slope over the thick damp grass. 
 
 His arm went round her in an instant, and he threw 
 himself backwards, grasping with his free hand for one 
 of the small rough-hewn granite posts that mark the 
 edge of the highway. 
 
 "Get a firm foothold," he said. "Stand up slowly. 
 And, for God's sake, stand fast." 
 
 In another moment they were side by side on the level 
 of the empty road.
 
 220 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "If you once get slipping on that grass," he panted, 
 '"Well, about twenty feet below us, where you see 
 the bushes, there's a drop of a hundred yards. Men 
 and cattle have gone over here in the dark before now. 
 Just look at those." 
 
 He pointed to five or six little boards, set up on sticks 
 or fastened against the trees. Most of them bore some 
 sort of rough painting: sketches of cows, of men in 
 Tyrolese hats, of goose-girls and shepherd-boys. And 
 underneath sometimes in prose, sometimes in halting 
 rhyme was the short statement that the Mayerhofer- 
 Hans, with three cows, or the Oberbauer-Kathl, on her 
 way home from service in the city, had missed their way 
 here and had fallen. R.I.P. 
 
 "Let a tear for my fate bedew your eye, 
 
 And say one 'Our Father' and three 'Hail Marys' for me as you 
 pass by." 
 
 "There are no graves that bear their names in the 
 Thiersee churchyard," said Edwards. "They are sel- 
 dom found. When they are it's too late to be certain 
 who they once were." 
 
 The woman at his side covered her eyes with her hands. 
 
 "Death is so cruel," she said. "I fear it always." 
 
 "But no," he answered. And something emboldened 
 him to take her hands from her face. For a moment 
 he held them. "Death is only life seen from another 
 side a sort of Through-the-Looking-Glass. My people 
 here," he pointed down into the valley, "have taught 
 me how unimportant death is. They joke about it 
 not lightly, but as a man may jest with some great prince 
 whose friendship he enjoys. Look at that ' Martel, ' now, 
 that's what we call these little painted boards with 
 their strange rhymes. It's probably meant as a joke. 
 But I always find a deeper, a refreshing sense in the 
 coarse lines. The man you dislike in life you go on 
 disliking in death, so thin is the partition that divides 
 one state of being from the other." 
 
 He went up to one of the boards that bore only five 
 lines of crabbbed, painfully-printed verse
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 221 
 
 "UNTER DIESEM STEINE 
 
 MODERN ME1NE GEBEINE. 
 
 ICH WUENSCHT' ES WAEREN FRANZ RAMPOLD DIE 
 
 SEINE. 
 
 DIEWEIL ICH DIESEN SCHWEINEHUND 
 WAHRHAFTIG NIEMALS LEIDEN KUNDT." 
 
 "I'm not much at translating, but it might be done 
 into English something like this 
 
 " 'HERE UNDERNEATH THESE STONES 
 
 LIE MOULDERING MY BONES. 
 
 I WISH THEY WERE THE BONES OF EPHRAIM JONES. 
 
 FOR JONES, THAT MOST INFERNAL SWINE, 
 
 WAS NEVER ANY FRIEND OF MINE.' " 
 
 She laughed: the shadow that had seemed to oppress 
 her lifted, and she disengaged her hands quietly from 
 his. 
 
 4 'Do you usually make love to all women at such a 
 rapid rate?" she asked. 
 
 To her surprise he blushed scarlet, his lips quivered. 
 
 "Did I make love to you?" he stammered. "It's an 
 odious expression. But did I? I didn't mean to. 
 Really, such a thing never entered my mind for a mo- 
 ment. You see ' ' he went on, loosening his collar with 
 one finger, "you see, I don't know much about about 
 women. ' ' 
 
 She drew away from him. If this were acting, it was 
 good acting. It couldn't be. And yet, had she not been 
 told, had she not heard 
 
 She must not let this man lead her about blindfold. 
 
 He lead her? Why, he seemed eager to be led, ex- 
 actly like a child. 
 
 "I've said something idiotic, I suppose," he burst 
 out. * ' And I did so want to ask you to come over again 
 soon. It would mean a lot to me." 
 
 "I'll come," she said. 
 
 Whenever he looked up at her with those strange gray 
 eyes of his, asking for help, she could refuse him noth- 
 ing. It was even a joy to give ; a torment to think that 
 anyone might do the giving except herself. 
 
 They walked back together into the village. Then
 
 222 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Edwards mounted her. This time he dared to help her 
 up, although she scarcely touched his knee and offered 
 hand, so light she was. 
 
 "You've a long ride before you," he said, standing 
 in his favorite place at the mare's neck and looking up 
 at her. ' ' I must not keep you. ' ' 
 
 And then he talked to her for fifteen minutes with- 
 out stopping about little Helena.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 LONG after the sound of her horse's hoofs had died 
 away in the distance, Edwards stood at the gate of the 
 churchyard looking at the mountains, those thin out- 
 lines of white against the blue of the sky, still touched 
 here and there by the faint red rays of the vanished 
 sun. He watched them till the reddish tinge had faded 
 quite. And fat little Father Mathias watched him from 
 the door of the "Widum." 
 
 The priest had given Edwards a large place in his 
 kindly heart; more often than Edwards ever suspected 
 had he smoothed his way among the people of Thiersee. 
 And of late he had followed even more closely the xloings 
 of his "Herr Doktor," worrying not a little over the 
 nervous symptoms that Edwards had taken no pains to 
 conceal. For he knew them of old as the results of a 
 more or less lonely life, reacting on a personality not 
 yet at unity with itself ; and he longed to heal the cleft 
 that lie suspected in his friend's inmost soul, so that he 
 might win at last to complete manhood and to peace. 
 
 And now, just when he had seen Edwards' interest 
 grow and bear unexpected fruit in his rehearsals of the 
 Passion-Play, now a new and, as he believed, a dis- 
 turbing element had appeared. 
 
 The affair with Nani had not worried him. But this 
 woman was different. In her he intuitively recognized 
 a messenger who came to Edwards with a call from out 
 of his past ; from out of the old home life, of which he 
 never spoke. And because he knew that this home life 
 had once wounded his friend, almost to the death, he 
 feared lest this new intrusion of it might wound him 
 also. Moreover, he knew that natures like Edwards' 
 do not survive a second wound. 
 
 223
 
 224 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 The worst of it was, that he held in his hand a weapon 
 that could easily put an end to the whole thing. 
 
 In past years, once every summer, the good priest had 
 been invited to lunch at Liebenegg, and he remembered 
 Miss Sparks very well. A quiet, capable little woman, 
 of the insignificant-looking type that is never appre- 
 ciated until circumstances remove them, and their friends 
 are astonished to find how large a gap has been left 
 by their going in the creature-comforts of their daily 
 lives. A brave, unattractive fighter, whom one might 
 pass a hundred times on the street and never notice. 
 Nothing like this other rather wonderful person she 
 was wonderful, that he had to admit who came riding 
 out from among the trees, clad in an atmosphere of 
 perfection and of reserved power, that set her apart 
 from everyone else. One felt, she is perfect, she sits 
 her horse with marvelous grace, she looks strong, beau- 
 tiful, serene. But she is always holding somewhat in 
 reserve; she is not giving all she has. When once she 
 does so, how superlatively beautiful, serene, and grace- 
 ful must she be. 
 
 He had known one woman something like her, he, little 
 Father Mathias. Daughters of the Anglo-Saxon peoples 
 were like that sometimes. No other women none. 
 
 So he waited at the open door of his house until 
 Edwards turned about and came strolling up the path, 
 whistling like a careless boy. But the priest read him 
 well. His apparent happiness was but the visible re- 
 action of a mind that has suddenly reached temporary 
 contentment by imposing some definite agreement upon 
 its own opposing forces. 
 
 Joncke was at the schoolhouse ; he had sent word that 
 he would not come to supper this Sunday, as he must 
 not leave Nani. So Edwards and the priest sat alone 
 in the big untidy room, eating their scant portions of 
 cold meat and "filling in the chinks" with bread and 
 cheese, washed down with tumblers of thin red wine. 
 They had discussed the last rehearsal of the Play in all 
 its bearings, and Edwards had lighted his second pipe, 
 "When the priest, taking off his great blue goggles as if
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 225 
 
 performing some weighty ceremony, leaned back in his 
 chair and interrupted his companion with an impatient 
 gesture of his pudgy white hand. 
 
 "You didn't come into my house this evening intend- 
 ing merely to talk about the Play. Go ahead. What 
 is it?" 
 
 Edwards, who had been in a communicative mood, 
 retreated at once into his shell. What Father Mathias 
 had said was true enough. Nevertheless, he was not go- 
 ing to have his confidence forced. So he cast about 
 rapidly in his mind for something with which to stay 
 the other's untimely curiosity. 
 
 ' ' Oh, it 's nothing much, ' ' he said, quite conscious that 
 he was about to tell a lie, and not particularly comfort- 
 able in the telling of it. "I only wanted to confess 
 that I have surprised the secret of your life." 
 
 "What?" stammered Father Mathias. His face 
 flushed a deep red, and he bent forward in sudden anger. 
 ' ' You wrote to England. How dared you ! How dared 
 you!" 
 
 "To England! What's England got to do with it? 
 With your poetry, I mean?" 
 
 "My poetry?" 
 
 "Why, yes. The books of verse you publish under 
 the name of Brother Andreas. It seems you delight to 
 hide your good deeds." 
 
 Father Mathias dropped back again into his easy- 
 chair. The color went out of his face, and he slowly 
 pushed aside the masses of iron-gray hair from his damp 
 forehead. 
 
 "So that's what you meant by 'the secret of my 
 life'?" 
 
 Edwards nodded. The priest covered his eyes with 
 his hand. For several moments no one spoke. Then 
 he let his hand fall and looked smilingly at his com- 
 panion. 
 
 "What curious machines our minds are!" he said. 
 "Do you know what has just happened? I had an 
 idea quite wrong, it seems that this evening you were 
 going to tell me something, going to pull down part of
 
 226 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 the wall that still separates us, and let me look in. Not 
 out of mere desire to talk, but because you wanted the 
 advice of a friend. And I I was ready. I had made 
 up my mind to pull down my wall. Not only as an ex- 
 change for your confidence, but as the best sort of advice 
 I could give you. Then you say suddenly that you 
 have surprised ' the secret of my life. ' And I am angry, 
 ashamed, quite beside myself, because I think that you 
 have discovered the very thing that I was about to tell 
 you of my own accord." 
 
 "I am so sorry." Edwards stretched out his hand 
 towards Father Mathias across the table. "But your 
 idea was absolutely right. I did come intending to 
 to ask advice. And then I lied, because I felt as if as 
 if you were trying to force my confidence." 
 
 "That's it," exclaimed the priest excitedly. "That's 
 what we object to, what makes us furious and ashamed. 
 The forced confidence! That's what makes us hot all 
 over, when someone comes and says: 'Oh, I've found 
 out all about you. You might as well own up.' It's 
 like a spiritual housebreaking. And you resent it with 
 every fiber of your manhood. Resent it all the more 
 if there was anything to be found out. And what can 
 you do? Suppose you say to yourself: 'This man 
 knows; but half of what he thinks he knows is probably 
 false. In self-defense I must tell him the truth of the 
 matter.' And so, with tears of blood, you tell him. 
 Perhaps he believes you. Perhaps he doesn't. That 
 makes no difference. You will hate him ; hate him your 
 whole life long, because you have been humbled in his 
 eyes, not of your own free-will, but because he forced 
 you to humble yourself in self-defense. That's why 
 the Catholic Church puts her priests behind solid grat- 
 ings in the confessional, so that penitents shan't kill 
 them in the excess of their hatred. And the enforced 
 humbling, the confession even of the most harmless 
 things thus wrung from you, leaves a wound, a nasty 
 wound; you can never think of it without its aching. 
 Not the matter of that confession, not the things con- 
 fessed, be they ever so evil, have any power to hurt you.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 227 
 
 It's being compelled to acknowledge them, to acknowl- 
 edge these dead half-forgotten things as part of your 
 own living, sensitive life. That's what does the mischief. 
 Believe me." 
 
 "But if," Edwards put in, surprised at the clearness 
 with which this unlovely little man had laid bare the 
 intricate workings of a tormented soul, "if when that 
 same spiritual housebreaker accuses you, you answer 
 nothing; if you wrap yourself in the mantle, not of 
 your integrity, but of your pride, and deny and deny 
 and deny. What then ? ' ' 
 
 Father Mathias reached across the table to his book- 
 shelf, drew out a thin paper-covered pamphlet and tossed 
 it over to Edwards. 
 
 "Do you know the work of Professor Freud? Heard 
 about it of course. Anyway, read that book when you 
 get a chance. All that interests us now is one point of 
 his. You stick a needle into your finger; you think 
 you've pulled it out, but the point has broken off, and 
 the tiny bit of steel lies in your flesh unnoticed. You 
 forget about it. Yet the point is there, and it can work 
 its way up your arm and into the distant parts of your 
 body, causing, maybe, disturbances and inflammations, 
 while the fact of its presence has escaped you all these 
 years. ' ' 
 
 "Surgically, that isn't true." 
 
 "Never mind. It's only an analogy. Well, a 
 thought, a complex compound of thoughts, memories, 
 and the feelings that they evoke, can become exactly like 
 that broken needle. Something has happened in your 
 life, something unpleasant. You 're ashamed of it, which 
 is foolish ; perhaps afraid of it, which is worse ; afraid of 
 others knowing it, which is the worst of all. So, instead 
 of looking the thing squarely in the face and getting rid 
 of it at once and forever, you shirk it, you deny it to 
 others and to yourself, you push it aside and down into 
 your subconsciousness. Your conscious self has for- 
 gotten it ; but it is there, nevertheless, below the thresh- 
 old. And it acts there just like a foreign body; makes 
 all sorts of nervous mental troubles, doubts, question-
 
 228 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 ings, depression, melancholia. I can't go into all that. 
 But in your supposed case, when you, as you say, deny 
 and deny and deny, you force the thing you deny down 
 into your subliminal consciousness: and there it sticks, 
 doing mischief. You can never become self-sufficient, 
 never be quite a man, because always in the lower levels 
 of your mind is the lurking dread that someone may 
 come along, and, by a word of accusation or calumny, 
 stir up that whole buried complex and bring it to the 
 surface. And a thing that has lain for years, drowned 
 and rotting on the slime of your subconscious self, is not 
 nice to look at." 
 
 "But what ought one to do?" 
 
 "Do what the police do when they find that something 
 is polluting the water that supplies a city dredge the 
 bottom of the pond. Fish up what 's lying there. Have 
 a good look at it. It may not be pleasant, but have a 
 good long look. See that it's a dead, shapeless thing; 
 that, once it's out of your water-supply, it can't possibly 
 do you any harm. And then then take it away and 
 bury it. And most important of all forget where its 
 grave is." 
 
 "It sounds easy enough." 
 
 " It 's far from easy. Some people can do the dredging 
 and the burying for themselves. Most of us can't, 
 though. That's what confession means psychologically. 
 The priest is trained to dredge up buried things. Most 
 of my colleagues are splendid sin-hunters. Alas! for 
 that's only part, the least difficult part, of the game. 
 The good priest has got to make his penitent see that 
 the thing is dead, that it can 't hurt him any more. And 
 most doctors can do that better than the general run o'f 
 priests. That's why, nowadays, people who have really 
 hard dredging to do, go to the consulting-room rather 
 than to the confessional. Do you know, Edwards, I've 
 often thought that if the dear Lord came back to walk 
 again on earth, the only place where He'd really feel at 
 home would be in the out-patient department of some 
 big city hospital." 
 
 "Maybe. We doctors stand to-day in the public eye
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 229 
 
 where the clergy did in the Middle Ages. I only hope 
 we shan 't lose the world 's confidence, as you fellows did, 
 by pretending that we know everything. As for your 
 Freudian lecture, it's all well enough theoretically. 
 Only, suppose a man simply can't raise the dead thing 
 that's poisoning his water. He has piled too much over 
 it; pushed it down too far." 
 
 "Yes, yes, he has made it hard for himself. But 
 if he has luck he'll find himself some day in circum- 
 stances that will help him. He'll come across someone, 
 a physician or a priest, in whose presence all the hin- 
 drances he has set of his own free will are suddenly 
 dissolved. Then, simply, easily, the work is done. And 
 he looks at the thing he has hidden away, that has 
 terrorized him for so long; and he asks himself, 'Was 
 I ever afraid of that?' ' 
 
 "Might not the 'someone' be a woman?" 
 
 "We do not empower them to receive confessions in 
 the Catholic Church. And w r e have had some years' ex- 
 perience in such matters. Now I will play a little. ' ' 
 
 The priest fetched his 'cello, sat down in a dark cor- 
 ner of the room and began to improvise. 
 
 After a few moments Edwards interrupted him. 
 
 "I know what's coming," he said. "Your therapeu- 
 tic methods are easy enough to see through. But it 's no 
 use. If you try to play 'Jesus, tender Shepherd,' I 
 shall take my hat and go." 
 
 The priest answered with a contented little laugh. 
 
 "I had not thought of that. I was rather busy with 
 my own dredging. All the same, I believe you've given 
 me a key to the riddle. When the day comes on which 
 you can hear that simple old hymn played through, hear 
 children's voices singing it and sing with them yourself, 
 your pond will be dredged out. But sit down. I've 
 something to say. ' ' 
 
 He played for a moment without speaking. It was 
 some sort of a chant, that reminded Edwards of the 
 ancient plain-song of the mass. 
 
 "Have you ever been to a service at St. Paul's in 
 London?" asked Father Mathias. His voice was low;
 
 230 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 he kept on playing while he spoke. "No? It's worth 
 hearing, one of those so-called 'High Celebrations,' 
 from the musical, aesthetic point of view, I mean. It 
 makes you cry and feel good inside. And that's all the 
 Anglican asks of his religion. Perhaps that 's all anyone 
 asks, only some of us seldom get it. Well, in my time, 
 there was a Minor Canon at St. Paul's who used to sing 
 the service, the way you'd expect St. Michael the Arch- 
 angel to sing. Wonderful especially the 'Comfortable 
 Words/ You know them, but of course you. don't. 
 Listen. ' ' 
 
 He played a few simple notes on his 'cello. Then, 
 to the throbbing undertone of the strings, he sang in his 
 hushed voice 
 
 HEAR WHAT -COMFORTABLE WORDS OUR SAVIOUR 
 CHRIST SAITH UNTO ALL WHO TRULY TURN TO HIM ; 
 
 COME UNTO ME, ALL YE THAT TRAVAIL AND ARE 
 HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL REFRESH YOU. 
 
 He seemed to have forgotten Edwards' presence. 
 
 "Nothing but our plain-chant," he muttered: 
 "adapted from the mass; stolen, just like everything 
 else Anglican. But with an atmosphere of its own, 
 an atmosphere of its own." 
 
 He sang softly on > 
 
 LIFT UP YOUR HEARTS. 
 
 "Dear me, dear me, how often the tears used to run 
 down my nose when I heard that. And the Preface 
 goes like this" 
 
 EVERMORE PRAISING THEE AND SAYING 
 
 His voice died away. Then, after a moment's silence, 
 he began to speak again, touching a string now and then 
 with his bow. 
 
 "You take my word for it, young man, no Catholic 
 priest ever left his communion because of any doctrinal 
 doubts about the Supremacy of the Pope or such things 
 as that. He goes, if he ever goes at all, for a woman.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 231 
 
 And and when the woman goes, he comes back, if 
 he can. 
 
 "I studied my theology in a Jesuit seminary. They 
 stopped the one outlet that might have kept me straight, 
 the good Jesuits did. They discouraged my writing 
 poetry. They are not very clever. I often wander why 
 Protestants are so afraid of Jesuits, anyway. They're 
 mostly quite harmless. A little piety and a little world- 
 liness, and a little oh, such a very little dab of scholar- 
 ship. We were a cosmopolitan crowd, we theologians 
 of those days Croatians, Germans, Poles, Americans, 
 and half a dozen Ennglishmen. One of these last was 
 a convert. Not a very firm convert either. His re- 
 ligion was all dressing up in old brocade copes, and 
 making pleasant smells. But we roomed together; we 
 were ordained together. He went back to England. I 
 went to a small town in South Tyrol, where I had no 
 music, no friends, nothing. At the end of two years I 
 fell ill. Nervous breakdown, the doctors said. I was 
 ordered to take two months' vacation, and I thought of 
 my old friend in England. We had always kept up a 
 desultory correspondence. So I wrote him that I was 
 coming ; and before he could answer, I came. 
 
 "I found him attached to a tiny mission near Lon- 
 don, with a tin church, and for parishioners the serv- 
 ants of the neighborhood and two middle-class trades- 
 men. But he had kept in with his former Anglican 
 friends. He came of good people, you see. And I don 't 
 think he was very glad to have me with him. I know 
 now that he was on the verge of apostasy. 
 
 "Perhaps you have no idea of what the Catholic 
 Church was in England thirty odd years ago. There 
 was no Westminster Cathedral then. Nothing impos- 
 ing, except the Oratory ; and that looked new and unfin- 
 ished. Remember, I had spent my life in a country where 
 the Church has unbroken claim to all the ancient marks 
 of respect ; to all that we are accustomed to call art and 
 culture. And in England I found a struggling little 
 community, composed, well, not of gentlefolk, with the 
 exception of a few old families from among the nobility,
 
 232 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 of which one heard but never saw, and served by such 
 a strange clergy. French priests, flown from spoliation 
 in their own land, a dull, dreary lot of seminary-bred 
 ecclesiastics, and a small company of very courteous and 
 very scholarly gentlemen, who had once been English par- 
 sons, and who spent their time in assuring the world that 
 'they had never for an instant regretted the hour of 
 their conversion. ' Methought they did protest too much. 
 
 "I was an impressionable young fellow. And my 
 friend took me with him into the warm, delightful at- 
 mosphere of English rectories, these abodes of peace 
 in the country, with their wonderful gardens. He took 
 me to the Abbey, to St. Paul's, to the choir schools, and 
 and to Oxford. 
 
 "I saw Cardinal Newman once. I don't believe that 
 he ever laid the ghosts of his Oxford days. 
 
 "Well, you can imagine but no, you can't. 
 
 "The Church of England is good enough to recognize 
 the validity of our Catholic and Roman priesthood. And 
 in those days there were plenty of devout Anglicans who 
 believed in the Apostolic Succession, yet weren't quite 
 sure that they had it. They had made up their minds 
 that their Church must have priests with sacramental 
 powers. Only the kindly old parson, with gray side- 
 whiskers and a dozen children, didn 't fit into this priestly 
 ideal somehow. But about my orders there could be 
 no doubt. A tender Anglican conscience that came to 
 me for absolution, or heard me say mass, was sure of 
 getting what it sought the grace of Catholic sacra- 
 ments. 
 
 ' ' I know that it sounds ridiculous and illogical to you. 
 Why didn't such people become Catholics, you'll ask, 
 and so have priests of whose powers they were always 
 assured? Well, such people didn't. And they don't. 
 It's English, I suppose, to think one thing and go on 
 doing another. 
 
 "But that will explain to you why they wanted me 
 so badly, me and my English friend. 
 
 "Remember, though, what I said at first. The idea 
 of ministering to a foreign congregation in a strange
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 233 
 
 tongue, of ostracizing myself, of bringing down on my 
 head the Greater Excommunication reserved for apos- 
 tate priests (and I believed in damnation then), all 
 these things would have been insuperable difficulties. 
 For I was not, like my friend, born and bred an 
 Anglican. He was only 'reverting to type.' With me 
 it was different. But everything seemed easy, because 
 because of her, 
 
 "Don't move. There is the tobacco at your elbow. 
 And fill your glass. I'm almost done. 
 
 "This is the first evening in thirty years that I've 
 played 'The Comfortable Words' through without a 
 break. And I must have a look at all my ghosts for 
 the last time. 
 
 "She was the daughter of a country vicar. I can shut 
 my eyes and see the garden now, with its long nodding 
 rows of hollyhocks. 
 
 "You'll have a hard time imagining me me as a 
 
 lover. But in those days " Tall, I never was. But 
 
 I had some sort of a figure. And, besides, I was 'in- 
 teresting': a convert, not 'to' but 'from' Rome. And 
 one who hadn't sought refuge in England after being 
 kicked out for some scandal at home. 
 
 ' ' She was a mite of a girl, with great masses of brown 
 hair. And such tiny hands and feet. But such a big 
 heart. A woman without fear. I think the onty fault 
 she found in me was my inability to stay long on the 
 back of a jumping horse. She was beautiful in the hunt- 
 ing-field. I have been reminded of her lately. 
 
 "The rest I will not tell. At least, not more than I 
 must. 
 
 "I kept postponing a definite break with my old faith. 
 I put off writing the Prince-Bishop of Brixen that I 
 had entered the 'Anglo-Catholic communion/ But I 
 officiated. Yes, I said 'Dearly beloved brethren' in her 
 father's church. I had had an interview with the 
 Anglican bishop; he had been most considerate. And 
 she she 
 
 "I wrote many verses then. Perhaps, sometime, I 
 will show them to you.
 
 234 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "One day, it was a Saturday, they brought her 
 home dead. , 
 
 "A fall in the hunting-field. Common enough. And 
 she knew no fear. 
 
 "That same night I fled, without luggage, without 
 even saying good-by to my kind friends. 
 
 "How the journey passed I do not know. But I 
 remember I thought the vengeance of God was on my 
 track, and I prayed that the train might not be wrecked 
 till I had reached Brixen. 
 
 "At Brixen I went straight to the Prince-Bishop. 
 The one who died a year ago. He was a good man; a 
 wise man too. 
 
 " 'Your Grace,' I said, 'I have come to make a con- 
 fession. ' 
 
 "He motioned me to the side of his chair. I suppose 
 I must have looked like death. 
 
 " 'Kneel down there,' he said, 'and make it to me.' 
 
 ' ' When I got up from my knees he showed me letters, 
 clippings from English newspapers, sent to him by the 
 Catholic clergy, denouncing me and giving the circum- 
 stances of my apostasy. I had not thought the news 
 would travel so fast. But they have good eyes the Eng- 
 lish Catholics. They see a long way into other people 's 
 business. 
 
 " 'And now, my son,' the bishop said, 'that part of 
 your life is dead. These letters we will lay here in my 
 locked desk. The rest of your secret shall be hidden in 
 my heart. It is for you to show us whether or not these 
 papers shall be burned at my death, and die, as your 
 secret will die, with me.' 
 
 "Then he sent me to Thiersee. He had just had the 
 news of poor Holtzmann 's death. I came at once. And 
 I have been here ever since." 
 
 Then, after a long pause, Father Mathias added 
 
 "I have tried all these years to lay my ghosts. But 
 it is only to-night that I have ceased to fear them. And 
 for that, my friend, I have you to thank. You alone." 
 
 Edwards stood up quietly. 
 
 "Good night, Hochwiirden," he said. "I think I un-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 235 
 
 iderstand. I came to ask counsel of you, and you have 
 given me of your very best. Let us hope that I am 
 man enough to make right use of it. ' ' 
 
 He went out into the night, leaving Father Mathias 
 sitting in his dark corner, thrumming on the strings of 
 his 'cello.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LITTLE HELENA had legs like the scabbards of cavalry 
 sabers, and a tell-tale soft spot at the back of her head. 
 As for the latter, Edwards flattered himself that it had 
 grown harder since she had had proper food and air. 
 But his dream was to make her legs straight too, by 
 fracturing them and setting them straight. He had 
 seen the thing done. The technique was simple. Yet, 
 until now, he had shrunk from it. The idea of breaking 
 a little child's legs over a wedge of hard wood or the 
 edge of a table did not appeal to him at all. 
 
 The next Sunday, he had looked forward to it all 
 the week, a storm made it impossible for him and his 
 new friend to lunch in the open, as they had hoped to 
 do. The entire day was disappointing. During the 
 week he had been rehearsing a thousand things that he 
 wanted to say. And now that she was with him at last 
 he could not say them. He had imagined himself sitting 
 again by her side on the hill, near the little shrine, in 
 the afternoon sun. Then he could have spoken, he 
 thought. But here, in his own tiny bedroom, with the 
 remains of the lunch that she herself had brought, having 
 driven over in a light trap with a groom instead of rid- 
 ing, another circumstance that had quite ruined the 
 picture he had made of their meeting, here speech failed 
 him utterly. 
 
 Nor were they ever alone. If it were not Frau Speck- 
 bacher asking Edwards something about Nani, who had 
 been moved to her own bed downstairs, it was Joncke 
 with annoying questions about Toni or little Helena, 
 whose voices were constantly shrilling out from the 
 next room. The bad weather had made both children 
 quarrelsome; and Joncke did not seem to have either 
 the will or the power to keep them quiet. 
 
 236
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 237 
 
 The precious time slipped by; yet Edwards sat there 
 hopelessly, unable to redeem the passing minutes, aware 
 that his guest was ever on the point of departing, and 
 half-conscious that it would be in the end a relief to 
 have her go. 
 
 It was only during their last few minutes together, 
 when he was walking her down the hill to the inn where 
 her trap stood waiting, that he felt for an instant the 
 sense of freedom which had formerly so fascinated him 
 in her presence. And it was her own directness of 
 speech that set him free. 
 
 "We haven't hit it off to-day, exactly, have we?" she 
 said. 
 
 He was holding the umbrella over her head, and she 
 took his arm to keep herself from stumbling on the 
 rough washed-out road. 
 
 "But you mustn't mind. One can't always count on 
 a day such as we had last Sunday. Or on chancing to be 
 more or less in tune exactly at the right moment you 
 and I. But the main point is not to let ourselves be 
 dominated by the bad days. We didn 't make them. We 
 mustn't let them make or unmake us." 
 
 "Next Sunday " 
 
 "Next Sunday it may rain too. And if it does, I'm 
 not coming. I shan 't come until I can ride. ' ' 
 
 Edwards was suddenly conscious that to wait two 
 whole weeks without seeing her again was out of the 
 question. He cast about in his mind for some excuse 
 that would bring her to him. And he remembered little 
 Helena's crooked legs. 
 
 "Couldn't you come over during the week?" he began, 
 "I do so want to get little Helena straightened out. 
 And I can't do it alone. Ask the Frau Professor to 
 give you a holiday. Do! If the ride back is too long, 
 you might" he held his breath with delight at the 
 thought ' ' you might stay overnight. We 'd fix you up 
 a bed somewhere. Or you could sleep at the inn." 
 
 Then, he added apologetically 
 
 "It's a lot to ask, I know. But during your hospital 
 work you must have been used to roughing it."
 
 To have her with him for a whole unbroken day ! To 
 know her near during the night ! His eyes danced with 
 excitement. 
 
 "I can't promise," she answered. Because in her 
 heart she fully intended to come, she allowed herself the 
 tormenting joy of uncertainty. "But I'll do my best. 
 Let's say Thursday. The simplest plan would be for 
 me to ride over in the afternoon and spend the night 
 here. Then you could operate early next morning. And 
 I should be back at Liebenegg for tea that same day. 
 Only, if it rains, don't count on me." 
 
 He did, however, count on her very much. A sense 
 of contentment crept over him as he tramped by her 
 side through the rain. He began to whistle boyishly. 
 
 He felt the fingers that lay lightly on his arm contract 
 and press his sleeve. 
 
 "What's that you're whistling?" she asked. 
 
 He thought her breathless from the hurried walk. 
 
 "That?" He hesitated for a moment. "Let's see. 
 Oh, that's the old Latin 'Carmen' we used to sing at 
 my school on big occasions. I forget where we stole the 
 melody from. Something quite well known, I suppose. 
 The Latin itself is more than a trifle weird. A sort of 
 paraphrase of some psalm, about 'Lifting up your eyes 
 to the hills.' ' 
 
 "I know," she answered. 
 
 "OCCULOS MEOS LEVAVI 
 AD MONTES AD DOMINUM." 
 
 "Yes, that's the way it goes. But how did you ' 
 
 " I must have heard it somewhere. You say the 
 melody is an old one. No doubt the words are old too. ' ' 
 Then she added, in a lower tone, as if uncertain of her- 
 self, "You must tell me about your old school some day. 
 Will you?" 
 
 His whistling died away. His voice was cold, even, 
 polite. 
 
 "If it interests you, certainly." 
 Conscious of a misstep, she interposed 
 ' ' You must not think me inquisitive. ' '
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 239 
 
 He did not answer. The Walls of Silence that he had 
 built up around his life had loomed suddenly through 
 the mist of his happiness. He had forgotten them; but 
 there they were still, massive, forbidding, the work of 
 long arduous years. 
 
 And he had been dreaming of pulling them down in 
 an hour. It was impossible. 
 
 Yet, when the next day dawned clear, with the sun 
 pouring over everything, cleaning up the outlines of the 
 mountains, and even of their reflections in the little lake, 
 his desire to be with her again, to feel once more that 
 unusual sense of freedom, returned with increased force. 
 He threw his thoughts forward to Thursday, and spent 
 the intervening days in ceaseless preparation. 
 
 Joncke annoyed him not a little. Evidently the 
 schoolmaster did not relish the idea of ceding to another, 
 even for a day, his duties as factotum in the little 
 "clinic." He found objections to everything. Frau 
 Speckbacher too was in a bad temper. Why should the 
 Herr Doktor give up his bed ? Why could not the Frau- 
 lein sleep at the inn? 
 
 Finally, Edwards lost patience, and made the neces- 
 sary changes with his own hands. Joncke sulked. And 
 Frau Speckbacher, failing to get much sympathy out of 
 the schoolmaster, took it out of the convalescent Nani. 
 
 ''It's all thy fault thine and thy fine Franzl's," she 
 scolded. "Hadst thou had a little sense, this need not 
 have happened. He would have been content here, the 
 Herr Doktor. Now, this this 'English' will take him 
 away. That kind have no consideration for others. 
 They will have marriage or nothing. And he will pay 
 the price. I know men. Then he will leave us; and I 
 shall lose this place, and have to go back into service at 
 Kuf stein me with my poor feet ! ' ' 
 
 To Edwards she dared say but little directly. Her 
 whole manner, however, of serving him, the delicate 
 reminders with which she surrounded him, a cup of cold 
 coffee, an overdone egg, an undusted shelf all these 
 and a thousand other things were warnings of her dis- 
 approval, until Edwards himself began to harbor a se-
 
 240 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 cret conviction that he was really somehow acting like 
 a brute. 
 
 But if Frau Speckbacher made him feel like a selfish 
 criminal, Joncke infuriated him to the verge of frenzy. 
 For Joncke said nothing; but what he looked would 
 have filled volumes. Edwards had made the mistake of 
 setting him to read up the whole subject of "Tuber- 
 culosis" in his little medical library; and now he could 
 not sit down for an instant at his desk without finding 
 some book carefully opened at a marked passage. Pas- 
 sages all of the same tenor: warnings by ultra-conserva- 
 tive authorities against operative attempts on rachitic 
 children; explanations of the similarity, if not the 
 identity, of scrofula and tuberculosis; long descriptions 
 of the dangers that might result from breaking and re- 
 setting a bone once diseased, and in which the pathologi- 
 cal process had not reached absolute cure, and so start- 
 ing up again in the whole body, by way of the circula- 
 tion, fresh reactions in other organs, that might end in 
 a galloping consumption. 
 
 Edwards knew all this well enough. But he did not 
 care to be reminded of it. There were moments in which 
 he told himself that it would be safer if he waited a 
 year before touching little Helena's cavalry-saber legs. 
 
 But but then she would not come; or she would 
 come only to have a look round and be off again. He 
 could not hope to keep her, to hold her for the night. 
 
 At any rate, he had made his decision about the op- 
 eration, and he was going to stick to it. Joncke and 
 Frau Speckbacher only succeeded in making him exces- 
 sively ill-tempered and uneasy. 
 
 Thursday came at last. When he woke he lay for a 
 while with his eyes tight shut, not daring to open them 
 lest he should find it raining. He remembered so many 
 similar days in his boyhood, when he was staining his 
 fingers and ruining his clothes with amateur photog- 
 raphy, and when a cloudy sky on Saturday, his one 
 free morning in the week, was a catastrophe beyond 
 words. 
 
 At last he unclosed his eyes. Dazzled, he shut them
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 241 
 
 again. It was a glorious day. As he used to do when 
 a boy, he leaped out of bed with a delighted whoop, and 
 nodded joyously to the sun. 
 
 She would come. Nothing else mattered. 
 
 Before dinner he stole out into the fields and gath- 
 ered an armful of wild-flowers. He wanted to put them 
 in his room that had been got ready for her. But when 
 he appeared with them in the kitchen and demanded 
 some sort of a vase to arrange them in, Frau Speck- 
 bacher let the saucer of his favorite coffee-cup fall on 
 the hearth, where it smashed with an echo of her un- 
 spoken reproof. So he had to arrange the flowers him- 
 self in two cracked milk pitchers. Still feeling rather 
 ashamed and ill at ease, he tried to propitiate Frau 
 Speckbacher by laying a handful of the daisies he had 
 gathered on Nani 's bed as he went out of the room. 
 
 The moment the door closed behind him, Frau Speck- 
 bacher came to Nani's bedside, and pointed at the flow- 
 ers with a reproachful bread-knife. 
 
 "And to think," she said "Ach, to think that thou 
 mightst have had them all." 
 
 By three o'clock Edwards began to grow uneasy, and 
 wandered about like a lost soul. He had wiped little 
 Helena's nose and brushed Toni's hair. There seemed 
 nothing really left to do. So he went and looked at him- 
 self in the mirror. 
 
 And what he saw did not please him at all. 
 
 Then his clothes began to fly. The ancient bowler 
 hat, with its inked brim, he chucked to the top of his 
 clothes-press. Off came the frock-coat, white-seamed, 
 spotted, full of creases. Away with the whole lot, he 
 thought. But what I'll put on in their stead I don't 
 know. 
 
 At the bottom of his trunk he found the ancient pair 
 of riding-breeches and the cracked leather leggings that 
 he had worn when he walked into Thiersee so many 
 months ago. A fresh soft shirt with an open collar. 
 No, he would not wear a cravat ; he had not a single de- 
 cent one anyway. And then, before slipping into an 
 old blue-serge jacket, he sharpened his razor and shaved
 
 242 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 off his heavy mustache. He told himself that he might 
 as well do it now. As Pontius Pilate he would have 
 to lose it in any case. Then, whistling, he set the room 
 to rights and walked out into the hall. But as Joncke 
 was downstairs in the schoolroom, he thought he would 
 look in on his two little patients for a moment, and bid 
 them be good until he returned with her. 
 
 He hurried into the "clinic," and bent over little 
 Helena's bed. 
 
 She looked at him, gave a shrill scream of fright, 
 turned away and buried her face in the pillow. And 
 Toni, wakened from a nap, set up a shout for help that 
 rang through the house, and brought Joncke and Frau 
 Speckbacher hot-foot from the floor below. 
 
 They found little Helena almost in convulsions, strug- 
 gling in the arms of a man whom she did not recognize ; 
 while Toni, ashamed now of his own sudden fright, was 
 pushing himself between Edwards and the terrified child. 
 
 * ' I '11 get her quiet, Herr Doktor. She don 't know you 
 without your mustache. You oughtn't to have done it 
 so quick." 
 
 Joncke gave one look round the room and went back 
 to his pupils. But Frau Speckbacher, her hands on her 
 hips, stood in the doorway gazing at Edwards. Some- 
 thing in her, the Eternal Feminine that answers auto- 
 matically to the sight of unbroken manhood, made her 
 stern lips relax. Her anger and disapproval of the last 
 few days were suddenly gone. 
 
 "What a handsome lad!" she murmured. "Why, 
 what a handsome lad ! ' ' 
 
 Edwards, however, felt like a fool. It hurt him that 
 little Helena should shrink away from the arms that 
 had so often held her; and, leaving her in Toni's care, 
 he pushed past Frau Speckbacher and strode out of the 
 room. Frau Speckbacher hurried to the window and 
 watched him go swinging up the road. Then she sighed, 
 and went slowly back to her work. 
 
 But Edwards' happy poise of mind was gone. He 
 felt as if he were masquerading, or like a very diffident 
 young man in a new spring suit who imagines that every
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 243 
 
 eye is upon him. To avoid meeting anyone, he cut 
 across the fields and walked up the steep Mil-road, down 
 which he knew that she must come. 
 
 He glanced at his watch. She ought to have been 
 here by now, he thought. Then he sat down on a stone 
 and waited. 
 
 Fifteen minutes. Half an hour. Three-quarters. 
 
 The sun had begun to dip down behind the hills. The 
 minutes crawled on, intolerably slow. 
 
 An hour. 
 
 His ears were so weary with listening for the sound 
 of horses' hoofs that he welcomed it as a relief when, 
 at first, from the distance, he caught the faint rhythmi- 
 cal notes of the cow-bells. The cattle were coming home. 
 
 He must not let the girls and boys, who drove them 
 in, see him sitting there. And in these strange clothes. 
 
 How ridiculous he had been, dressing up like this! 
 Making such a fuss ! And she not coming. 
 
 No doubt she had forgotten all about it, or had not 
 thought her promise worth the keeping. 
 
 She was not coming after all. 
 
 He hurried home across the fields and so reached the 
 schoolhouse from the back. The window of Frau Speck- 
 bacher's room on the ground floor was open. How they 
 would all laugh at him when he returned alone. 
 
 And little Helena ! At any rate, he would not operate 
 now. That would be safest. He had been mad to think 
 of it. At least some good should come of his disap- 
 pointment. 
 
 He bent down, so as to pass unnoticed, below the level 
 of Frau Speckbacher's window. 
 
 Just then he heard the good Frau say 
 
 "The gracious lady is quite right. But the gracious 
 lady must take my bed. I will sleep on the sofa. ' ' 
 
 And a voice answered her, a voice that sent the blood 
 rushing to his face. 
 
 "Did you think I'd let him give up his bed? After 
 a long day's work! And you say he has shaved off his 
 mustache. I'll pretend not to notice it." 
 
 He heard Frau Speckbacher laugh.
 
 244 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "The gracious lady will have hard work to pretend. 
 He looks ten years younger. A fine handsome lad, 
 gracious one." 
 
 Edwards went up to the open window and looked in. 
 
 "Hallo! "he said. 
 
 "Hallo yourself. Seen all your patients?" 
 
 "Patients? No. I went out to meet you, and sat for 
 an hour cursing by the roadside. ' ' 
 
 ' ' I came round by the lake to get a sight of the moun- 
 tains. What a shame ! But it will be all right now." 
 
 "Yes; it's all right now."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 SHE seemed to have brought contentment with her. Not 
 only had she, in a few moments, made friends with Frau 
 Speckbacher and Nani ; not only set little Helena gurg- 
 ling with delight over a furry toy-bear, and Toni's eyes 
 aglow with a new book; she had even charmed a smile 
 to Joncke's loose expressionless lips, a little color into 
 his white face. 
 
 As for Edwards, the sudden reaction from disap- 
 pointment to fruition, from the emptiness of not having 
 her to the fullness of her presence, carried him off his 
 feet. He talked too much and too loudly. He was 
 aware of it, and he did not care. He behaved like a 
 boy just home from school. He knew that it must look 
 undignified, but he did not care. He hunted out the 
 half-bottle of Kummel that Professor Schroeder had 
 sent with his gift of drugs; they drank it with their 
 coffee. Frau Speekbacher actually made fresh coffee. 
 He took three glasses of Kummel. One would have 
 been enough; but he did not care. 
 
 Then, as suddenly as it had come, this exuberance of 
 good spirits fell from him. But the quiet contentment 
 remained. 
 
 After their supper, when Frau Speckbacher ancj 
 Joncke had disappeared, and Edwards was sitting alone 
 with her in the moonlight, near his open window, he 
 said abruptly 
 
 "It's got to come sometime. It may as well be now. 
 You asked me once to tell you about my old school. But 
 there are so many other things to tell before I get back 
 as far as that, that I'll have to begin soon or not at 
 all." 
 
 "Wait a moment," she interposed. "If it's going to 
 hurt you, don't." 
 
 245
 
 246 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "It won't hurt me. But it may make me feel 
 ashamed. ' ' 
 
 "Ashamed!" Her voice rang out like a challenge. 
 "You, ashamed! Have you got no farther than that? 
 But, I'm listening." 
 
 She settled herself quietly in her chair, holding her 
 body so still that no sound from her reached him, yet 
 gathering up all the forces of her inner life and sending 
 them out towards him, in her intense desire to melt with 
 her affection the seven seals of his soul, so that at last 
 the book might lie open before her. She had hoped for 
 this hour, had planned for it. Now it was come, and 
 she must not be found wanting. 
 
 As Edwards' voice from the shadows beside her spoke, 
 speech growing easier and easier for him with every 
 moment, she caught herself wondering, "Is this all? 
 Is he not keeping something back? Something that he 
 still fears to tell?" 
 
 For she heard of no deeds surpassingly evil, no wick- 
 edness of pride or lust or cruelty. It was only the 
 story of a man who had come late into his manhood, and 
 who had been caught and bruised in the wheels of cir- 
 cumstance without ever winning to a man's clear vision 
 of the supreme value of his own personality and its 
 dignity; who still, like a boy, had the immature feeling 
 that these wheels, that had bruised, both hated and de- 
 spised him. 
 
 He told her, groping slowly back from the immediate 
 present into the past, of his bondage to petty acts, here 
 in this very room; of how he had felt forced to take 
 these steps seven times, to lay these things in exactly 
 that position; and of how this servitude had only 
 dropped from him during the last few weeks. 
 
 ' ' The remembrance of it shames me, ' ' he said. 
 
 Next, he told her of his years in Europe ; of a winter, 
 his voice shook when he spoke of those days, a win- 
 ter spent in Vienna, alone, because he had lost all touch 
 with the world of his friends. And then of the hap- 
 penings that had preceded his coming abroad. 
 
 He had the gift of concise statement ; he did not spare
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 247 
 
 himself or her. And yet once more she found herself 
 asking, "Is this all? Is he not keeping something 
 back?" 
 
 At last he stopped. 
 
 ' ' It shames me so to put it into words, ' ' he whispered. 
 "It shames me so!" 
 
 And again, as before, she turned upon him, her clear 
 voice challenging and defiant. 
 
 ' ' Shame ! ' ' she said. ' ' You, a physician, who knows 
 the hidden workings of soul and body, and you talk 
 of shame! How can there be place in your thoughts 
 for such a thing? What have you told me, my friend, 
 when all's said? That you have suffered under a cer- 
 tain illness of the mind. Your petty bondage, as you 
 call it, to those fixed ideas was an illness, something out- 
 side of you, something beyond your power to help. And 
 you let the thought of it trouble you, shame you! 
 There is no such thing as shame for a clear-thinking man 
 or woman. It springs, I suppose, from the conviction 
 that certain actions are sinful; actions which religion 
 or ethics have for centuries forbidden us to do, and 
 which, in spite of the prohibition, we men and women 
 have always done. And because we do them, and yet 
 believe that we ought not, therefore we hide them. 
 Then, when they are by chance discovered, we feel 
 ashamed. I can understand regret: sorrow that some 
 things must have been, that others could not be. But 
 shame, no. ' * 
 
 "Yes, perhaps," he assented eagerly, as a man grop- 
 ing in darkness towards a single gleam of light. "But 
 how about those other things that I've just told you? 
 Those other other worse " 
 
 "Well, and what were they? You drank too much 
 of a chemical compound that is poisonous to the nervous 
 system when taken in such large quantities. Like all 
 poisons, it creates in the body a new set of conditions. 
 Haven't I worked in the alcoholic wards? Habitual 
 drinkers men who drink hard don't fill themselves up, 
 as so many people think, because of a desire to enjoy 
 an increased sense of happiness. They do it because,
 
 248 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 without it, they are utterly wretched: so sick, in so 
 much greater pain from their poisoned nerves than many 
 a patient after a severe surgical operation, that they 
 must drink in order to do their daily work and earn 
 their daily bread. They drink to keep well enough to 
 work, and the alcohol makes them unfit to work without 
 drinking. A vicious circle. And once you get inside 
 it you're a sick man, a poisoned man. Where is there 
 any room for shame? 
 
 "I often admire the people in this country. Here it 
 is nothing disgraceful to be drunk. I have seen a son, 
 a university student, come in to dinner with his family 
 and have to be helped to bed. His mother did not weep 
 tears of shame into her soup. She was merely a little 
 distressed because her son had shown that he was not yet 
 become a man, in that he had not known when to stop. 
 And his father made fun of him because he could not 
 
 carry his liquor like a gentleman. But in America 
 
 in England 
 
 "Why, once when I was a girl my brother came home 
 well, drunk. He was only a boy. Not yet twenty. 
 His college had won a football game or something, and 
 the enthusiasm of victory had carried him off his feet. 
 My mother sent me out of the room. But I listened at 
 the door, and heard my father's cutting angry tones as 
 he talked to Fred. And next day and for weeks after- 
 wards, oh, I shall never forget the look of intense shame 
 in that poor boy's eyes as he crept about the house. 
 My father and mother had blocked his attainment of 
 his manhood by ten years. Yes, blocked it forever. Be- 
 cause father made him promise that he would not drink 
 a drop during the whole of his next two years at the 
 University. Of course he did not keep his word. How 
 could he? And that made him sly and a liar. Gave 
 him something that he had always to conceal. Made him 
 ashamed, ashamed all his life, until they found him 
 dying of pneumonia under a false name in some low 
 house in Boston, ashamed on his deathbed." 
 
 Edwards' hand went out in the darkness. She felt
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 249 
 
 his movement rather than saw it, and her cool firm grasp 
 met his. 
 
 "But that wasn't the worst, you know," he whispered. 
 "The drinking I mean. That woman " 
 
 "You're a proud man," came the answer, as he bent 
 forward to catch every word. "And here I think it 
 must be your pride that all these years has added fuel 
 to the fire of your shame. The thing you miscall love 
 let 's give it its real name, physical attraction is an ap- 
 petite like any other. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, it's more than that," interposed Edwards. His 
 grasp on her hand tightened. "What do you know of 
 it? Have you ever waked at night in bed, and, half 
 asleep still, stretched your hand to find and meet the 
 hand that has lain in yours for so long as you fell asleep 
 night after night, stretched out to grasp it and found 
 nothing? Have you ever sat up there alone in the 
 darkness and called and called and called with every 
 power of your soul to someone who had gone forever? 
 Someone who had filled your life to the brim with her 
 presence, and had departed like a thief in the night, 
 leaving only emptiness and pain behind. How should 
 you know ? ' ' 
 
 "How should I know? Dear Lord, how should I 
 not?" 
 
 The words fell from her lips almost inaudibly. Her 
 fingers relaxed in Edwards' grasp as if about to be 
 withdrawn. 
 
 Fearing lest he had hurt her, he said 
 
 ' ' I have wounded you. Forgive me. But even if you 
 have some faint idea of all I mean, how can you know 
 what it is to call, as I called, night after night, for some- 
 one who had betrayed my love and abused my devotion, 
 who had trampled all the best that was in me in the 
 mire, who had gone because I had no more to give. And 
 yet for whom my whole being cried out in such intol- 
 erable longing that I would have taken her oh, how 
 gladly, taken her back to let her abuse and betray and 
 trample on my heart again."
 
 250 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 He let her hand fall and covered his eyes. Even there 
 in the dim moonlight he felt as if he might surprise 
 on her face some passing look of condemnation. Then, 
 as from a distance, he heard her voice, calm, decisive, 
 healing. 
 
 "But all that proves my point. This thing that tor- 
 mented you, this losing of yourself in the personality of 
 another, this heightening of your sense of happiness in 
 the exclusive presence of one woman, this narrowing 
 down of all your mental contentment and physical de- 
 light to one point of contact with the body of one single 
 person, all this I don't put it succinctly I know, all 
 this is a sort of disease, a sort of infection, a poison if 
 you care to call it so. Just like alcohol, or opium or 
 nicotine. Your relations to this this woman were such 
 that, to use an old phrase, you simply could not live 
 without her. That is, in order to be able to do your 
 work in the world of men, you had to have her near 
 you. Without her you were useless, you were ill. Just 
 as the user of opium is ill, intensely ill, until he is pulled 
 up to a normal sense of health by his daily dose. 
 
 "Have you never thought out the parallels between 
 infectious disease and the condition of mind that you 
 men miscall love ? I don 't mean affection ; the one thing 
 that makes life worth living, and that may include pas- 
 sion or may not. The affection of mother for son, of 
 father for daughter, of friend for friend; of man for 
 woman, too. That is something quite different. But 
 what you've described, this domination of your life by a 
 single external influence, an influence that, on your own 
 confession, could not tend to build up your life but to 
 break it down this, I say, was a thing beyond the power 
 of your will to control. So long as you were under its 
 tyranny you were a sick man, or, let us say, not your 
 normal self. And who can blame a man for what he 
 does in moments of delirium? In those days you were 
 not free. No man, of his own free will, intentionally 
 throws away a career that he has spent years in making. 
 Yet that is what you say you did. You never willed 
 to shame your father or break your mother's heart, any
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 251 
 
 more than a wife in her delirium, wills to torment those 
 she loves when she shrieks in terror at the mere sight of 
 husband and children. 
 
 ' ' You were not free. I say it again. Not free. And 
 therefore you may regret, as a man may regret an ill- 
 ness that made him unable for a time to do his work in 
 the world. But you have no cause for shame. ' ' 
 
 "And yet the shame is there. It takes me by the 
 throat. It is a real thing." 
 
 "Ah ? my friend," she answered, ''that is only your 
 wounded pride." Then into her voice there crept a 
 passing tone of antagonism that he did not understand. 
 "But will you not show me the real depth of the wound, 
 whatever it be that caused it? Tell me of the of the 
 woman herself. Men are not usually reticent about a 
 great passion. On the contrary." 
 
 He felt that somehow she was withdrawing herself 
 from him as if she had, as it were, gathered her skirts 
 closer about her lest she should touch pitch and be 
 defiled. Yet he knew that it was not her will that drew 
 her away. And he made up his mind to strip bravely 
 off the last coverings of his old wounds. 
 
 "But it was all so utterly sordid. No romance about 
 it. No King Cophetua and his beggar-maid, though she 
 was not of my own class. No Paulo and Francesca, al- 
 though she was the wife of another man. Oh, I simply 
 can't tell you. It sounds so middle-class, so ridiculous. 
 She was she was the daughter of my mother's old 
 cook. And her husband was was one of those fat 
 men with big brown waxed and perfumed mustaches, 
 who mix drinks for commercial travelers, and tell them 
 the latest nasty stories over the bar. Nor was she her- 
 self so very beautiful. Only only I I Ah, is 
 
 that not shame enough?" 
 
 ' ' And have you no excuse to offer ? Lovers, especially 
 you men, have always something of the sort ready." 
 
 In spite of herself, she spoke coldly. The vision of 
 the other woman troubled her. And this sudden revuk 
 sion of feeling revealed her to herself. For a moment 
 she was afraid. Was she, too, standing on the brink of
 
 252 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 bondage to a man, a man not yet come into his man- 
 hood? 
 
 Edwards winced under her rebuke. But the sting of 
 her words roused him. His tone became less humble, 
 more dominating. And she sighed with satisfaction. It 
 was good to hear him speak like that. 
 
 "Well, yes, I have some sort of an excuse. From 
 your point of view, that is. For if I was what you call 
 a sick man once I had got the habit of of her, I was 
 ill, really ill, before it tightened its hold on me. To use 
 your own analogy, I was like a child that carries diph- 
 theria microbes for years in its mouth and that never 
 falls sick until some day, by chance, it gets run down 
 and catches cold, so that its powers of resistance are 
 weakened. Then the bacteria creep in through the 
 mucous membrane, and the child comes down with diph- 
 theria and dies. 'T wasn't only that I had been drinking 
 too much, you know. Although that had something to 
 do with it. Nor that I was over-worked. Nor that this 
 woman had come into my life, not to fill some minor 
 empty places, but to drive all other interests out and 
 tyrannize over the whole complex. All these things to- 
 gether must have helped to bring about the result that 
 once, in court, when I had an important case on (I was 
 Medical Examiner then for a big insurance company), 
 I felt suddenly dizzy and then fainted. The same after- 
 noon I went to see a doctor. 
 
 "Don't think I blame that kindly old colleague. If 
 he had known my inner life better, if I had told him 
 all the truth, he wouldn't have made the mistake of 
 telling me that I had organic heart trouble, and that I 
 must drop all work and go away, to die. I put the 
 stethoscope on myself. But you know how easily one's 
 own ear is deceived in one's own case. I heard the 
 strong systolic murmur. It was there, I'm sure, at the 
 time. And the irregular pumping. All the usual signs. 
 Eemember, Neurology is a modern invention. Our fore- 
 fathers didn't have nerves that got so tired that they 
 caused heart symptoms that seem organic. I didn't 
 know of such conditions myself then.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 253 
 
 ' ' There 's a well-known painting of some Englishman 
 called 'Sentence of Death.' A physician has just ex- 
 amined a young man and told him that he has heart dis- 
 ease. You've seen it, no doubt. Well, then you'll un- 
 derstand. I thought I had two or three years at the 
 most. My health was gone; my career was at an end. 
 What was there left ? And then she came. 
 
 ' ' You see, I ought to have gone to my mother and told 
 her. But we 'd been brought up on the old idiotic Spar- 
 tan idea of licking our wounds in secret, and when 
 they were fatal crawling into some distant hole to die. 
 That's what's called 'sparing one's people unnecessary 
 pain.' The long and short of it was, I dropped out of 
 everything abruptly; resigned my position; engaged a 
 cabin on the first available steamer. But I I had to 
 tell someone. I wasn't quite strong enough to shoulder 
 the whole thing by myself. At this one point I broke." 
 
 "And instead of telling your mother or father, you 
 told her." 
 
 "Yes. And what a relief it was! Then she said, 'I 
 can't stand it here without you. You're going away. 
 Take me with you.' ' 
 
 ' ' I see. Her sharing of your secret brought you closer 
 together than anything else could possibly have done. 
 You had to have someone, naturally. What happened 
 then?" 
 
 "Then I think I went off my head. I couldn't stand 
 saying good-by, and being seen, off, and having people 
 wondering what had happened and where I was going. 
 My mind wasn't clear. I was drinking a good deal, too, 
 then. So we simply disappeared, she and I." 
 
 "And that's what you call 'sparing your people un- 
 necessary pain?' ' 
 
 "I took passage for her under another name. I sup- 
 posed no one would ever know. She said she never 
 wanted to see her husband again; promised never to 
 write to anyone at home. And I was so wretched. I 
 thought she'd cheer and help me. And after all I had 
 only a few more years to live. ' ' 
 
 "That's enough. You told me the rest before. How
 
 254 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 she neglected you from the first day of the voyage; 
 flirted with other men. Stole from you, didn't she? 
 And then deserted you." 
 
 "Don't be too hard on her. Remember, she'd never 
 set foot outside of her own little town before. She was 
 homesick. She missed her own class of people. She 
 couldn't get along with my kind. They made her un- 
 comfortable. And she didn't run away. She made me 
 send her back. And for the three remaining days, be- 
 fore she sailed for home, we we were very happy. Per- 
 haps that's why I I missed her so." 
 
 "And of course she had written to her people. A 
 woman like that would be so proud of being 'abroad' 
 that she'd have to write. And so it was soon known, I 
 take it, your elopement, and all." 
 
 ' ' Can you wonder now that I that I am ashamed ? ' ' 
 
 The old tone of helplessness came back into his voice 
 To her it was like a call for help, and she answered 
 it. 
 
 "Yes, I can. I think it must be because you were 
 brought up in a little provincial city, where everyone 
 knows all about the doings of everyone else's family for 
 the last twenty generations. People who live in that 
 kind of air never grow. They are never themselves, 
 but only what they know that other people think they 
 are. When a really big man or woman is born into such 
 an atmosphere he gets out of it. He can 't breathe there. 
 Or else he smashes things up and makes a scandal. And 
 for years afterwards the old ladies, as they come out of 
 church after Matins on Saints' Days, talk about poor 
 dear Mrs. Smith and the terrible way in which her son 
 or daughter has behaved. You won't find that sort of 
 thing in a large city, or in the country, the real coun- 
 try. But the littleness of such a horizon sticks to a man. 
 It has stuck to you, my friend. It isn't what you've 
 done that makes you what you call ashamed. It's the 
 fact that people know about it; that those dear old la- 
 dies on Saints' Days pity your poor mother, and talk 
 of you under their breath as the degenerate scion of an 
 old family. What difference can it make to you whether
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 255 
 
 or not there is one infinitesimally small spot on the face 
 of this large earth where people still speak unkindly of 
 you, if indeed they have not forgotten your existence 
 long since in the excitement of some newer scandal ? ' ' 
 
 "My people have lived there for ages. I remember 
 my great-grandfather's house." 
 
 "But I'll wager it has been pulled down by now. 
 Things change even in the provinces. And what counts 
 is not what you once were or what you once did: it's 
 what you are now. And the way to judge whether any 
 new habit or influence in your present life be good or 
 not, is to ask yourself, ' Does it make me narrower, nearer 
 to death? Or does it make me bigger, more of a man, 
 more alive?' Life is the only thing we've got to hold 
 to; more abundant, healthier, cleaner life." 
 
 Edwards left his chair and went to the window. She 
 followed. As they stood there side by side looking down 
 at the moonlit lake, a silence fell between them. 
 
 ' ' Have you read many old English ballads ? " he asked 
 abruptly. "When you get back to your books in Inns- 
 bruck, turn up the first verse of 'Clerk Saunders.' 
 And now I've kept you long enough from your rest." 
 
 "But I thought," she interposed, as if loath to leave 
 her place at the window, "I thought you were going to 
 tell me something about your old school, and your friends 
 there. You must have had many friends. And then, 
 the the other women." 
 
 It was, she knew, a piece of curiosity utterly repre- 
 hensible ; but she could not have held back that question 
 had she tried. 
 
 "There were no other women," he answered, almost 
 angrily. 
 
 Then, perhaps it was because she had mentioned his 
 old school, there flashed across his mind the memory of 
 the letters he had carried in his wallet for five years, 
 the letters he had torn up in bitterness of soul and had 
 thrown from this very window. 
 
 He paused. Then added lamely 
 
 "No; no others. At least, that is, there was one 
 that I "
 
 256 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 A sudden sense of friendship outraged flared up in her. 
 Her instinct then had been right. In the intensely close 
 rapport that had been established between them, like 
 an electric field in which the most infinitesimal current 
 is felt and registered, she had known that he was keep- 
 ing something back. 
 
 "Oh, I don't want to force your confidence," she said. 
 
 "Force my confidence!" he repeated. Then he 
 laughed. " Why, I've never even seen her. Really, we 
 must get to sleep. To-morrow I shall need all my 
 nerves. ' ' 
 
 He lighted her downstairs. At the door of Frau 
 Speckbacher's room they parted. But she scarcely felt 
 the grasp of his hand or heard what he said. Her mind 
 was awhirl with a thousand conflicting thoughts. It 
 was almost dawn before she fell asleep. 
 
 Next day at noon Edwards stood at her horse's head, 
 while she gathered up the reins. 
 
 "Were you ever in Rome during Holy Week?" she 
 asked. "No. Well, there's an old custom at St. 'John 
 Lateran that appeals to me. On Holy Thursday the 
 Cardinal Grand Penitentiary sits on his throne with a 
 long light wand in his hand. The people come and 
 kneel before him, and he touches them with it on the 
 shoulder. It is a relic of the old manumission of slaves. 
 I don't know what sort of spiritual effect the Church 
 supposes it to have." 
 
 She bent forward and touched him on the shoulder 
 with her riding-whip. 
 
 "I'm not a Cardinal," she said; "but I I want to set 
 you free." 
 
 He took her gloved hand, turned back the gauntlet, 
 and kissed the firm white wrist. Tb,en, looking up into 
 her eyes, he answered 
 
 "You women are usurping all our male privileges. 
 In the old days it was the Knight who slew the Dragon 
 and delivered the Captive Fair. But now it's the other 
 way round. And I am glad that it is so." 
 
 "See to it, then, that your dragons stay dead."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 257 
 
 As she cantered off up the hill she murmured to her- 
 self 
 
 ' ' I like him without his mustache. Now I can see his 
 mouth. And I like his mouth too, somehow." 
 
 She felt her cheeks begin to burn. Then, whipping 
 up her mare, she started at a mad gallop, her golden 
 hair streaming behind her in the warm wind. 
 
 And that same night her inquisitive son was wakened 
 by the sound of his mother's voice as she walked to and 
 fro, murmuring to herself some lines from a collection 
 of old English Ballads that she had unearthed from the 
 depths of Professor Schroeder's shelves 
 
 "Clerk Saundcrs and May Margaret 
 Walk'd ower yon garden green, 
 And deep and silent was the love 
 That fell thir twa between." 
 
 "Mammy, dear," said little John Bowman, "is that 
 your newest favorite poem ? Won't you read it to me ?" 
 
 His mother started, let the book fall. Then she 
 opened it again, and read him to sleep with the Ballade 
 of Chevy Chase.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 LITTLE Helena's legs were straight at last, encased in 
 a beautifully smooth plaster-cast. But the rest of her 
 little body seemed to resent the fact, and began to be- 
 have very crookedly indeed. 
 
 And Joncke was sometimes more hindrance than help. 
 His silence, his reproachful glances, got on Edwards' 
 nerves. If he had only spoken out, blamed him, told 
 him that he had risked a child's life for the sake of hav- 
 ing a woman near him, Edwards would not have minded 
 it half so much. But this silent reproach was more than 
 he could bear. 
 
 Poor Joncke. He himself was not much better off. 
 For his former allies, Nani and Frau Speckbacher, had 
 basely deserted him and gone over to the enemy. On 
 the night before little Helena 's operation, when Edwards 
 and "Das Fraulein" had sat for such long hours to- 
 gether at the window of Edwards' room, Joncke had 
 sought comfort in the kitchen. To his surprise, Frau 
 Speckbacher had cut him very short. 
 
 "Na, na, Herr Lehrer. I won't let anyone, not even 
 you, speak lightly of her in my presence." The good 
 Frau forgot that until to-day her own tongue had been 
 more than heavy in this same matter. "The Herr Dok- 
 tor looks ten years younger. Evidently it is the will of 
 God." 
 
 Joncke stared dully at the floor. 
 
 "She will take him away." 
 
 "Maybe. But, Herr Lehrer, I will tell you something, 
 in confidence. She gave me look for yourself forty 
 eighty ONE HUNDRED crowns. Half, she said, was 
 for the Herr Doktor's supper. She wants us to cook 
 his dinner too. The food at the inn, she says, is enough 
 to make the Dragon on the sign sick, let alone St. George 
 
 258
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 259 
 
 and his horse. And the other half of the money is for 
 me, for my extra trouble. But you must not tell. ' ' 
 
 "She will take him away," repeated Joncke. "And 
 then, what what will become of us?" 
 
 "I spoke of that, delicately. She got very red, the 
 gracious lady. She does not think the Herr Doktor will 
 go. Not yet, at least. But when he does, the Frau 
 Professor at Liebenegg needs a trustworthy person to 
 look after the castle in the winter. The woman they 
 had last year sold all their wood. Even tinned things 
 out of the larder. The wicked thief!" 
 
 "But but what of me?" 
 
 "Na, Herr Lehrer. You can cook your own supper, 
 as you used to do. And you have your work, and the 
 children. ' ' 
 
 "No," said 'Joncke, as if forcing the words from his 
 lips against some invisible hindrance. "No-o-o I 
 have no one. I am lost. God has forsaken 
 me." 
 
 But Frau Speckbacher and Nani only laughed. 
 'Joncke went slowly to his room; and there Edwards 
 had found him, after bidding Miss Sparks good-night, 
 staring moodily at the flickering flame of his bedroom 
 candle. 
 
 And now, during these last days of the week, when 
 little Helena seemed to have made her mind to return 
 to what Frau Speckbacher called the "Soul Gardens," 
 he scarcely ever spoke. In the schoolroom, as Edwards 
 often had a chance to see, he was the same as usual; 
 but the moment that the outer stimulus of his daily 
 work was gone, he lapsed again into brooding silence. 
 Yet without him little Helena would have been in the 
 "Soul Gardens" long ago. For, night after night, he 
 sat beside her, never stirring, except to bend over her 
 during unbroken hours of darkness. 
 
 The operation had been done on a Friday. That same 
 night the change for the worse set in. On Saturday the 
 line on the fever chart went up and up. 
 
 Then Sunday came. But although Edwards left word 
 at the inn and elsewhere that he was to be called at once
 
 260 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 if anyone came from Liebenegg, no one appeared. He 
 told himself that he had not expected her; that she had 
 been with him only a few days before. Nevertheless he 
 was disappointed, bitterly disappointed. 
 
 On Monday morning, when he pressed his ear close to 
 little Helena's laboring chest, against the feverish dry 
 skin, he caught the tell-tale whistle of bronchial breath- 
 ing, and knew that the alveoles of the lungs were filling 
 up. 
 
 Pneumonia is seldom dangerous in the case of little 
 children, whose heart-muscle is as yet unweakened by 
 alcohol, nicotine, and the poisons of overwork. But here 
 it looked dangerous enough. And by Tuesday Edwards 
 was at his wits' end. 
 
 He knew that there was nothing to do except wait for 
 the crisis. And Joncke could do that as well as he. 
 
 Suddenly he found that he had made up his mind 
 to ride over to Liebenegg and ask for advice. She had 
 had, so she said, long experience in nursing. Perhaps 
 the Frau Professor could spare her for a few days to 
 come over and look after little Helena. 
 
 Of course, he might have written a letter. But it 
 would take two days to reach her by the round-about 
 way of Kufstein. It would be far wiser to go himself. 
 
 As soon as he had come to this decision, his worry and 
 ill-temper left him. He was on his way to see her, and 
 she would know what to do. It was true that she had 
 freed him from his "dragons"; but he doubted if they 
 were really dead. Only in her presence did he feel sure 
 of it. 
 
 "It's hard to put into words," he often said to him- 
 self; "but, when I'm with her, the things that used to 
 worry me seem so utterly unimportant. I feel so alive, 
 so strong. And, that's the curious part, so so safe, as 
 if nothing evil could touch me. It's because I trust her 
 so implicitly, I suppose. Yet how little I know about 
 her really. I've told her everything; she has told me 
 almost nothing. But that makes no difference. When 
 a knight delivered a lady from her attendant dragons, 
 she didn't ask him who his great-grandfather was. That
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 261 
 
 came later. And men aren't so inquisitive as women. 
 There '11 never be a male Elsa von Brabant, be the roles 
 of the sexes never so topsy-turvily interchanged." 
 
 He set out early of a Wednesday morning, on the 
 Bin-germeister 's old white horse, after giving Joncke all 
 necessary instructions and stopping for a moment at the 
 * ' Widum, ' ' where Father Mathias was standing, sunning 
 himself, by the garden gate. His red-rimmed eyes be- 
 hind his blue goggles gleamed kindly, as he watched 
 Edwards ride off. He was satisfied for his friend. Like 
 Frau Speckbacher, he had gone over to the enemy. In- 
 deed, he had a thick letter from her reposing at that 
 very moment in the pocket of his cassock. She had 
 been wise enough to tell him the truth at some length, 
 as even the cleverest woman must tell it, but the truth 
 nevertheless. 
 
 "Edwards will never wear his old bowler hat or that 
 shabby frock-coat again," he thought. "The Thiersee 
 episode in his life has come to an end." 
 
 He took out a large red handkerchief and waved it. 
 Then he blew his nose with it. Edwards seemed to be 
 riding out of his life forever. 
 
 From Thiersee to Schloss Liebenegg is a good twenty 
 kilometers. And the Burgermeister 's old white horse 
 had different ideas of speed from those of Miss Sparks' 
 mare. Besides, Edwards had constantly to ask his way. 
 So it was nearly noon when he caught sight of the end 
 of his journey. 
 
 Like so many of the castles along the Inn valley, 
 Liebenegg was built on a mass of rock that rose abruptly 
 out of the green level of a mountain-encircled plain, 
 a rock that suggested the petrified outpouring of some 
 ancient volcano, like a high puff of steam caught in mid- 
 air and turned to stone. As is the case with all such 
 coigns of vantage, it had been fortified in the Middle Ages. 
 Then the walls had fallen into ruin. In the struggle of 
 1809 it had been garrisoned by the French. Since they 
 had left it, driven out by Speckbacher 1 and his men, 
 
 i Andreas Hofer's right-hand man, and the forebear of all the 
 Speckbachers now living in Tyrol.
 
 262 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 it had remained uninhabitable until some fifty years 
 before this story, when a speculator in real estate, grown 
 rich by the building boom in Innsbruck, bought the rock 
 and built there, amidst the ruins, a low two-storied pa- 
 vilion between the remaining twin-towers of the ancient 
 castle. He had had sense enough to build as much as he 
 could with the old material of the useless outer walls, 
 so that the new part was not out of keeping or color 
 with its surroundings. And in fifty years, ivy and moss 
 will do more than charity to cover the multitudinous 
 sins of even a speculator in real estate. 
 
 Now the man himself was dead, his sons preferred 
 Vienna to the provinces; and the Schroeders had, for 
 years, rented the castle for their summer home. 
 
 Edwards dismounted. "When one has not sat a horse 
 since boyhood, a fifteen-mile ride causes unpleasant re- 
 sults. He must walk the cramp out of his muscles be- 
 fore presenting himself at the castle. The road wound 
 up the rock on the farther side the one side of the 
 rough cliff that was thickly wooded, and from which the 
 castle itself was hidden from view. Leading the old 
 white horse by the bridle, he climbed on and up, under 
 the great oaks that shut him in with their deep shadows. 
 At last, at a turn in the road, as if at the end of the 
 green tunnel of trees, he saw an old stone portal, stand- 
 ing free, apparently all that was left, on this side, of the 
 ancient boundary walls. 
 
 The absolute .quiet of noonday lay over everything. 
 No one was to be seen. 
 
 He crossed a filled-in moat and passed through the 
 gate into a broad courtyard, an immense level stretch 
 of sunlit green. To his left, hidden among trees, was 
 the castle, the two old round towers at either end rising 
 above the masses of foliage. On the right the court- 
 yard was bounded by a thick stone wall, breast-high. 
 He went towards it and leaned over. 
 
 The wall rimmed the very edge of the rock; below 
 was a sheer fall of hundreds of feet. But what an out- 
 look! 
 
 Spread out beneath him, marvelously distinct in every
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 263 
 
 detail, lay the valley of the river Inn, that wound in 
 and out through the green fields, the little clumps of 
 trees, the groups of houses dominated by their white 
 church spires on and on, until it ended in a golden 
 mist. And there, where it disappeared, was a break in 
 the encircling mountains, banked high with white clouds. 
 In every other direction rocky peaks bounded the hori- 
 zon, most of them still covered with snow. .Far off to 
 the right lay a low haze of dusty brown ; Kuf stein prob- 
 ably, or some other small city. And it was all so quiet. 
 Directly under him, leaving in the still air a trail of 
 pearly smoke, he could see a train, like a long black 
 moving mark, puffing slowly along. He could almost 
 hear the cough of the laboring engine. 
 
 And sunlight ! The courtyard was flooded with sun- 
 light. 
 
 ' ' What a place ! " he said half aloud. ' ' What a place 
 for children! For those that limp, and cough, and 
 die. They wouldn't die here." 
 
 1 ' Are you the man with the dog ? ' ' demanded a voice. 
 
 Edwards spun round on his heel. 
 
 He saw no one at first. Then he caught sight of a 
 long steamer-chair, shaded by a great striped umbrella, 
 and of two bare waving legs. The legs waved some more, 
 were brought finally to the ground, and from beneath 
 the umbrella appeared a boy. He seemed about twelve 
 years old. His brown hair was touselled; he wore a 
 very shiny old pair of Tyrolese breeches, and nothing 
 else. 
 
 "Usually," he explained in very careful German, "I 
 take off all my clothes. But in the afternoons mother's 
 always afraid someone '11 come. Not that I'd care. I 
 ain't deformed, you see." 
 
 Edwards did see. No ; he was certainly not deformed. 
 But he looked very frail. His arms were too thin; the 
 loose leathern breeches flapped pitifully about his deli- 
 cate hips and legs. Then, as Edwards said nothing, he 
 demanded 
 
 "Well, where's my dog?" 
 
 Edwards explained that he was not the "dog-man."
 
 264 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 For an instant all interest faded from the boy's mobile 
 face, and he became suddenly mindful of his manners. 
 
 ' ' Sorry, ' ' he said. ' ' Was you looking for anyone spe- 
 cial?" 
 
 And he smiled. 
 
 Edwards stared at him; stared till the boy grew un- 
 comfortable and turned to hurry away. Then at last 
 Edwards found his voice. 
 
 "I came to see Miss Sparks. But if she's not at lib- 
 erty, I can wait." 
 
 "She's at luncheon with the Frau Professor and 
 mother. I've fed already. I do so hate to sit dawdling 
 over meals, don't you?" 
 
 "Then I'd like to tie up my horse, if you don't mind." 
 
 The boy led the way to a corner of the courtyard that 
 lay in the shadow of the boundary wall. Here stood 
 some rough wooden mangers. Edwards watered his 
 horse, loosened the saddle-girths, and watched the boy 
 as he shot a measure of oats under the ancient animal's 
 twitching nose. 
 
 "Perhaps you 11 come out and sit in the sun with me," 
 said the boy. "Mother makes me sit in the sun all I 
 can." 
 
 Then he smiled again. 
 
 By chance Edwards looked up, and caught, against 
 the sky, the outline of the castle tower rising there above 
 the trees. That gave him the connecting link. And in 
 an instant he was far away, not only in distance, but in 
 time; far back among the years of his boyhood, on a 
 green sunlit stretch of turf, the old "Lower Play- 
 ground." Above it, against the sky, rose the chapel 
 tower. And by his side was a boy of his own age, with 
 a football sweater tied around his neck. And he was 
 saying, Edwards could hear every inflection of his 
 voice, "I think you were a fool, Charley, to sneak out 
 of dormitory last night and get us all gated for a week. 
 The other fellows are mighty sore. But don 't you mind 
 what they say. I'm your friend." And then he had 
 smiled. Smiled, as as somebody else had smiled only 
 a moment ago.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 265 
 
 Yes, yes, it was this strange delicate-looking lad 
 who had smiled. Not good old John, John who was 
 dead these five long years. 
 
 "You look sort of done up," the boy was saying. 
 "Can't I get you something to drink? Miss Sparks 
 wouldn't like it if I treated you badly. She's a good 
 pal of mine." 
 
 Edwards had come back to earth once more. 
 
 "That's what she is," he repeated with conviction. 
 "A good pal. I've ridden over from Thiersee to see 
 her. You know she comes over there sometimes to help 
 me. One of our little children was operated on, and 
 she's not doing well, so I thought " 
 
 The boy made a sudden dash for Edwards and caught 
 him by the arm. 
 
 "And I thought you were the 'dog-man,' " he cried 
 delightedly in English. "I must run and tell 'em that 
 you're here." 
 
 He started off, but Edwards detained him for an in- 
 stant. 
 
 "That's all very well," he said. "But if you know 
 me, I have not the pleasure of knowing you. ' ' 
 
 The boy broke away from his grasp. Then, as he sped 
 towards the house, he called over his shoulder 
 
 "Well, you ought to know me right enough. I'm 
 John Bowman." 
 
 And off he went, springing across the grass. 
 
 Edwards brushed the hair out of his eyes. For a mo- 
 ment everything seemed blurred. Then he heard a 
 shout of welcome from the boy. And out of the house 
 and down across the level lawn she came. He saw the 
 boy meet her half-way; saw her bend down her head 
 and whisper something in his ear. Then the boy ran 
 on again towards the house, probably to seek his 
 mother. 
 
 A desire to flee swept over Edwards. He could not 
 picture to himself how the boy's mother must look, and 
 he did not want to see her. Of that he felt sure. At 
 least, not now. Nor would she want to see him. She 
 had not written; she meant that their friendship was
 
 266 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 to cease; and he must not seem to force himself upon 
 her here. 
 
 But he was given no chance for flight. Before he 
 could even turn, a woman 's hand, his friend 's hand, was 
 clasped in his own. He was too troubled, too intensely 
 ill at ease himself, to notice how nervous she looked, how 
 uncertain were her words and actions, she who was 
 usually so supremely sure of herself. But he knew, at 
 least, that she was wishing he had not come. 
 
 He stammered out an explanation. It sounded very 
 lame. That he had proposed, even in his wildest mo- 
 ments, to take her back with him to nurse a sick child, 
 seemed now utterly unbelievable. Then what had he 
 come for ? 
 
 At that moment, some cross-current of happy intuition 
 caught him; some freshening breeze, blowing from an 
 unknown quarter, dispelled the mists of confusion and 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "No; that's all a mere excuse about the sick child," 
 he said. "I came to see you. I know that now. I 
 didn't before." 
 
 She made no answer for a moment. Had he displeased 
 her? 
 
 "You saw the the boy?" 
 
 His thoughts, that had been centered entirely on the 
 joy of her presence, swung off at a tangent again. 
 
 "Why, yes," he answered, speaking more and more 
 slowly as the strangeness of the situation grew upon 
 him. "He said his name was Bowman John Bowman. 
 That he was here with his mother. Are they the Bow- 
 mans from from " He broke off petulantly. 
 
 "Oh, there can't be any mistake about that. As if I 
 shouldn't know Johnnie's son. Even without this to 
 help me." 
 
 He snatched an old leather wallet from his pocket and 
 drew out a little photograph, soiled and dingy from 
 lying so long against his heart. He held it out to her. 
 
 "His mother sent it me," he said. "But he's not like 
 his father except when he smiles." 
 
 She made no effort to take the picture. He misread
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 267 
 
 her completely, thinking that the matter did not interest 
 her. 
 
 "She wrote me too," he added, "once every year. 
 But I tore the letters up a while ago. I told you about 
 her." 
 
 "I don't think I quite understand." 
 
 She dropped into the low wicker-chair where the boy 
 had been sitting. He stood before her unable to speak. 
 It had been easy to talk with her in the protecting shad- 
 ows of his own room at Thiersee ; here, however, in this 
 pitiless blazing sun that left no sheltering shade any- 
 where, here he felt tongue-tied and a boor. At last he 
 found his voice, but it was only to ask an inane question. 
 
 "What is she like, this Mrs. Bowman?" 
 
 He could not see her face, the red-striped umbrella 
 at the back of the chair hid it from him, but he saw 
 her hands move impatiently. 
 
 "A very ordinary person," came the answer at last. 
 "Just a common American." 
 
 "I don't believe it," answered Edwards, and he sat 
 down at her feet looking out at the view. If he could 
 not see her face, she should not see his. "No, I don't 
 believe it. Johnnie would never have fallen in love with 
 a common woman." 
 
 "You know them well?" 
 
 Somehow the sound of her voice hurt him to-day. 
 
 "I have never met Mrs. Bowman, but her husband 
 was my dearest friend. We were at school together, and 
 he " 
 
 His voice shook, and he stopped short. 
 
 "Strange, then, that they should never have men- 
 tioned you." 
 
 The words cut him like a blunt knife. He stared up 
 at the sky so fixedly that his eyes grew misty. 
 
 "Not strange at all. Many people who used to like 
 me aren't exactly proud of it these days. They have 
 doubtless not yet learned your gospel of never being 
 ashamed, even of one's unfortunate friends. Only 
 Johnnie wasn't like that, you see. Men like Johnnie 
 make you believe that honor and loyalty and clean-living
 
 268 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 aren't merely names for things that the world has out- 
 grown. But forgive me, this can't interest you. It 
 interests me, because I I never had but one really loyal 
 friend." 
 
 He felt her hands on his hair, on his neck. Now their 
 firm grasp was resting on his shoulders. He knew that 
 she was bending over him. He could catch the near 
 fragrance of her quiet breathing. 
 
 "You must not say that. You are not often so slow 
 to understand me. But I am not quite myself. I have 
 not been able to ride this week, and to-day I feel even 
 more of a weak woman than usual. You spoke of let- 
 ters that that Mrs. Bowman had written you. Why 
 did you destroy them?" 
 
 "Because she failed me like all the rest." 
 
 "That is not true." 
 
 Instead of answering Edwards began to laugh. His 
 laugh rang harsh' and forced. The woman behind him 
 winced. 
 
 "Of course it isn't true," he said. "I'll tell you 
 about it, about my Impossible Land, and about the Way 
 into it. I've told you almost everything. You may as 
 well have this too." 
 
 And he told her of his dream ; of how, in his loneliness, 
 he had woven an intricate web of romance about a 
 woman whom he had never seen, a woman who sent him 
 a short letter once a year. Of how, when she had writ- 
 ten that she was coming to Europe, he had thought of 
 nothing else except the delight of being able to see her 
 at last, her and the boy, Johnnie's boy. Of how she 
 had promised to let him know of her whereabouts. And 
 of how of how month had followed month and she had 
 never written again. 
 
 "And then," he went on, "I found out by mere chance 
 that she had been in Innsbruck, and yet had never asked 
 or tried to see me. I may have passed her on the street 
 and not have known that it was she. But after all, what 
 right have I to complain ? I built up a castle of dreams 
 and she knocked it down. She needn't have done that 
 though. I didn't ask her to live in it, only to let me
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 269 
 
 dream that she might some day. But she wouldn't even 
 leave me my dream. It wouldn't have cost her much, 
 one letter a year, and it meant a lot to me. Why, when 
 I was down in the mouth, and everything was going 
 wrong, and it didn't really seem worth while fighting 
 along any more, I used to take out those few letters 
 of hers. They were the only things I kept for long, 
 after leaving home. I'd take them out and re-read 
 them. She had a way of saying things that sort of 
 cheered me up, something like you. Of course it was 
 silly of me. And the strangest part of it was that, in 
 my heart of hearts, I didn't really want to see her in 
 Innsbruck at all, because I knew that that would be 
 the end of my Impossible Land. Yet when she did come 
 there and never let me know, it knocked out all the 
 props from under me. So I tore her letters up. And 
 and now there isn't any Impossible Land for me to 
 dream about any more." 
 
 Her hands were lifted from his shoulders. He turned 
 his head. 
 
 "Why why,*' he said, jumping to his feet, and then 
 dropping on his knees beside her chair, ''why, you 
 mustn't cry, you know. Not about my poor old van- 
 ished Impossible Land. Besides, you'll help me to make 
 another, won't you?" 
 
 She gave him no answer. He did not really ask for 
 one. He was too utterly content to let things go their 
 own way, to leave to her the ordering of what was to 
 come to them both. It was more than enough to feel 
 her hands in his. 
 
 But suddenly he saw the blood sweep over her face 
 and neck, and leaning forwards she slipped her arms 
 about his shoulders, and drew him close. He felt her 
 broad strong bosom pressed against his cheek, her lips 
 were on his hair, and he heard her say 
 
 "No one shall hurt you ever again, no one, ever." 
 
 A moment afterwards he was standing at her side 
 near the courtyard wall, protesting that he must be 
 off.
 
 270 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "But you have had no luncheon. Do come in for 
 coffee. The Frau Professor will be delighted. And 
 you can make the acquaintance of ," she smiled con- 
 tentedly, "of Mrs. Bowman." 
 
 He would not hear of it. He had eaten something 
 at an inn on the way. If he started now he would be 
 at home before nightfall. He was on fire to be gone. 
 Not only had he no desire to see Mrs. Bowman, but 
 he dreaded even more the grayness of an anti-climax 
 to those last few minutes of supreme happiness. He 
 wanted to be alone. 
 
 She was wise in that she made no effort to detain 
 him. She bade him good-by then and there. 
 
 "Next Sunday?" she said; "I'll try." 
 
 "And a week from Sunday, too. That's the dress- 
 rehearsal of the Play. Oh, you must come. It's just 
 like one of the regular performances." 
 
 "You take a tremendous interest in it?" 
 
 "Indeed I do, and I know that poor Joncke is going 
 to make a horrid mess of it. Yet it would be such a 
 chance to show people what what Christ might be made 
 to mean." 
 
 Then answering the question in her eyes, he went 
 on excitedly 
 
 "Not what he used to mean, because that's dead, 
 like that hideous wooden image in the parish church, 
 I'll show it to you some day, and like all those words 
 in the liturgy that used to be alive and thrill you, but 
 that don't any more because they're dead too. They've 
 been kept too long ; at least fifty or a hundred years too 
 long. They remind me of mummied kings dressed in 
 their coronation robes and enthroned at their own fu- 
 nerals. But what a Christ might mean now! That's 
 quite different. I'm not talking about the idiotic sort 
 of books that Protestant preachers write, 'What would 
 the Lord do to-day in Liverpool?' Their idea is of a 
 God, who has been sitting up in heaven somewhere, 
 coming back to earth and having a bad time of it. I 
 
 don't mean that. I mean " 
 
 He stopped short. His eyes were wide, fixed, so she
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 271 
 
 thought, on the lines of the snow-clad hills above 
 him. 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. "Yes you mean ?" 
 
 He sighed. Then he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I can't express it in words," he said. "I'm only 
 groping after something. Suppose another Jesus of 
 Nazareth, a man like him, with his intense love for 
 humanity and his longing to help, suppose another 
 man, not a god like that were born again here. What 
 would he say to these people? What would he do to 
 comfort them? Sometimes I seem to get an inkling of 
 it; of something that would be as alive and as full of 
 power as the old words and symbols are impotent and 
 dead. And," he concluded lamely, "that's why our 
 little Passion-Play interests me. If only Joncke knew 
 how to make people understand; but he doesn't. And 
 I can't tell him, I don't know myself." 
 
 She put a silver whistle to her lips and blew three 
 soft notes. The boy, who must have been watching 
 them from the house, came dashing across the grass. 
 
 "The Herr Doktor is going now," she said. "Untie 
 his horse for him." Then as the boy was doing as she 
 had bidden, she added under her breath, "He is very 
 delicate. Italy gave him no new strength at all, but 
 here in the sun he is another being. Oh, it's wonderful 
 what the sun here can do ! " 
 
 Edwards climbed stiffly into his saddle. 
 
 "Good-by," said the boy, slipping the bridle between 
 his fingers. 
 
 And he smiled. 
 
 Edwards reined in his horse, and, leaning back, looked 
 down into the boy's eager upturned face. The boy put 
 out his hand. Edwards took it and held it tight. 
 
 "Your father," he said, clearing his throat. "Your 
 father " 
 
 But he could get no further. He dropped the boy's 
 hand, gave the old white horse a vicious dig in the ribs 
 with his heels, and rode off out of the stone portal, his 
 head hanging and his shoulders bowed. 
 
 "Mammy," said the boy, when Edwards had dis-
 
 272 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 appeared, "I wish he hadn't gone. "When a fellow gets 
 to my age it 's pleasant having another man about. Will 
 he come again soon?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "We'll make him." 
 
 That night, when the boy was asleep, his mother sat 
 down near his bed, with her blotting-pad on her knee, 
 to write. Three times she began; as many times she 
 destroyed what she had written. At last she stood up 
 and laid her pen aside. 
 
 "It's impossible to explain it all in a letter," she said 
 to herself. "If he had only come into the house for 
 coffee this afternoon, everything would have explained 
 itself. Yet he must know who I am now. When we're 
 alone again, I'll tell him why I let him deceive himself 
 at first. I must make him understand that. I'll try to 
 get hold of him some Sunday some Sunday after the 
 Passion-Play. "
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 EDWARDS had a long, weary ride home. He met only 
 a single group of people on the way : a party of climbers 
 who had been doing some of the higher peaks. One 
 of them he recognized, Assistant Professor Egger, Pro- 
 fessor Schroeder's brother-in-law, whom he had often 
 seen in Innsbruck. His face was drawn and white, he 
 walked unsteadily, and Edwards told himself that the 
 distinguished young scientist was either over-tired or 
 drunk. That he might be ill did not enter his head 
 until he had left the party far behind. But he knew 
 that they would be at Liebenegg within the hour, and 
 it was no business of his. 
 
 When he himself reached Thiersee it was nearly seven, 
 and he so stiff that he could scarcely stand when he dis- 
 mounted at the schoolhouse door. He was dog-tired, 
 at the very end of his strength ; and since early morning 
 he had eaten nothing. At Liebenegg he had not told 
 the truth, but he had not wanted to meet Mrs. Bowman, 
 as he feared he must do were he to stay there for after- 
 noon coffee. And now he felt too exhausted even to 
 rejoice over Joncke's good news, that little Helena was 
 much better. Her breathing was easier; the line on 
 the temperature-chart was running downhill. It seemed 
 as if the crisis had passed. 
 
 At supper he coughed a silly little cough that had 
 bothered him lately. But it stopped when he got into 
 bed. At first he could not sleep, he was too tired. His 
 mind went back over the adventures of the day. Uohn 
 Bowman's son, his Johnnie's boy; he had seen him in 
 the flesh at last. And she she had well, no, she had 
 not kissed him; but she had held him so close that he 
 could hear her heart beat. He fell asleep, dreaming 
 that she held him there still. 
 
 273
 
 274 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 He woke in the dark with a jump. He was bathed in 
 sweat, even the bed-clothes were soaked through. It 
 was annoying, and it had been happening regularly of 
 late. He lit the candle and went to the cupboard to 
 find a fresh set of pyjamas. The set he had been wear- 
 ing he tossed aside. 
 
 Then he picked up the jacket slowly from the floor. 
 
 The front of it was covered with blood. 
 
 It might have come from a bad nose-bleed, but his 
 nose did not feel as if it had bled, and he had a horrid 
 taste in his mouth. 
 
 He sat down by his desk. But in a second he was 
 up again. 
 
 "No," he muttered; "I won't give in. I'll drop dead 
 first." 
 
 And then another thought caught him by the throat. 
 
 "Just my luck. I can't cumber her with an unsound 
 man." 
 
 His glance fell on a small package brought that day 
 by the weekly post, and forgotten on his desk till now. 
 He opened it eagerly. Inside were two small bottles 
 with sealed glass caps, and wrapped round them was 
 a letter from a colleague at the Clinic in Innsbruck. 
 Edwards spread out the letter before him. 
 
 "I enclose the tuberculin," he read. "Bottle A is 
 for prophylactic injections. It may help. Haven't seen 
 many good results myself. Lysin, Rollier, and the sun 
 give far better ones. Bottle B is old tuberculin, for 
 diagnostic inoculations. Only don 't set too great a value 
 on it." 
 
 "Perhaps I'm a hypochondriacal ass," he said to him- 
 self. ' ' Anyway we '11 see. ' ' 
 
 He opened bottle B, found a small scalpel, sterilized 
 it, and bared his upper arm. With the point of the 
 knife he dug three small holes in the flesh. Into the 
 two outer ones he rubbed a few drops from the open 
 bottle. The other, in the middle, he left as it was. It 
 was only a "control." Then he went back to bed. 
 
 That was Wednesday night. On Friday, when he
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 275 
 
 stripped for his morning bath, the control spot had al- 
 most disappeared ; but around the other two were spread- 
 ing circles of red; red, bright red in the middle, and 
 tender to the touch. 
 
 He had asked a question of his body. Here was its 
 answer. For a moment his knees crumpled beneath him. 
 Then he straightened up. 
 
 " Another dream-castle blown sky-high," he said 
 aloud. "All my lands are Impossible Lands. But I 
 don't care. I won't give in. I will not." 
 
 And he plunged into his ice-cold bath. 
 
 Sunday brought no word or sign from Liebenegg, but 
 Edwards did not mind much. He knew that there was 
 a bad half -hour coming for both of them; he was only 
 too glad to postpone it as long as he could. And then 
 he was very busy with the Play. Father Mathias and 
 he were at it from morning to night. There were cos- 
 tumes to be tried on, over-modest actors to be re-coached 
 in their parts, and music to be rehearsed. For the priest 
 had decided to risk the strings of his little cottage piano. 
 It would be hidden in the trees near the stage; the 
 schoolmistress from Kufstein would play, and he him- 
 self would make music on his 'cello. Simple, good, 
 squared-toed things: Handel's "Largo" and the like. 
 
 Edwards arranged to have six places reserved for the 
 people from Liebenegg. He hoped that no one except 
 Miss Sparks would come, and the boy. He was, how- 
 ever, vaguely curious about Mrs. Bowman. It would 
 be interesting to have a glimpse of her. On the other 
 hand, if she came he would have to speak to her. And 
 how could he do that in the presence of this other 
 w r oman, to whom he had confided his idiotic dreams? 
 
 Fortunately he had not much time to think about 
 himself or about others. Every night he went to bed 
 tired out, slept lightly, and woke feeling unrefreshed. 
 But the days passed. Before he knew it, it was Satur- 
 day evening. The dress rehearsal, or what was in reality 
 the first representation of the Play, was set for the mor- 
 row. 
 
 The morrow, Sunday, dawned fair. But the air was
 
 276 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 oppressive and hot. When he went to wake Joncke he 
 found him already dressed and on his knees before his 
 crucifix. They went down to early mass together. 
 
 By nine o'clock the little round amphitheater was 
 nearly full, mostly with people from the neighboring 
 valleys. There were four or five chance tourists from 
 Dresden, who were making a tour through Tyrol on foot, 
 but that was all. 
 
 Benches there were none, only banks of earth, covered 
 with green turf, rising in a small semicircle and set in 
 the natural hollow of a hill that sloped gently up from 
 the shore of the lake. The lake itself, shimmering 
 through the leaves, formed the background of the entire 
 play. The trees were the wings, and between two great 
 pines hung a dark-green curtain that, when pulled aside, 
 disappeared from view and disclosed the stage, a stretch 
 of level grass. Indeed, there was no stage in the or- 
 dinary sense of the word. The actors were on the level ; 
 the spectators above them, in the green semicircle. 
 
 But although Edwards, with the fillets of the Roman 
 governor dangling about his ears, kept peering out from 
 behind the trees, he caught no glimpse of the face for 
 which he was searching. The seats that he had kept for 
 the people from Liebenegg remained empty. 
 
 The Play lasted till after midday. And with one 
 or two slips, it went very well. Perhaps Edwards was 
 the only person who felt any dissatisfaction. To him, 
 however, it was painful to see Joncke 's bowed shoulders 
 and nerveless outstretched hands as he walked with his 
 disciples or called the children to his side. "No child 
 would have come," thought Edwards; "not one. At 
 least no modern child. ' ' 
 
 In the Passion itself Joncke was more in his element. 
 He reveled in the abasement of the "Via Crucis." He 
 was at his best in the short scene that showed the Cruci- 
 fixion. And his "Consumatum est" rang through the 
 trees like the song of a spirit released. Better still, per- 
 haps, was the Descent from the Cross. He let himself 
 go so utterly, relaxed so completely, that, as it flashed
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 277 
 
 through Edwards' mind, he looked deader than a dead 
 man. 
 
 Edwards took off his Roman toga and mingled with 
 the spectators. 
 
 "That's an epitome of the whole thing," he said to 
 himself. "When Joncke's at his best in the role, he's 
 dead deader than the dead deader than that old 
 wooden image in the parish church, deader than the 
 Christ he 's trying his best to be. ' ' 
 
 He did not wait for the scenes that followed the 
 Resurrection. He could not imagine Joncke as the vic- 
 torious embodiment of overflowing supernatural life. 
 Besides, after Easter morning the Christ of the Gospels 
 was a god divinely revealed; and how could Joncke, 
 the schoolmaster, and these peasants suggest all that? 
 At such moments as these, even the most cleverly devised 
 effects of a great theater must fail of their intent. He 
 remembered, too, that for the scene in the Upper Room 
 with the doubting Thomas, Joncke had insisted on wear- 
 ing white cotton gloves, with the wounds of the Passion 
 marked on the palms in red ink. And had he seen those 
 five white outspread fingers, he knew that he must have 
 laughed. 
 
 He walked alone up to the schoolhouse, where tables 
 were already spread in the schoolroom and the big hall. 
 Nani, who had no part in the Play, but who was almost 
 well again, was watching over them with a blue kerchief 
 tied around her closely cropped head. Here, after the 
 performance, the entire village and their guests would 
 eat. They paid so much apiece for the meal ; and what- 
 ever money was made went to Frau Speckbacher. It 
 had always been the perquisite of the woman who played 
 the "Mutter Gottes." 
 
 "No, Herr Doktor," said Nani; "no one has come 
 from Liebenegg." 
 
 So they weren't coming. Not one of them. And 
 she had promised. She knew how interested he was in 
 the Play. Yet she had not cared to come. It was 
 ten days since he had seen her, ten whole days.
 
 278 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 What could have happened? 
 
 The people began to arrive, hungry and excited. The 
 Play was over. 
 
 He went up to one old peasant whose farm, as he 
 knew, lay but an hour from Liebenegg. The old man 
 smiled and showed his toothless gums. 
 
 ' ' Umm-m-m-mm, " he mumbled. "They be all gone 
 away from the castle, they be. Went to Innsbruck on 
 a Friday, they did. In three carriages from Kufstein. 
 I see 'em. Um-m-m-m." 
 
 Gone! And no word! Not even a line to tell him 
 why or where ! 
 
 The noise of the people eating and talking together, 
 discussing the Play, comparing it with those they had 
 seen in other valleys, in Brixlegg, in Worgl, jarred on 
 Edwards intolerably. He slipped from his place at 
 Father Mathias' right hand and went upstairs. Little 
 Helena was lying quietly in her bed, the sun streaming 
 over her; and at her side sat Toni, the glory of his first 
 public appearance still upon him, wagging his red head 
 excitedly as he explained to Helena the happenings of the 
 day. He had a plate heaped with big greasy "Plum- 
 Knodln," masses of uncooked sweetened dough, molded 
 around a stewed plum, great delicacies to the Tyrolese 
 child; and these he stuffed, one by one, into his mouth 
 in the pauses of his conversation. Edwards was just in 
 time to stop him from filling Helena's expectant open 
 lips with a mess of the indigestible stuff. 
 
 He had expected to find Joncke here. As soon as the 
 Play was finished the schoolmaster had disappeared. 
 Edwards quite understood his desire to get away. At 
 any other time he would have respected it. But now he 
 had to find someone to talk to; he could not return to 
 the chattering people downstairs. 
 
 He tapped lightly on Joncke 's door. As no one an- 
 swered, he went in. The schoolmaster was standing on 
 a chair near the window, apparently engaged in putting 
 to rights the curtains of his room, that ran on a wooden 
 pole fixed on two heavy hooks fastened firmly in the 
 wall. He had removed the pole and was testing the
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 279 
 
 strength of one of the hooks. He had not heard Ed- 
 wards come in. 
 
 At the touch of his friend's hand he whirled about, 
 terrified, and almost fell from the chair. Edwards 
 steadied him, then helped him to get down. 
 
 "You look really ill," he said, distressed by the dull 
 fixity of the other's face. "You've been under a tre- 
 mendous strain. And I daresay you haven 't been sleep- 
 ing well these last nights. Men don't almost tumble off 
 a chair when someone touches them unexpectedly, unless 
 their nerves are all on edge. What's the matter? Do 
 open your mouth and say something." 
 
 Joncke's heavy lips moved. But no words came. At 
 last Edwards seemed to catch a few syllables. 
 
 "The unpardonable sin Sin against the Holy 
 
 Ghost. Never forgiven. Damned Lost ' ' 
 
 The physician in Edwards rose at once in arms. 
 
 "Why torment yourself, Emil," he said, putting his 
 hand on the other's shoulder. "I know what is worry- 
 ing you. You think you 're unworthy to have played the 
 part you did to-day. Isn't that it?" 
 
 Joncke nodded. He clung tight to Edwards' arm. 
 
 "But that's not true," Edwards went on. "Accord- 
 ing to your ideals and belief, no one would be worthy, 
 I suppose. But it's only make-believe, you know, only 
 a play. You mustn't turn it into such deadly earnest. 
 And now I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm go- 
 ing to put you to bed, with my own hands. Other- 
 wise you'll never go. Then I'll bring you a cup of hot 
 soup, with a good dose of bromide. And I'll darken 
 the room and stay here with you until you get to sleep. 
 We can't have you falling ill now. Thiersee couldn't 
 get along without you. Now don't you move till I come 
 back." 
 
 When he returned he found Joncke exactly where 
 he had left him. He thought he had not moved; nor 
 had he, except for a moment, to thrust under his pillow 
 something that he had been hiding beneath his coat. 
 A coil of stout rope. The rope with which his hands 
 had been bound when he stood as Christ before Pilate.
 
 280 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Edwards was as good as his word. But Joncke was 
 like a lifeless wooden image. Edwards had to undress 
 him, to put him to bed, to feed him with the hot soup, 
 spoonful by spoonful. This did not worry him over- 
 much ; he had seen Joncke in such fits of intense depres- 
 sion before, although they had never been quite so bad 
 as this. It was a natural reaction after the excitement 
 of the Passion-Play. 
 
 He darkened the room, then sat down by the bed, 
 smoothing back Joncke 's tangled hair from his eyes and 
 stroking his forehead softly. He could always put tired 
 children to sleep like that. 
 
 Now and again he heard his friend mutter indis- 
 tinctly 
 
 "Went to confession every day last week. Then 
 Father Mathias wouldn't let me come any more. Said 
 he knew what was best. How could he know how wicked 
 I was? Said that I imagined it. Can a man imagine 
 mortal sin?" 
 
 His enunciation grew gradually clearer and less la- 
 bored, as if some inner hindrance to the expression of 
 his tormenting memories were slowly dissolving and 
 leaving them a freer passage to the outer world. 
 
 * ' Sins of thought. Deadly sins. Thoughts thoughts 
 such terrible blasphemous thoughts! They would 
 come. I had lost all power to keep them out. The 
 devil, and not God, held the key of my soul. This morn- 
 ing, when I knelt at the altar, I knew that I was re- 
 ceiving the Lord's Body unworthily. Eating and drink- 
 ing my own damnation. For there, at the very moment 
 of Communion, the thoughts came and came again. I 
 saw then that there was no hope : that I was outcast from 
 God's mercy forever. And yet in the Play I 
 I played the Sinless One, the Pure, the All-Holy. ' ' 
 
 His voice grew suddenly shrill, and shook with the in- 
 tensity of his emotion. 
 
 "Ah, ah, if I could have died, up there on the 
 cross. That was what I longed fordeath. What have 
 I to do with life, a man like me?" 
 
 Then for a long time he lay silent. The bromide was
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 281 
 
 beginning to have its effect. If he could only sleep for 
 eight or ten hours he would be himself again when he 
 waked. 
 
 At last he put up his hand slowly and laid it on 
 Edwards' hand that was stroking his hair. 
 
 "Charley," he stammered. It was the first time that, 
 in spite of Edwards' encouragement, he had ever called 
 his friend openly by his Christian name. "Charley, 
 say thou wilt not despise me. Don't leave me all 
 alone." 
 
 Edwards had quick intuitions sometimes. He sat 
 down on the edge of the bed and took the schoolmaster's 
 hands in his. 
 
 "I am here," he answered, speaking so distinctly 
 that each syllable had its weight. "When thou wakest 
 I shall be here still. Now sleep, little brother, I am 
 here watching. Sleep." 
 
 He heard Joncke sigh contentedly. Then his breath- 
 ing became more regular. In five minutes he was asleep. 
 But Edwards did not move for an hour's time, and only 
 then very softly, to summon Toni from the opposite 
 room. He knew that Joncke might sleep the whole day 
 through. But then he might not. And if he woke he 
 must find him there. On that everything depended. 
 
 For the whole dreary length of that Sunday after- 
 noon he sat in the darkened room, only near enough 
 to the window so that a beam of light might fall on the 
 book that Toni had brought him. He wrote a word of 
 explanation to Father Mathias. He tried to read, but 
 his thoughts soon wandered. The noise of the people 
 eating downstairs gradually ceased. He heard them 
 leaving the schoolhouse in noisy little groups. Then the 
 stillness of a Sunday afternoon settled down over every- 
 thing. 
 
 Sunday afternoons! 
 
 How he had dreaded them, week in, week out, during 
 these last years. At Innsbruck they had been to him 
 hours of torment always. His friends, even his land- 
 lady, had left the house. All the people that he knew 
 were on Sunday excursions of some sort. Fathers with
 
 282 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 their children; old women on their husbands' arms; 
 young men with their promised brides. That was why 
 he never stirred from his room on a Sunday afternoon, 
 he, the stranger, the ' ' Zugereister. ' ' The streets of the 
 town were empty; and, if he walked into the country, 
 he met so many happy people, so many definitely 
 bounded groups of common interests in which he had no 
 share, all so complete in themselves that they had no 
 place for an outsider, and therefore made him feel his 
 loneliness a thousand times more than when he walked 
 the city's deserted streets. 
 
 And so, Sunday after Sunday, he had always sat close 
 in his ugly rented quarters, trying to read, but never 
 succeeding, and only seeing ghosts or fighting dragons, 
 until he heard the key of his stout landlady grate in 
 the outer door, and fled to her in the kitchen to hear 
 what she had gathered of the latest gossip. 
 
 But at Thiersee, during all these months, this was the 
 first Sunday afternoon that he had spent alone. 
 
 Of late he had begun to believe that there would never 
 be any more lonely Sunday afternoons for him. Now 
 he knew that he had been mistaken. There would be 
 plenty of them, whole endless years, until he closed his 
 eyes forever on the loneliest Sunday of them all. 
 
 For she had gone. Without a word: without a sign 
 of explanation or farewell. 
 
 What had happened? 
 
 Sitting there with the sleeping schoolmaster in the 
 silent house, his imagination painted the picture for 
 him in vivid colors. 
 
 Yes, that was it. Until his unfortunate visit to 
 Liebenegg, she had been unaware that he had once known 
 the Bowmans, those Americans who were staying at the 
 castle with the Frau Professor. Now that she had heard 
 of his friendship with ' ' Old John, ' ' she would naturally 
 have spoken about him to "Old John's widow," would 
 have mentioned his name for the first time. For, no 
 doubt, she had not told anyone, except the Frau Pro- 
 fessor, of her coming to Thiersee, of what she had seen 
 and done there. And then Mrs. Bowman would have
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 283 
 
 confided to her various matters, the garbled exaggerated 
 version of his " scandalous past." 
 
 He knew well enough how it would sound; could im- 
 agine the thousand additional details, all products of 
 malicious scandal or thoughtless invention; could see 
 her as she listened, with the growing doubt of him rising 
 in her clear eyes. He could even hear her unspoken 
 thoughts. "He never told me that. He glossed this 
 matter over. He suppressed these incriminating facts. 
 He made a good story of it all. And I I believed 
 him." 
 
 Mrs. Bowman, who had written him those friendly 
 letters, (how far away and uninteresting they seemed 
 now!), she had ceased writing because she must have 
 heard something. And this Something she would have 
 passed on to to her. 
 
 So she had simply gone away. 
 
 And after all was that not the best thing she could 
 have done ? For if she had not gone he must have gone 
 himself. 
 
 She in all the glory of her health and power ! And 
 he with those tell-tale circles of inflamed red on his 
 arm! It would have been impossible more than ever 
 impossible, had she cared for him. He could not burden 
 her splendid being with an unsound life like his own. 
 
 He stood up and stretched himself. 
 
 Somehow he did not feel the intense stress of loneliness 
 that he had always hitherto associated with unhappy 
 Sunday afternoons. Nor did the thought of what Mrs. 
 Bowman had doubtless said about him bring him that 
 old well-known sense of sudden sinking, that quick throb- 
 bing of the heart, that dizzy feeling of dread with which 
 his body answered to the inner torment of his outraged 
 self-respect. He could look forward to the future now 
 manfully, as he looked back on the past without shame. 
 
 He had forgotten how to feel ashamed. 
 
 And she had taught him that. It was she who had 
 slain his dragons. They were dead, every one. 
 
 Should he not be grateful, then? Happy, too? For 
 the world was wide; life was unchangingly wonderful;
 
 284 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 and there was work to be done somewhere ; plenty of it, 
 before the night came at last. 
 
 In working for others, in living for the best that was 
 in them and in himself, he would be working for her, 
 living close to her always. Why should he not be 
 happy? Why should he ever be lonely again? 
 
 In that moment he touched the full stature of his man- 
 hood.
 
 CHAPTER XXIY 
 
 AT first time passed slowly for Edwards. Then, as 
 his life dropped back into its old grooves, he took up 
 once more his habitual tread-mill work among his people, 
 and each hour was so filled with the troubles of others 
 that he had little time to worry over his own. Once 
 he thought of riding over to Liebenegg again, just to 
 make certain that she was no longer there. But then 
 he told himself that he had not an hour, let alone a whole 
 day, to waste on such a fool's errand. There was too 
 much to do. 
 
 On Friday afternoon he came back to the school- 
 house after a round of -visits, together with Joncke. Of 
 late he had got into the way of taking his friend with 
 him whenever he was free of his school duties. For 
 although the fit of depression had apparently passed, 
 Edwards dreaded a recurrence of it when next Sunday 
 brought the first regular performance of the Passion- 
 Play. Therefore he kept Joncke with him as much as 
 possible. He felt as if, by his own personal presence, 
 he were holding his friend's enemy at arm's length, and 
 this sense of his power to help pleased him. 
 
 As he and Joncke came up the steps, a very dusty 
 young man, who was leaning in the doorway, hurried 
 forward to meet them. He limped badly. 
 
 "Herr Kollega," he said, "I've had a nasty sprain; 
 and I thought I'd ask you to lend me a 'Gradel- 
 B&ndage' for my foot till I get back to Kuf stein. Per- 
 haps you 11 have a look at it, too. Why," he broke 
 off abruptly "why, it's the Herr Mister. I didn't 
 recognize you without your mustache. You remember 
 me, don't you?" 
 
 Naturally, Edwards remembered him : remembered his 
 
 285
 
 286 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 downy black beard, his hooked nose and swarthy skin, 
 that suggested Jerusalem, but that really belonged to 
 the Freiherr von Atems, whom Edwards had last seen 
 when he was standing outside the porter's lodge of the 
 Innsbruck hospital. 
 
 There were explanations on both sides. Von Atems 
 had lost his father, the old Freiherr, whose pride in him 
 had been his ambition's spur. Vintschgau, his home, 
 had been too full of painful memories, so he had started 
 on a walking tour through the Bavarian highlands. He 
 had left Innsbruck only the day before. And now he 
 must go back there again. Climbing with this sprain 
 was out of the question. While Edwards was bandaging 
 the twisted ankle, Nani came in to lay the supper-table. 
 And Edwards had to show off his surgical handiwork. 
 
 "I really owe my success to you," he said, as he at 
 last permitted the embarrassed Nani to cover up her 
 shorn head again. "If you hadn't described to me that 
 operation of Schroeder's, I should never have had the 
 courage to try it myself. ' ' 
 
 "You do me too much honor," answered von Atems. 
 Then, as he limped towards the door, he added, "Poor 
 old Schroeder! I don't suppose he'll ever operate 
 again. ' ' 
 
 "Not operate again! Why?" 
 
 "Haven't you heard, then? I suppose news reaches 
 you very slowly. And yet he was buried last week. 
 I was at the funeral. It was pitiful." 
 
 ' ' Dead ? The Herr Professor ! ' ' 
 
 "No, no. Not Schroeder. Egger, his brother-in-law. 
 It was appallingly sudden. It seems he contracted some 
 slight infection about ten days ago, either at an opera- 
 tion or during a 'post-mortem.' Those septic cases are 
 the devil. His arm swelled up a little. But he'd had 
 infections like that before. And instead of staying 
 quietly in bed, off he goes with some friends to do a 
 mountain. They climbed two peaks instead of one. I 
 suppose the exercise and the heightened circulation sent 
 the poison all through his body. Anyway, when he got 
 back from his climb he was very ill. They took him to
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 287 
 
 the hospital. But it was too late. He died in twenty- 
 four hours. I happened to be in Innsbruck for the 
 funeral. I 'm not sentimental, you know. But the sight 
 of old Schroeder's face, as he stumbled along behind the 
 
 hearse, brought a lump into my throat. No, thanks. 
 
 I must be off. My friend is waiting 1 for me at the inn. 
 See you soon in the clinic, I hope. Much obliged. 
 Good-by." 
 
 Early next morning Edwards was on his way to 
 Liebenegg. What he should find he did not know. But 
 it seemed probable that the Schroeders would return to 
 the castle after the funeral. The Bowmans would surely 
 not be there; they would, of course, have remained in 
 Innsbruck. As for Miss Sparks 
 
 Well, he was not going there to see her, but only to 
 leave some message of condolence for the kind-hearted 
 old man who had been so good to him. 
 
 He knew now why she had left so suddenly. And 
 in the midst of this appalling tragedy she would not 
 have had time to write. 
 
 Since hearing the news of Egger's death his mind had 
 been in a whirl. She had begun to dominate his 
 thoughts again to the exclusion of everything else. Now 
 as he rode along he regretted that he had not taken 
 Joncke with him. To-morrow came the Play. And he 
 had not liked Joncke 's looks this morning. He did not 
 seem to have slept much. But he could not have come ; 
 he had his school : and the ride to Liebenegg took a whole 
 day. 
 
 The weather was uncertain. A strong wind, not the 
 "Foehn," thank heaven, was chasing banks of clouds 
 across the sky. Shade, sunlight, and shadow, Edwards 
 passed through all in turn as the old white horse plodded 
 on. 
 
 At last he came down into the level plain, and caught 
 sight of Liebenegg on the top of its crag. The sun shone 
 on it. He could not think of it otherwise than as in the 
 sun. His mind could not connect it with any thought of 
 death. And yet a long black pennant floated above the
 
 288 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 big Austrian flag from the largest of the old round tow- 
 ers. Death had been there. 
 
 But death had passed. The dominant note of the 
 place was still life, even in the shadow of death, life 
 in superabundance. 
 
 At the foot of the hill, where the road began to wind 
 upwards among the trees, Edwards dismounted. To-day 
 he did not like to ride directly up into the castle-yard. 
 So he tied his horse in the woods, a little way from the 
 road, that was even darker than usual beneath the thick 
 oaks,- now that clouds had covered the sun again. 
 
 As he pushed through the thicket back into the road 
 he saw that someone was standing on the other side of 
 it watching him. A bareheaded figure in deep black, its 
 iron-gray head bent forward between the stooping shoul- 
 ders. 
 
 "Ah, I thought it was a tramp," said a dull toneless 
 voice. "And so it's you young man." 
 
 "Herr Professor " 
 
 Edwards' words stuck in his throat. In the presence 
 of this overpowering grief words seemed impossible. 
 
 "Don't say anything," the dull voice went on. "I 
 think that 's what hurts me most the kind things people 
 try to say. Will you walk on with me a little ? I didn 't 
 realize how far I'd come; and my knees are getting 
 weak." 
 
 At the sight of the bowed shoulders and of the trem- 
 bling hand that clasped his arm, Edwards felt a sense 
 of shock that frightened him into silence. Schroeder 
 had not been an 'old man, as great surgeons go. He had 
 been spare, but strong, with the tense strength of a taut 
 bowstring. Now the bow was broken, and the man was 
 broken too. 
 
 "You'd think, wouldn't you," said the same sad voice 
 at his side, "that we surgeons would get used to death? 
 That to us, as scientific men, it would be simply a 
 phenomenon of nature, like the dissolution of any or- 
 ganic combination. But we don't get used to it some- 
 how. At least I I don't. I try to find excuses for
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 289 
 
 myself. You see, Professor Egger, Hans, was was 
 my life. My scientific life, I mean. And that's the 
 only life that counts with men like me. All our in- 
 terests, all our affections, get centered, not in the people 
 who understand us at home, who give us what we need 
 to wear and eat, but in those who understand us in 
 our laboratories, our clinics understand what we've 
 been working for, what we've been groping after. And 
 then Hans was something more than simply the son of 
 my brain. He was my my champion. My theories, 
 that people laughed at twenty years ago, he worked 
 them out and set them on a firm basis of experimental 
 fact. You see, young man, he was my friend too. And 
 when suddenly, in three days, all that goes, well, I'm 
 not ashamed to have it break me not ashamed." 
 
 They walked on in silence for several minutes. Then 
 Edwards forced himself to speak. 
 
 "Herr Professor, I have never had a chance to to 
 thank you for all your kindness, for the instruments, 
 and the " 
 
 The white hand on his arm fluttered in remonstrance. 
 
 "It did no good. Oh, I'm sure it was of use to 
 you. But I didn't take all that trouble exactly for you, 
 young man. Do you remember the day you came to my 
 room at the clinic? Hans was there with me. And 
 I felt the contrast between us. You were in the shadow. 
 We were in the sun. I knew, by some trick of the sub- 
 conscious, that I was getting too much out of life. More 
 than my share. That soon misfortune must come so as 
 to even things out. You remember King Gyges and his 
 Ring. How he trembled because all things prospered 
 with him, and so threw away, as a sort of offering to 
 Nemesis, a ring that he treasured, the most precious of all 
 his possessions. And how it did no good; how Nemesis 
 gripped him at last. That was what I meant when I 
 tried to be of use to you. How long ago was that ? Not 
 five months! And now I am in the shadow. Do you 
 know, I can't bear the sun. Can't bear to walk in it. 
 That's why I like this dark road."
 
 290 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "But Liebenegg," Edwards interposed. "You've 
 nothing but sun there. Light and life. It means only 
 that to me." 
 
 The Professor lifted his eyes; the suggestion of a 
 smile played about his lips. 
 
 "Of course it means that to you, young man," he 
 said. "I'm sure I trust that it may be so always. My 
 wife and I shall probably never come here again. But 
 you two young people, and the boy, you belong at 
 Liebenegg. You belong in the sun. I hope you'll be 
 very happy there. ' ' 
 
 "I? What boy? What young people, Herr Profes- 
 sor?" 
 
 "Why, Mrs. Bowman, naturally, and her son." The 
 old man stood still and took Edwards affectionately by 
 the hand. "I'm always glad to see people get out into 
 the light. You've had more than your share of the 
 shadow, you know. Oh, we've heard a lot about you 
 during these last weeks, my wife more than I. But she 
 wrote it all to me in Innsbruck. It seemed such a tangle 
 at first. My wanting them to keep an eye on you at 
 Thiersee; and then their missing you somehow at Kuf- 
 stein and leaving you alone for so long. But it has come 
 out all right. Grace Bowman usually makes things 
 come out right. As a rule I don't like Americans. But 
 she is of no country and of no race. She 's just a splen- 
 did woman. And she has had enough hospital experi- 
 ence to tell a scalpel from a probe. But of course you 
 know all that far better than I. I 'd like to have seen you 
 two doing that craniotomy together. How's the pa- 
 tient?" 
 
 A flash of interest had lit up the Professor's eyes. 
 Edwards was glad that those sad old eyes were not 
 then fixed on him, otherwise he must have betrayed him- 
 self. As it was, he had time to find his voice, and cour- 
 age enough to put the question that had been several 
 times on the tip of his tongue. 
 
 ' ' And is is Miss is she at the castle now ? ' ' 
 "Yes. My wife simply couldn't get along without 
 her. She took hold at once and helped us in all our
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 291 
 
 trouble; arranged things; saw people for us; stood be- 
 tween us and so much that was too bitter to bear. She 's 
 a wonderful person. So capable! But then a woman 
 like that with a big fortune in trust for the boy has to 
 have a head on her shoulders." 
 
 "I didn't guess, I didn't know," stammered Ed- 
 wards. 
 
 The old man gave the ghost of a chuckle that ended 
 in a sob. 
 
 "I told her you didn't know. She thought that be- 
 cause you'd been her husband's friend you must realize 
 how matters stood. Not that the money came from the 
 husband, poor lad. It's from his grandfather. One 
 of those fortunes, not big for you in America, I suppose, 
 but tremendous to us here, that were once made in real 
 estate years ago, and have been carefully held together 
 ever since. So of course you couldn 't have known. But 
 at first she was so suspicious. Not exactly suspicious 
 either. But well, between ourselves, I imagine that 
 it wasn't mere chance her getting my wife's aunt in 
 America to give her letters to us. I believe she knew 
 you were here somewhere all the time. That you had 
 been in her thoughts for years. And that she had made 
 up her mind to have a look at you, and and see for her- 
 self. ' ' 
 
 "See what for herself?" 
 
 The Professor's voice sounded slightly uncertain and 
 distressed as he answered 
 
 11 There's nothing to get on your high horse about, 
 young man. She had heard unpleasant things about 
 you, doubtless a pack of lies, and she wanted to find 
 out the truth. You needn't look so black. I supposed 
 she had told you that herself long since. Lucky for 
 you that she had pluck enough yes, and interest 
 enough in you, to come and see with her own eyes. 
 She saw nothing but good, didn 't she ? And now you 're 
 in the sun, you and she." 
 
 Edwards turned aside. 
 
 "I don't think I'll come any farther, sir," he said. 
 "I had only intended to leave some message of sym-
 
 292 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 pathy for the Frau Professor and yourself. I hadn't 
 hoped to have the chance of actually speaking with you. 
 So the intention of my ride over from Thiersee is more 
 than fulfilled. Miss Mrs. Bowman will probably send 
 for me, if it interests her to do so. ' ' 
 
 "If it interests her to do so, indeed! What a curi- 
 ous way you Americans have of putting things." Then 
 he added wistfully : "I hope I haven 't said anything to 
 bother you. I should be sorry. But just now, half 
 the time I don't know what I am saying. So you'll 
 forgive the clumsy tongue of a tired old man." 
 
 Edwards bade him a hasty good-by, and stumbled 
 blindly back towards the thicket, where he had tied his 
 horse. When he had mounted and ridden out into the 
 road, he saw the Professor beckoning to him. 
 
 "I forgot," said the old man, as Edwards reined in 
 beside him. "Will you keep us some seats for your 
 Passion-Play to-morrow? I shan't be there myself. 
 I'm going back to the Clinic soon to work. To work 
 hard. But my wife and the others will come." 
 
 Then, as Edwards was about to wheel his horse, he 
 asked abruptly 
 
 "Have you a father still living?" 
 
 Edwards nodded. The Professor leaned forward 
 upon his stick, his eyes on the ground. 
 
 "Then, go home and see him sometimes," he said 
 softly. "We old people get very lonely." 
 
 He turned and walked up towards the castle, his 
 solitary figure soon blotted into shapelessness by the 
 heavy shadows of the overhanging trees. 
 
 Some good angel must have shown Edwards the way 
 back to Thiersee that night. He could never have found 
 it for himself. 
 
 "Deceit. Deceit," he kept repeating to himself. 
 "Deceit from beginning to end. She came to spy on 
 me. She wormed her way into my life. She forced 
 my confidence by a trick. And what did Father 
 Mathias say about a forced confidence ? That you always 
 hated the person who had forced it. Yes, but but I
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 293 
 
 don't hate her, somehow. That's the worst of it. I 
 ought to, and I can't. Of course, she never wrote to 
 me from Liebenegg. I should have recognized her hand- 
 writing ! Her handwriting ! And I told her about those 
 letters." 
 
 He actually shivered at the thought, it hurt him 
 so. 
 
 "Imagine me sitting there at her feet and confessing 
 to her to her how I had kept her letters, and how I 
 had dreamed of making her care for me. And my Im- 
 possible Land! What a self -conceited idiot she must 
 have thought me. Oh, it was cruel of her to let me so 
 humiliate myself. Cruel. Cruel." 
 
 During all the long five hours of that ride he could 
 think of nothing else. 
 
 Why had she done it? Had he not heard her whis- 
 per that no one should hurt him again? And yet no 
 one had ever hurt him so deeply as she. 
 
 How could he face her now? She would be at the 
 Play to-morrow. He must see her ; speak with her, per- 
 haps. And he could not bear it. He would not act: 
 they must find someone* else to play his part. 
 
 He rode up to the steps of the schoolhouse as the sun 
 was setting, tired out, conscious only of a desire to get 
 away somewhere where she could not find him. Father 
 Mathias, his gray hair flying in strands behind him, 
 came rushing out of the door. Before Edwards could 
 dismount the little priest had him tightly by the arm, so 
 tightly that Edwards cried out. 
 
 "Hush, hush!" whispered the priest, his voice shak- 
 ing with distress. "Thank God, you are here at last. 
 Thank God. By His mercy, we have had a narrow 
 escape. Toni found him, and cut him down just in 
 time." 
 
 "Cut him down? Is the whole world gone mad?" 
 
 "Almost. It's Joncke. He tried to hang himself to 
 one of the hooks that support his window curtains." 
 
 "Where is he now?" 
 
 Edwards started up the steps on a run. 
 
 ' * In bed. Quiet, but quite out of his mind. He thinks
 
 294 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 that he has murdered you, and that he is in Hell with 
 the Damned. You'll have to take him into Innsbruck, 
 to the Clinic." 
 
 Here was his chance to get away from Thiersee. Ed- 
 wards gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 "I'll go early to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 Father Mathias had followed Edwards up the steps, 
 and was clinging to his arm. 
 
 "To-morrow is the Play. The Prince-Bishop is com- 
 ing. And you must play the Christ for us. You must. 
 You must."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 IT was still dark when Edwards was awakened by a 
 handful of gravel rattling against his window-pane. On 
 the garden path outside stood Franzl. 
 
 "Come for a swim before mass," he called softly. 
 
 Edwards shaved and dressed. He stole into Joncke's 
 room. Nani, tired out with watching, was nodding by 
 the bed. The schoolmaster himself was asleep. He tip- 
 toed noiselessly out of the house. 
 
 The Angelus, that rings at half -past four every morn- 
 ing in summer, came pealing out on the fresh morning 
 air as he and Franzl, arm-in-arm, hurried together down 
 the hill. 
 
 The bathing-place was near the spot where the little 
 Passion-Play theater had been set up. It was like bath- 
 ing in a lake behind the scenes. 
 
 In silence they slipped into the water. Edwards 
 swam out very quietly. Franzl's head cut the water at 
 his shoulder. He turned on his back to look at the 
 sky. The sun would be up presently. So he faced 
 about and swam in again. 
 
 But it was nearer sunrise than he had thought. For, 
 as he came out of the water shaking the silvery drops 
 from his thick hair, the first long level rays of day shot 
 out across the break in the eastern mountain-chain, and 
 covered him with a moment's glory. 
 
 Franzl, on his knees beside his scattered clothes, looked 
 up and marveled. 
 
 "No," he said, as Edwards reached towards his own 
 belongings. ' ' No I will dress thee. It has always been 
 the custom. And to-day I am glad to be Saint John. ' ' 
 
 So Edwards suffered it. 
 
 Then they went up to the church together. There 
 was an hour yet before the early mass, and Edwards 
 
 295
 
 296 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 spent it sitting in the sun on the church threshold, with 
 Franzl standing close behind him, like some great vassal 
 in attendance on his sovereign lord. He did not realize 
 that he was sitting on "poor Holtzmann's" grave. 
 
 And there, there came to him the understanding that 
 this was to be his last day in Thiersee. He must make 
 the most of it: must give all that was left in him to 
 give. 
 
 At six o'clock Father Mathias found him still sitting 
 in the sunshine, wide-eyed and motionless. He was 
 coughing, and looked very pale.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 AT Thiersee they talk of that Passion-Play still. They 
 have had no Play since then; nor is there ever like to 
 be another. 
 
 Why? 
 
 Well, if by chance you ever meet the Prince-Bishop 
 of Brixen, a very courteous young prelate, with a small 
 aristocratic face, and if you wish to make him, who is 
 the embodiment of assured self-confidence, feel miserably 
 ill at ease ask him. 
 
 Ask him about Thiersee and that Passion-Play. 
 
 If it is early in the morning, and he is still in the 
 dogmatico-dyspeptic mood that precedes his luncheon, he 
 will tell you that it was scandalous. 
 
 But should you be presented to him, say in the house 
 of one of the "Cammerieri Segreti" of His Holiness 
 (and there is one who lives not far from Brixen), and if 
 the dinner has been good and the wine to his taste, for 
 there is an element in his character that used to be con- 
 nected with being a gentleman and a scholar, but that 
 seems now out of date; if, I say, all these things work 
 together for his welfare and yours, and you ask him then 
 about Thiersee, he will tell you maybe what he thinks. 
 
 No doubt he will begin by remarking that "the truths 
 of the Christian religion are susceptible of receiving light 
 from many divergent sources." But, like as not, he 
 will take his cigar out of his mouth, will knock off the 
 ash against his big episcopal ring, and will say 
 
 "I never saw anything like it in my life. It made 
 me cry, me!" 
 
 And if it made the Prince-Bishop of Brixen cry, who 
 is drier than the dust of his own see-city, and that is 
 very dry indeed, what do you suppose it did to the 
 people of Thiersee? 
 
 m.
 
 298 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 And what to one woman, who watched it from start to 
 finish, not only with her eyes, but with her whole heart ? 
 
 At the last moment, Mrs. Bowman and her son had 
 ridden over alone from Liebenegg, starting before sun- 
 rise in the chill of the early morning. Late on Satur- 
 day the Frau Professor had decided to go into Innsbruck 
 with her husband. And Miss Sparks went with them. 
 So only two people sat on the little green mound of turf 
 that had been reserved for them, facing the stage, on 
 the floor of the semicircular theater, a tall woman in 
 a riding-habit, with hair of a dull coppery gold, and a 
 delicate-looking boy, who seemed very uncomfortable in 
 his black coat and turned-down collar. Amidst the 
 company of peasants, in their brightly-colored clothes, 
 they were intensely conspicuous. But they did not 
 notice it. Nor did anyone notice them, after the Play 
 began. 
 
 It was half-past nine. The sun poured down over 
 the little amphitheater. But the stage, naturally defined 
 by the two tall pines with the green curtain spread be- 
 tween them, was largely in the shadow. For the leaves 
 were thick there, and only let gleams of sunlight through 
 upon the golden-flecked grass. 
 
 Kemember, it was a tiny place. There could not have 
 been more than two hundred people crowded together 
 in that small semicircle on the sloping side of the hill, 
 in whose flanks it lay. The green curtain, fading into 
 the green of the foliage, marked off a space scarcely 
 thirty feet wide. On either side of it one saw the other 
 trees; and between them, in the back-ground, the water 
 of the lake. 
 
 At last, Father Mathias appeared in his best cassock 
 and biretta. At his side was a very tall, very thin, very 
 red-nosed gentleman in the dark-blue uniform of the 
 Austrian civil functionaries, hitching up his sword with 
 one hand, and with the other clasping his cocked hat to 
 his bosom. He had no plume in his hat, because he 
 was not a very high official ; but he was the highest that 
 Father Mathias had been able to lay hold of. And be-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 299 
 
 hind him came a very wonderful personage indeed. A 
 large and imposing gentleman, all in shimmering scarlet, 
 with a ring on his finger, and no, not bells on his toes, 
 but what was much finer, a big golden cross on his 
 breast, and on top of his short, wiry, black hair a tiny 
 scarlet skull-cap. Everybody stood up ; and little John 
 Bowman, being a Protestant, and only used to bishops in 
 black magpies, peeped out in awe from beneath his 
 mother's arm, and wondered what part in the Play this 
 glorious person was to take. God Almighty, probably, 
 thought little John. 
 
 The Prince-Bishop and the thin official sat down on 
 two chairs, placed in the exact center of the theater, the 
 bishop 's chair being just a little bit in front of the other. 
 Then, everybody else sat down too, except Father Ma- 
 thias, who went forward and stood before the green 
 curtain. 
 
 "Your Grace, Herr Bezirks-Kommisar, and all our 
 kind friends," he began, "we have had a serious loss, 
 which is known, I am sure, to only a very few among 
 you. Our schoolmaster, who was to play the greatest 
 of all roles, has been taken ill. ' ' 
 
 "Ah, that's why I haven't seen him anywhere," said 
 Grace Bowman to herself. "He must be with the sick 
 schoolmaster. ' ' 
 
 "When she began to pay attention again, the priest 
 was saying 
 
 "As Your Grace knows, you who have but lately re- 
 turned from the City of the Catacombs, there is a very 
 old tradition for depicting Our Saviour as a beardless 
 man. All the early mosaics show Him thus ; and to make 
 an artificial type by the use of an artificial beard would 
 have done needless violence to our one principle of nat- 
 uralness and simplicity. I say this only for those who 
 come from a distance and who do not know Thiersee well. 
 To those of you who have lived in our midst during the 
 last six months there will be nothing strange in this pic- 
 ture of a beardless Christ. For, I say it reverently 
 it is a face that has looked on you all with love and de- 
 votion; lips that have spoken to you tidings of good
 
 300 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 cheer; and arms that have upheld many of you in the 
 hour of your greatest need." 
 
 His voice trembled a little. Then he went on 
 
 "You must pardon us if, because of all this, our 'Mys- 
 tery' does not move quite so smoothly as usual. I my- 
 self must play both Pilate and the 'cello." 
 
 He spread his fat little hands appealingly abroad, and 
 bowed to the Prince-Bishop. 
 
 1 ' Your Grace, have we your permission to begin ? ' ' 
 
 Grace Bowman 's eyes were fixed on the green curtains 
 that waved slightly as Father Mathias disappeared be- 
 hind them. She knew now what was coming. It seemed 
 as if she had always known that thus it must be. 
 
 From somewhere among the trees a few chords were 
 struck on a piano. Then a 'cello began to play, and it 
 played "ADESTE FIDELES." 
 
 At the last notes of the hymn the curtains parted, just 
 enough to let a small form pass through, a red-haired 
 boy, who limped a little, dressed in a spotless white alb, 
 with crossed white stole, and in his hand the white wand 
 of a herald. 
 
 With his free hand he held back a fold of the curtain, 
 and his fresh young voice rang out 
 
 "Fair gentles all, here shall ye see 
 Of Christ's dear life a Mystery; 
 How long ago our earth He trod, 
 A man like us, and yet a God ; 
 Of how on shameful Cross He died 
 For us, at that first Eastertide, 
 Of how He rose and went away, 
 To come once more at the last day." 
 
 The Herald paused and took a step forward 
 
 "Yet not with pomp of worldly stage 
 Would we your earnest thoughts engage. 
 We cannot bring to please you now 
 The arts of Oberammergau, 
 With costly costumes, posturings, 
 Until withdrawn from earthly things, 
 Ye hear the sweep of angels' wings."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 301 
 
 He stretched out both hands as if to include everyone 
 around him 
 
 "We're simple folk; we look to you 
 To lend your grace to all we do; 
 With gold our dross to overlay, 
 And so with glory deck our play." 
 
 Stepping out still farther into the sunlit amphitheater, 
 he made a bow towards the thin official with the red 
 rose 
 
 "Thou, in whose hands our Sovereign lays 
 His civil powers, be kind and praise." 
 
 Then, advancing to the side of the Prince-Bishop's 
 chair, he dropped on one knee, and bent his head 
 
 "And thou, dread Prince and Pontiff, see, 
 With folded hands and bended knee; 
 We beg Thy blessing reverently." 
 
 "Whatever else the Bishop of Brixen may be (and he 
 is all things to all men), he is a great prince and a 
 greater gentleman. As he laid his hand on the bended 
 head, he leaned forward and helped the Herald to his 
 feet, for he saw that the child was lame. 
 
 Toni drew back towards the curtain 
 
 "And ye, good people, row on row, 
 One thing I pray ye ere I go. 
 Let no applause or loud acclaim 
 Bring to our cheeks the blush of shame, 
 So when my herald's voice shall cease, 
 I beg ye humbly hold your peace. 
 In silence, hear our Mystery. 
 And, if it please ye presently, 
 I pray ye, hold your peace again." 
 
 He cast his great gray eyes heavenward, and slowly 
 made the sign of the cross 
 
 "And so, God bless us all. Amen." 
 
 The last word was like a sigh, almost too soft to be 
 heard, vibrating gently into silence on the summer air.
 
 302 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Before it died away the Herald had disappeared. 
 
 The curtains parted, vanishing completely, as if rolled 
 up inside the trunks of the two great supporting pines. 
 The whole outlook was free now. Yet one saw nothing 
 except the trees, the lake, and three or four boats pulled 
 up on the shore. 
 
 Fishermen came down with their mended nets old 
 Zebedee among them. They were waiting for Peter and 
 John, who had gone off to Capernaum. Then the two 
 missing ones appeared, overflowing with excitement. 
 They had been with the new Rabbi, the Messiah; they 
 had seen him heal a leper, and had been promised high 
 places in His Kingdom as fishers of men. But the 
 others laughed at them. Would the Messiah, when he 
 came, choose poor unlearned men for his companions? 
 
 Troubled by this carping criticism, the enthusiasm of 
 Peter and John began to cool. Now that they were back 
 among their customary surroundings, they were not so 
 sure about the Messiah. Old Zebedee spat on his finger 
 and held it up to catch the direction of the breeze. ' ' A 
 fair wind," he said. ''I go a-fishing. Messiah or no 
 Messiah, a man must eat his bread in the sweat of his 
 brow." The others followed him down to the boats. 
 The new Rabbi and his call were forgotten. 
 
 And then and then, across the foreground, a figure 
 passed. A man in a loose white garment, that seemed 
 only to accentuate the supple, unseen strength of his 
 body; a man, who walked with head thrown back and 
 arms extended, as if drinking in the glory of the summer 
 day, as if his heart were alive and in tune to every sound 
 and movement of life in the world around him. As he 
 reached the center he turned, gazing down at the busy 
 fishermen. First one man looked up, then another. 
 Then came Peter's cry: "Depart from me, for I am 
 a sinful man, Lord." But the figure did not move. 
 And it seemed to draw the hesitating men within the 
 circle of its influence, until John, his hands outstretched 
 before him, broke into a run, and fell at his Master's 
 feet. 
 
 All except old Zebedee. He stood beside his boat, un-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 303 
 
 moved, doubting, querulous. "We have toiled all 
 night," he said. "All night. And have caught noth- 
 ing." 
 
 "CAST OUT INTO THE DEEP, AND YE SHALL FIND. 
 OUT INTO THE DEEP." 
 
 It was the first time that Grace Bowman had heard 
 his voice at its full power. And it thrilled her so that 
 she covered her face with her hands, fearing lest other- 
 wise she too should be drawn towards him, to kneel at 
 his feet, to hold him fast and not to let him go. 
 
 All through the rest of that morning, as scene fol- 
 lowed scene, fashioned out of the Gospel story, or created 
 by the free imagination of a poet-priest, she seldom dared 
 to lift her eyes. But what he was trying to say and to 
 give reached her with every word. The wonder of Life, 
 its glory ; Life, more Life, in spite of its apparent cruelty 
 and pain, because pain was conquered, or nearly, and 
 sin was nothing but an evil dream. 
 
 "I AM COME THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE LIFE." 
 
 In the pauses between the scenes she seemed to hear 
 his voice repeating those words again and again 
 
 "THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE LIFE." 
 
 Three or four of those pictures stood out preeminently 
 in her memory in after years. The rest was a blur. 
 The tension was too great. 
 
 First, there was that scene with the children. 
 
 He had come, with his disciples, tired from a long 
 journey and at the end of his strength. He and his 
 little company had sat down to rest beneath a tree. 
 Near by, children were playing. The ordinary children 
 of Thiersee in their everyday clothes. Some were play- 
 ing at marbles, the girls at a sort of prisoner 's-base ; and 
 the bigger boys were spinning tops. The weary white 
 figure sat there in silence, leaning against the tree, watch- 
 ing the noisy children. 
 
 Gradually their voices grew less shrill. But they
 
 304 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 played on. One or two of the littlest ones stopped and 
 stood in a row, watching the tired stranger. Then 
 others came and joined the group. He drew them 
 towards him. They could not stay away. Only six of 
 the bigger, rougher boys kept on at their tops, till one 
 of them, coming up to him with the loutish rudeness of 
 youth that is never meant to be rude, demanded "Ein 
 Kreutzer zum Heraushacken. ' ' x 
 
 The stranger smiled. He searched vainly in his own 
 girdle. Then he turned to Judas with out-stretched 
 hand. Slowly, unwillingly, Judas gave up the thin, 
 common purse of the little company. He said some- 
 thing in an angry undertone, and glared with sullen 
 enmity at the silent group. For the older boys had left 
 their tops to join it now. 
 
 The stranger turned away from Judas towards the 
 children. He did not open his arms. He merely in- 
 dicated the gesture. 
 
 The whole group of silent children moved a step 
 nearer. 
 
 One of the littlest ones tripped and fell. He put out 
 his hand, helped the child up, and drew it within his 
 encircling embrace. 
 
 "SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME. FOR- 
 BID THEM NOT." 
 
 His voice deepened abruptly to a low resonant note of 
 pain and almost broke. 
 
 "What was the matter? 
 
 During the last few moments the 'cello had been play- 
 ing softly a melody that she seemed to know. As the 
 sound of his voice died away, she recognized it. She 
 could see John, her boy, as he stood beside her at the 
 piano, for the first time that he was old enough to sing, 
 
 i In Tyrol it is the custom for boys, who are spinning tops, to 
 ask any passing stranger for "Ein Kreutzer zum Heraushacken." 
 The copper coin is put into a circle marked on the ground, and 
 the boy who can hit it with his spinning-top and knock it out of 
 the circle, may keep it.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 305 
 
 and could hear his uncertain little treble quavering out 
 against the deeper notes of his father 's baritone 
 
 "Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, 
 Bless Thy little lamb to-night; 
 Through the darkness be Thou near me, 
 Keep me safe till morning light." 
 
 She looked at the stage again. The children had 
 drawn close around him. He was telling them a story. 
 Above their heads his eyes met hers. 
 
 She broke down and cried, her body shaken with the 
 sobs that she could not control. 
 
 "Mammy, dear mammy, what's the matter?" said 
 little John's voice at her shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, nobody ought to have to suffer so," she sobbed. 
 "It isn't fair." 
 
 But little John did not understand. 
 
 "But, mammy dear," he whispered ''He had to suf- 
 fer, you know. It says so in the Bible. And it was for 
 us."' 
 
 Yes, that was true, she thought. He had had to suf- 
 fer. And it was for her for her to make amends. 
 
 ' ' God, God, ' ' she prayed. ' ' Let me help him. Let 
 nothing ever come between me and that." 
 
 Gradually the storm of weeping passed. It left her 
 weak and trembling, but it had purged the tenement of 
 her soul, so that she saw clearer and further than ever 
 in her life before. 
 
 When she began to follow the Play again, the Passion 
 had begun. Christ was in Gethsemane. At his feet lay 
 Peter and John. Peter was fast asleep ; John had begun 
 to nod. At last he rested his head on the Master's knee 
 and slept also. Gently the Master moved away, softly, 
 slowly, rolling up his mantle and slipping it beneath 
 the weary head of his slumbering disciple. Alone now, 
 he moved to the back of the stage, towards the lake. 
 
 Then suddenly, with outstretched arms, he fell for- 
 ward on his face. A man, beaten to the ground by some 
 inner bitterness of impending struggle and possible de-
 
 306 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 feat. Only his hands moved, the outstretched hands, 
 that clutched at the grass with nervous twitching fingers. 
 
 But slowly a change came. The fingers ceased to 
 twitch; they grew strong and dug themselves into the 
 ground, seeking a hold there. The tension ran up the 
 nerveless arms till all the muscles quivered. And grad- 
 ually, on his arms, the fallen man raised himself. Little 
 by little, as the newly-born impact of his will brought 
 muscle after muscle into play, he rose, and stood up- 
 right. 
 
 The moment of weakness was past. The struggle had 
 been fought out, as all great spiritual battles must be 
 fought, alone. There had been no presences of minis- 
 tering angels, no assurance of help from an answering 
 heaven ; yet this man, whom Life had stricken down with 
 his face to the ground, alone and seemingly at the end of 
 his courage, had drawn on some reserve force, some secret 
 spring, hidden and perhaps even to himself unknown, 
 that had given him new strength. And Life the Life 
 that had cast him down, flowed through him once more. 
 He stood upright, to look Life in the face. 
 
 And as he stood there, one hand on his hip, the other 
 arm thrown slightly back as if challenging some last 
 onslaught of an unseen enemy, an enemy that dne felt 
 was slinking defeated away, he seemed to her the preg- 
 nant expression of all those brave souls that had, in their 
 darkest hour, wrung victory from themselves in the very 
 jaws of defeat: the unknown conquerors in all the un- 
 seen, unrecorded struggles of the soul of man at grips 
 with the tyranny of material things. 
 
 His back was towards her. Perhaps in this simple 
 expedient lay the force of his acting ; for when one saw 
 his face, he did not speak ; when one heard his voice, his 
 face was hidden. 
 
 And so he neither heard nor saw the approach of a lit- 
 tle band of soldiers. Somehow it did not seem incon- 
 gruous that they were all dressed in the uniform of the 
 Austrian infantry. Nor that their leader, Longinus, the 
 centurion, wore the stripes of a corporal. It was not the 
 representation of some scene that had taken place long
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 307 
 
 ago in a far-off Jewish land, among strange people and 
 their strange habits of dress and speech, all dead long 
 since. It was a living picture of something real, of 
 something that could never die. 
 
 The little group of soldiers crept on. Then their 
 leader pushed a man forward. The man's face was hid- 
 den in his mantle. With an unspoken question the cen- 
 turion pointed to the sleeping disciples. The muffled 
 figure shook his head. And then, warily, like a cat step- 
 ping high across the grass, the Betrayer came. 
 
 He stood close behind the Master. And one knew, 
 by some change in the attitude of that tense body, that 
 it had recognized the nearness of a friend. It turned 
 quickly; the hands shot out in welcome. They flew up 
 to the new-comer's shoulders, drew back the cloak from 
 his muffled eyes. And, at the sight of the well-known 
 face, as if he had long missed it from his company and 
 wondered at its absence, his stern lips parted in a smile. 
 
 "FRIEND, FRIEND," the word was like a caress, 
 "WHEREFORE ART THOU COME?" 
 
 'Judas bent down and lifted his Master's hand to his 
 lips. 
 
 As he leaned forward the glance of the other passed 
 over his bowed head and caught sight of the waiting 
 group of soldiers, straining like dogs on the leash, ready 
 to spring. 
 
 He saw; he understood. For an instant his eyes 
 blazed as if he were about to summon from heaven le- 
 gions of protecting angels. Then his glance fell again 
 on the head of his friend, still bowed over his hand. 
 Gently he drew his hands away; more gently still he 
 lifted Judas' face, one hand beneath his chin, until it 
 was level with his own. And he looked for one long 
 moment into the betrayer's eyes, as if he saw there the 
 beginnings of their friendship, their hours of happy 
 intercourse, their long nights, side by side, sleeping out 
 under the stars beside the Sea of Galilee. Then he 
 spoke, with such a weight of sadness, that the Prince-
 
 308 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 Bishop put his hand on his glittering episcopal cross and 
 strained so suddenly on its golden chain that two of the 
 links sprang asunder. 
 
 "JUDAS, BETKAYEST THOU THE SON OF MAN, 
 AND WITH A KISS?" 
 
 His body, a moment before so superbly defiant in its 
 supple strength, seemed to waver, to break. The soldiers 
 dashed forward, as if the fear that had held them in 
 leash had been suddenly lifted. For the man whom they 
 had come to take seemed already taken. He, who had 
 come forth victorious from the battle of his own soul, 
 was broken by the one thing he could neither forgive 
 nor understand, by the disloyalty of a trusted friend, by 
 the betrayal of his love. 
 
 During all this scene her eyes had never left him for 
 an instant. And yet she never knew that he was play- 
 ing it for her ; for her, the friend whom he had trusted, 
 and who had come spying upon the most secret struggles 
 of his being, who had not betrayed him, but who had 
 let him betray himself. 
 
 And now Christ was being dragged before Pilate. 
 They had stripped him of his white mantle. His hands 
 were bound behind him, his face streaked with dust and 
 blood, his single garment torn. Yet he stood there like 
 a god. A man crushed beneath the wheel of misfor- 
 tune, who will not yield. And Pilate asked, putting 
 something of real scorn into his voice, a glorious voice 
 it was too, smooth, cultivated, well rounded in every 
 tone, like the voice of absolute unquestioned authority, 
 
 "ART THOU A KING, THEN? THOU! A KING?" 
 
 The bound prisoner threw up his head. With that 
 one gesture he seemed to shake off his bonds, his weari- 
 ness, his pain and humiliation. 
 
 "THOU SAYEST THAT I AM A KING. TO THIS END WAS 
 I BORN, AND FOR THIS CAME I INTO THE WORLD, 
 THAT I MIGHT BEAR WITNESS TO THE TRUTH."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 309 
 
 A king! In spite of his weakness, with everything 
 against him, with no single friend to stand at his side; 
 outcast, but a king still. 
 
 And she saw them all, those kings who, in the face of 
 failure and disavowal, had still borne witness to the 
 truth. The men who had stood up boldly in the face of 
 all the world, and whom the world had cast out, laughed 
 at, rolled in the mire, and then asked, "Art thou a king, 
 then?" And always had come the same answer what 
 matter the form of words? what matter if it had been 
 spoken by Galileo or Giordino Bruno, by Semmelweis, 
 by Leonardo da Vinci, by Strindberg or Nietzsche? 
 the same proud answer, ' ' Thou sayest that I am a king. ' ' 
 
 This scene brought her peace. She knew what he had 
 meant to tell her, to tell everyone. That a man may be 
 bent, never broken ; that even in the face of disaster, dis- 
 loyalty, and death, he can throw back his head and pro- 
 claim his kingship over his own soul, content, in spite 
 of his loneliness and pain, because he has borne his wit- 
 ness to the truth. 
 
 The other parts of the Passion she did not look at. 
 To her the cross was a felon's death, a shameful thing. 
 She could not think of him in connection with it at all. 
 Even when the curtain parted on the brief scene that 
 showed the Crucifixion, she did not raise her eyes. She 
 had been once at Oberammergau and remembered but 
 too well how this very scene had jarred, because the 
 Christus had worn pink tights with very visible folds and 
 creases. She dreaded something of the kind now. She 
 did not guess that Edwards had hidden away the tights 
 in which Joncke had played the Sunday before. 
 
 ' ' Oh, mammy, do look, ' ' said little John 's voice. 
 
 'There were the three crosses. On the one in the cen- 
 ter hung the body of of the man she loved. She knew 
 she loved him now beyond all power to say. He was 
 naked save for a tattered loin-cloth. The muscles of 
 arms, legs, and neck stood out like whip-cords. 
 
 She understood the difficulty of holding that position ; 
 for his only support was the iron step concealed under 
 his right foot and the grip of his fingers on the nails.
 
 310 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 She realized, too, that therefore the scene must be short. 
 And of that she was glad. 
 
 About the cross were grouped in a moving, hurrying 
 crowd almost all the actors in the play. The soldiers, 
 the disciples, the Jews, and the laughing, shouting crowd 
 of children; the same noisy crowd that had gathered 
 about the Christ as he sat tired by the wayside. They 
 had been drawn to him then in silence and love. They 
 were drawn to him now, but with that thoughtless joy- 
 ous cruelty which is an integral part of youth. The 
 six or seven rougher older boys took hands and danced 
 around the cross, singing, jodling, shouting. 
 
 "Come down, if you can, and play with us. 
 Come down, if you can. Come down." 
 
 From where he hung his eyes were watching them. 
 And as she looked, it seemed to her as if he, high up 
 there, had a new vision, a new insight into something 
 that had long troubled him, into the unconscious cru- 
 elty of life. From the ant that stings its prey only so 
 that its muscles may be paralyzed and yet the body live 
 on, to be slowly devoured by the brood of its tormentor ; 
 from the terrors of the mouse in the cat 's paw, from the 
 wounded deer dragging its broken foot, seeking shelter 
 to die alone ; to the heartlessness of man, the little chil- 
 dren sweating in tenements or factories, women forced 
 to sell the one thing that is above price, and men with 
 strong willing arms who wander about looking for work 
 and finding none. Into all this those eyes on the cross 
 seemed to look, as they gazed down into the faces of the 
 dancing children. These children, who knew him as he 
 really was, whom he had nursed in sickness, who even in 
 this play of make-believe had a few moments ago 
 crowded around his knees as around the Good Shepherd. 
 And now they were shouting taunts at him, laughing, 
 making of him a jest because he was helpless, because 
 they knew well enough that he could not ' ' come down. ' ' 
 
 But they did not mean it. Life did not mean it either. 
 That was the secret of it all. Really they did not mean 
 to be cruel, to hurt him so.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 311 
 
 "FORGIVE THEM," he cried. "THEY KNOW NOT WHAT 
 THEY DO." 
 
 The other words were quickly spoken; the scene had 
 to move rapidly. He commended his mother to the 
 disciple who stood beneath his cross. Then the thief 
 spoke, and received his promise. 
 
 "Mammy," said little John, his mouth close to his 
 mother's ear, "I like that best of all. He's had a hard 
 time, that poor thief. But he'll be glad, won't he, to be 
 in Paradise, with him." 
 
 During the long morning a wind had risen. And as 
 had been the case in the past few days, masses of dark 
 clouds came sailing across the sky, blotting out the sun, 
 and as suddenly passing away again. Now for the last 
 few moments there had been little light; the shadows 
 were deep under the trees. Night seemed coming on. 
 
 With the growing darkness there came a pause in the 
 scene that was being enacted on the tiny stage; the 
 anxious pause that comes when something has gone 
 wrong, when someone has forgotten his lines, or an im- 
 portant actor fails to make his entrance at the proper 
 moment. 
 
 St. John stepped from the side of the Blessed Mother, 
 whom he had been holding in his arms. His eyes were 
 fixed on the swaying silent man, stretched out on the 
 cross. Longinus, too, with his sponge ready on the reed, 
 pressed nearer. 
 
 The circle of dancing children stopped, then broke. 
 The crowd of Jews and soldiers ceased to move. 
 
 And all stared up at the figure, high above their 
 heads. 
 
 Someone, it was St. John, called out 
 
 "Quick, get the ladder. Quick !" 
 
 At that moment the clouds passed from before the sun ; 
 the whole scene was flooded with brilliant dazzling light. 
 
 The man on the cross raised his head. The eyes stared 
 straight into the sun; the stiffened muscles seemed to 
 relax in the warmth of its rays as though refreshed and 
 made whole. The hands loosened their grasp on the
 
 312 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 nails; the arms strained back for an instant, as if to 
 welcome the stream of unending life that bathed and 
 wrapped him round. Then, with nothing to support him 
 except the hidden iron step beneath his right foot, he 
 stretched out both his arms in rapturous salutation. 
 
 "Mr GOD!" he cried. "MY GOD " 
 
 'And then he pitched forward and fell.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 EDWARDS fell into Franzl's outstretched arms. 
 
 A few seconds later he opened his eyes. 
 
 "Tell the people not to go," he whispered to Father 
 Mathias, who was bending over him. "Say I'll be able 
 to finish it if they'll wait a few minutes. There are 
 only three or four scenes more. Hurry. Don't worry 
 about me. I'm all right." 
 
 He let his heavy eyelids close, and lay back against 
 Franzl's shoulder. He was glad to feel the solid earth 
 beneath him again. He had not realized what it meant 
 to hang up there, so far above people 's heads, even for a 
 few minutes. He had begun to grow giddy almost at 
 once. The crowd below him had looked so strangely 
 foreshortened. And then the children,' they had made 
 his heart ache. He had felt cold after that. Life and 
 strength seemed to be ebbing from him. And he had 
 suddenly had that dreaded taste in his mouth. Then the 
 sun had come out. That had been so glorious. A great 
 wave of warmth and vital power had swept over him; 
 he had seemed to see into the very heart of all the pul- 
 sating life of the world. How could he play a dying 
 man in the face of .that? He wanted to love, to live. 
 Lucky that he had fallen. 
 
 He put his hand to his lips. Then, holding up his 
 fingers, he slowly reopened his eyes. 
 
 He wiped his mouth once more with the back of his 
 hand. 
 
 Where was the blood? Up there, on the cross, it 
 seemed as if his heart had burst and had deluged his 
 body with it. 
 
 "But it is impossible. He must not go on." 
 
 He heard her voice; her step. Now she was kneeling 
 at his side. 
 
 313
 
 314 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Move away, please," she said to Franzl. "I'll hold 
 him." 
 
 Edwards clung fast to Franzl's arm. He knew that 
 if she once took Franzl's place he was lost. In spite of 
 her deceit and all, lost irrevocably. 
 
 "No, no," he said. "Please not. I'm quite right 
 again. It was only an instant's giddiness. I've never 
 been up there before, you know." He nodded towards 
 the cross that some of the players had begun to carry 
 away. "Franzl, help me." 
 
 He was on his feet now. He tossed aside the mantle 
 that Franzl had thrown about his naked body, and be- 
 gan to test his joints and muscles. 
 
 "I've bruised my shoulder," he said. "Otherwise 
 I'm quite fit." 
 
 "What's this?" 
 
 Her hand shot out, caught him by the wrist, and she 
 pointed to the tell-tale circles of inflamed red that spread 
 beneath the skin of his upper arm. He shrugged his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "I knew you were keeping something back," she said. 
 "That you hadn't told me all." 
 
 Franzl had brought him his white under-tunic. She 
 started forward to help him dress, but he moved away. 
 
 "It seems to me that I told you about enough, Mrs. 
 Bowman. You managed it very well. But what a con- 
 ceited ass you must have thought me that afternoon at 
 Liebenegg ! ' ' His drawn face flushed to the eyes. * ' You 
 might have spared me that." 
 
 "But don't you understand?" she protested. "I was 
 jealous of of that other woman, whose letters you kept. 
 And then I found that I had been jealous of my own 
 self." 
 
 "It must have made you smile." 
 
 He had finished dressing. 
 
 "We'll go on with the Play now, if you don't mind. 
 I hope it has interested you." 
 
 "Shall I see you afterwards?" 
 
 "I had rather you didn't. I have such a lot to do 
 to-day."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 315 
 
 "And when will you come over to Liebenegg?" 
 
 "When I can." 
 
 "I'll write. I couldn't before. Besides, you would 
 have recognized my handwriting." 
 
 "And then, of course, I'd have stopped telling you 
 things. Really, I'm afraid you'll have to go now." 
 
 She went back to her place puzzled, disappointed. 
 He knew now who she was. That was evident. But 
 had he not always known? She had supposed that he 
 had kept up the fiction of "Miss Sparks," partly because 
 it amused him, and partly because it made their inter- 
 course easier. No man of his age and experience could 
 actually have been deceived for so long. So she had 
 thought at first. Of late, however, it had sometimes 
 been borne in upon her that Edwards, like a child, might 
 have turned a fairy tale into a "real true story." A 
 hundred times she had been on the point of setting things 
 straight, and had been glad when old Professor Schroe- 
 der told her that he had unwittingly saved her the 
 trouble. 
 
 What was the matter, then? No doubt it was merely 
 because of the Play. He was utterly absorbed in his 
 part ; she had intruded into its atmosphere, and he had 
 resented it. Then she remembered the little red circles 
 on his arm, and a chill of apprehension ran over 
 her. 
 
 "Did he hurt himself, mammy?" asked little 'John. 
 
 She put her arms about the boy and pressed him close 
 to her. 
 
 "Not so very much. But he'll go on hurting himself 
 a great deal worse if somebody doesn't stop him." 
 
 "Couldn't we do it, mammy? Let's try." 
 
 The rest of the play did not interest her. To her 
 Edwards was the Man ; he had nothing about him of the 
 Eisen God. Yet in the last scene of all, on the shore of 
 Lake Gennesaret, she found the Man again. 
 
 The fishermen, back in their old familiar surround- 
 ings by the Sea of Galilee, saddened by the tragedy of 
 Good Friday, and not yet sure of the Master's resurrec-
 
 316 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 tion, had put out on the water to fish. Now they were 
 returning. One saw the three boats coming slowly in. 
 
 Suddenly on the shore stood a white mysterious figure. 
 Even the head and hands were hidden in the thick folds 
 of the soft white mantle. And its voice called out across 
 the water 
 
 "CHILDREN, HAVE YE ANY MEAT?" 
 
 Then the simple scene played itself out, there on the 
 lake shore. The cry from John's heart, ''It is the 
 Lord. ' ' And the gaunt form of Peter leaping overboard 
 and rushing through the shallows to fall at the feet of 
 his risen Master. 
 
 They sat about the little fire of coals, a man in white, 
 eating with his friends. Nothing could have been 
 simpler. And yet a wonderful sense of peace lay over 
 it all. A sense of completeness and finality. 
 
 At last the meal ended. The figure in white lifted 
 St. John's head that lay upon his breast, freed himself 
 slowly from the disciple's encircling arms; gave his 
 hand to Peter, then to the others. They dropped on 
 their knees. Only John followed him a little way, as 
 if unable to let him go. But soon he, too, stood still. 
 
 The white figure moved off among the dim silent trees. 
 It seemed as if it had already vanished, when there came 
 a quick gleam of white from one of the heaviest shadows. 
 And then, his voice 
 
 "WORK, WHILE IT IS YET DAY. THE NIGHT 
 
 COMETH WHEN NO MAN CAN WORK. THE 
 
 NIGHT COMETH. 
 
 WORK." 
 
 He disappeared. And as the curtains closed the little 
 limping Herald, with the sun shining on his red hair, 
 stepped forward, holding back for an instant the falling 
 folds 
 
 "Our play is done, we'd thank you all, 
 Before these parted curtains fall. 
 May He, whose form you here have seen 
 Moving across our stage of green,
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 317 
 
 Be with you ever, till at last, 
 
 When sorrow's done and death's o'erpassed, 
 
 We see His glorious face again. 
 
 And so " 
 
 He slowly signed himself, forehead to breast, shoulder 
 to shoulder 
 
 " God bless us all. Amen." 
 
 And once more this last word was breathed so softly 
 that it hovered like a departing swallow in the summer 
 air, then sank into silence. 
 
 The Play was over.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 EDWARDS spent most of that night packing. 
 
 After an early breakfast, he started for Kuf stein with 
 Joncke. The Biirgermeister had lent them his wagon 
 with the two big white horses. 
 
 Joncke 's bag and his own had been tossed in, and Toni, 
 who was to drive them, was already throning it proudly 
 on the front seat, when Edwards' anxiety to be gone 
 was suddenly cooled by the thought that he was behaving 
 but shabbily to his best friend. 
 
 " Drive round by the lake," he said to Toni. "I want 
 to stop for a minute at the ' Widum. ' ' 
 
 At the gate of the churchyard Edwards espied Father 
 Mathias walking up and down while he made his Prepa- 
 ration for mass. They had had no chance to talk to- 
 gether the evening before. The Prince-Bishop had been 
 there; he had stayed at the "Widum" overnight, and 
 Edwards had fled from what he knew must prove a try- 
 ing interview. But the parish priest had been so kind : 
 him he could not leave without a word of farewell. 
 
 He jumped out of the wagon. 
 
 "I've only a moment," he said, as Father Mathias 
 came forward to meet him. "We must try to catch the 
 afternoon train for Innsbruck. I was going to write 
 from there; but it didn't seem fair to go like that. I 
 shall never forget you, Father. Good-by." 
 
 "But you'll be back in a day or so, then we can 
 talk." 
 
 " I 'm not coming back, ' ' Edwards interrupted. " It 's 
 no use trying to get a word in edgewise, Hochwiirden, 
 because I won't let you. I Ve got to drop out. It's the 
 only way. As soon as I have a permanent address to 
 give, I'll ask you to send on the things I've left behind. 
 Where to? I don't know yet. I've a notion to try Al- 
 
 318
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 319 
 
 bania. They'll be needing doctors any kind of doc- 
 tors, I'm thinking, after the war. Perhaps, later, I 
 can put in a year at some German university and finish 
 the work for my European degree. No, really, it's the 
 only solution possible. I can't go into all the details. 
 And no, I will not let you say anything. But you've 
 guessed how things stand between me and and her. 
 Or rather, you haven't guessed. She didn't treat me 
 quite fairly. It isn't that, though. When you care for 
 anyone, you don't mind how you came to care. But 
 I'm not sound physically, and I won't burden a fine 
 creature like her with another sick man. I want to 
 bring life to the people I love; not disease perhaps 
 death. No, I will not let you reason with me. If you 
 
 like, remember me at mass sometimes. I'll write 
 
 Good-by." 
 
 He dashed back to the wagon, jumped in beside Joncke, 
 who sat as motionless as a graven image, and told Toni 
 to drive on. 
 
 Father Mathias did not wait to watch them go. He 
 let his Breviary fall to the ground and toddled into the 
 "Widum" as fast as his short fat legs would carry him. 
 Ten minutes later he seized forcibly upon Franzl, as the 
 young man passed the church gate on his way to the 
 fields. 
 
 "Might as well leave that pitchfork here," he said, 
 "for you'll do no work in the fields this day." 
 
 Then he spoke to him with such weight of authority, 
 threatening such terrific punishments in this world and 
 the next if Franzl did not carry out his instructions 
 properly, that the poor lad began to tremble for his 
 eternal salvation. 
 
 "Take thy father's other horse," the priest said, as 
 Franzl still lingered. "Don't spare it. And when thou 
 art come to Liebenegg, give this letter into her hand, 
 and into no one else 's. ' If she be not there, ride till thou 
 find her. Now, be off!" 
 
 He pushed the astonished Franzl through the gate. 
 Then, as he took up the pitchfork that the young 
 man had dropped and hid it carefully behind the door
 
 320 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 of the church, he muttered to himself in his strange 
 English 
 
 ' ' Give her up, will he ? O God ! Sacrifice himself for 
 an idiotic ideal, indeed ! Oh, damn it all, no, no, no ! " 
 
 And he went, still muttering, in to mass. 
 
 Meanwhile Edwards and his two companions were 
 driving slowly up the hill that leads through the village, 
 past the schoolhouse, and so out of the valley on to the 
 Kufstein road. If you look back while you take that 
 steep incline, you can see the whole of Thiersee gradu- 
 ally spread itself out below you. But Edwards stared 
 straight ahead. He felt, rather than saw, as they passed 
 Kassian's house, where the glittering pans hung out in 
 the sun and the tidy boxes of flowers and herbs on the 
 ledge of the spotlessly clean windows all bore witness to 
 Rosine's careful housewifery. Then came the school- 
 house. A few desolate-looking children, who had not 
 heard of Joncke 's illness, were hanging about the garden. 
 Frau Speckbacher came out and sent them away. 
 Higher up on the hill was the carpenter's shop. 
 Strumpl-Jonas was at work, setting out a new pine cof- 
 fin smeared with fresh pitch to dry in the sun. .Ed- 
 wards returned his greeting gravely. Here he had been 
 measured for his coffin : his name must be there still on 
 the jamb of the door. 
 
 At the top of the incline, where the road curves in- 
 wards, Toni pulled up his horses for a rest. But Ed- 
 wards urged him on; for here stood the little wayside 
 shrine, with its dusty painting of the Crucifixion behind 
 the iron bars. Here was the bench where Kassian had 
 slumbered when he came out to welcome his "Herr Dok- 
 tor" to Thiersee. And here he had sat with her on that 
 Sunday noon when they had lunched together, and she 
 had almost slipped to her death down the hill. There 
 were the old "Marteln," the battered signboards with 
 their quaint rhymes about the people who had met sud- 
 den destruction at this sharp turn of the road. The 
 summer sun was streaming over it all, unchanged. And 
 he was leaving it, never to see it again. 
 
 ''Dear me," he said aloud, "what a lot of places there
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 321 
 
 are getting to be in the world that I shall never see 
 again ! But the earth is big ; she said so. And a man 
 can't live forever." 
 
 Down the road, walking very slowly and wheezing 
 like a steam-engine, came the Gipfl-Marie. When she 
 saw Edwards she tried to hurry past, but he stopped her. 
 
 ' ' You ought not to be over-exerting yourself like this, ' ' 
 he said. "Where have you been? Out with it." 
 
 She had been had been only the Herr Doktor must 
 not be angry, to the house of the Herr Benefiziat to 
 get a new cure for her asthma. He was so old, so wise ; 
 he knew so many good herbs ; and her breathing had been 
 bad again since the Play yesterday. And the Herr Dok- 
 tor was going away ; she didn 't know for how long. 
 
 "It's a comfort to feel that you'll all be well cared 
 for when I'm not here," Edwards said. "But what are 
 you doing on the top of this hill ? ' ' 
 
 Oh, that was part of the medicine. She had to make 
 a pilgrimage twice a-day for a month to this shrine, and 
 say two Rosaries each time. And then she was to drink 
 Lourdes water, mixed with some kind of a gum. It 
 was a good gum; it came from the pine-trees. You 
 melted the rest of it, and rubbed it into your throat 
 while you said the "Salve Eegina," two Paters, and 
 seven Aves. 
 
 Edwards left her at the shrine utterly absorbed in 
 her devotions. Her breathing seemed worse than ever, 
 but apparently she did not notice it. 
 
 So no one would miss him, not even his patients. 
 The old quack that strange, silent, tottering old man 
 would take his place. The people would flock to him, as 
 they had used to do, and perhaps be healed. 
 
 But one last disappointment was still in store for him. 
 
 As the wagon rounded the curve where the road runs 
 along the open pasture with its solitary tall pine-tree 
 the tree where he had first met Nani and Franzl he be- 
 gan to whistle the first bars of the song they had so 
 often sung together, the song that the young men sing 
 under the girls ' windows on their way home from the inn 
 on Sunday nights in summer.
 
 322 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 No answer came. He had expected none; for since 
 Nani's accident another girl had driven the cows up 
 here to graze. The cows were there now, placidly nosing 
 the green grass. He also caught sight of a figure in a 
 flowered bodice sitting under the tree, a stranger from 
 one of the neighboring valleys, who did not even know 
 him by sight. 
 
 As they drove along he heard a crackling in the 
 bushes, and out of the wood beyond the meadow stepped 
 a young man. Not Franzl, but one of the infantrymen 
 who had stood beside him as his Roman guard in yester- 
 day's Play. He was out of uniform now for the first 
 time for months, and came swinging contentedly across 
 the meadow-grass, the tight leathern breeches and cling- 
 ing white shirt outlining the interplay of his healthy 
 muscles. He jodled softly; the girl beneath the tree 
 stood up and came to meet him. 
 
 He slipped one arm round her waist, and with their 
 heads close together they walked back to the shadow of 
 the tree. 
 
 Two people whom Edwards did not know, in the old 
 familiar places, composing out of strange units the old 
 well-remembered picture. 
 
 That was life. He, the individual, came and went 
 unnoticed. But this this mating of two lives that new 
 life might live, this was there always; had been there 
 before the Romans came; would be there still, when 
 Austria was but a name or a hazy memory. Into the 
 life of this valley he had come for a time, as a man is 
 born into the world. And now he was going out of it 
 again. But it paid no heed ; it went on its way as it had 
 always gone, as it would ever go. 
 
 "Whip up, Toni," he said. "We mustn't dawdle 
 along too slowly." 
 
 Then he moved closer to Joncke, who sat at his side, 
 tense and motionless. 
 
 "How are you feeling, Emil? Tell me. You recog- 
 nize me, don't you? Do you know where you are?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," answered Joncke 's voice heavily. "I 
 know quite well. This is the Herr Bin-germeister's
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 323 
 
 wagon. It is taking me to Innsbruck. And you are 
 the policeman. Because I have killed my friend. He 
 was very kind to me, Charley was. But not quite kind 
 enough. Once he left me alone. So I killed him. And 
 now now I am in hell ! ' ' 
 
 Toni turned a terrified white face. 
 
 ' ' Herr Doktor, he will get better ? You will make him 
 well again, won't you?" 
 
 Edwards laughed. 
 
 "Am I God?" he said. "To kill and make alive? 
 To lift up whom I will, and cast down whom I choose ? ' ' 
 
 Toni was more frightened than ever. A single tear 
 trickled down his freckled nose.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 INSTEAD of pushing on immediately to Innsbruck, Ed- 
 wards spent the night at Kufstein. For Joncke, like 
 most similar cases, grew worse late in the day, and it 
 seemed safer to travel with him in the earlier, quieter 
 hours of the morning. So they sent Toni back with the 
 wagon. Saying good-by to this red-headed child, who 
 still limped a little, and who, as the custom was, bent 
 down to kiss Edwards' hand in the midst of the village 
 street, was for Edwards the hardest task of all. Yet as 
 he watched Toni drive off, back towards the valley he 
 was never to see again, he felt as if the last link had 
 snapped, and was conscious of a sense of peace. 
 
 He avoided the ' ' Golden Swan. ' ' The hotel reminded 
 him too strongly of his first night in Kufstein, so many 
 months ago. He preferred to take Joncke to a tiny, very 
 dirty hostelry in a side street, where he was kept awake 
 all night by some carousing students in a restaurant 
 across the way, who only knew one drinking-song, "Im 
 tiefen Keller sitz' ich hier," and who sang it, with brief 
 intermissions for fresh beer, until day broke and they 
 wandered, still singing, home. 
 
 At breakfast 'Joncke announced that he was unworthy 
 to touch food. There was nothing to be done. Ed- 
 wards knew that he must hurry him to the Clinic, where 
 he could be artificially fed. 
 
 They left Kufstein very early in the morning, so that 
 it was only nine o'clock when the train puffed over the 
 long viaduct into Innsbruck. Edwards stood at the win- 
 dow, watching for familiar landmarks: the glistening 
 windows of the Hungerburg, high over the city; the old 
 round building where strangers were induced to pay a 
 crown for the sight of a circular panorama of Andreas 
 
 324
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 325 
 
 Hofer and the fight on Berg Isel; Saggen, the fashion- 
 able villa quarter; the dreary disused exhibition hall; 
 the ugly twin towers of the University church, where 
 no student of the University ever set foot; and, in the 
 misty distance above the roofs, the tall brick chimney 
 that marked the site of the General Hospital. 
 
 Edwards felt quite excited. After all, he had lived 
 in this place for three years, and had been away from 
 it these many months. It was almost like coming home. 
 
 Joncke followed him obediently out of the station. 
 The jovial red-cheeked concierge of the Tyrolerhof 
 touched his cap, and Edwards stopped for a moment to 
 ask about one of his children, whose case had interested 
 him in the Clinic the winter before. It was pleasant to 
 be remembered. 
 
 "It's because I grew up in a small provincial city, 
 I suppose," Edwards said, although Joncke paid no 
 heed. ' ' I like to have people know me, and speak to me 
 on the street. It warms me inside." 
 
 He put Joncke into one of the old rickety cabs, an un- 
 precedented luxury for them both, and drove off through 
 the familiar streets. It was mid-summer. The place 
 was packed with tourists of all kinds. From sedate 
 English spinsters with blue veils drawn taut across their 
 thin red noses, to whole families of northern Germans 
 papa in a Jaeger vest and rubber collar, mamma with 
 the " rucksack," her gray skirts held high with four 
 large shining safety-pins, and, straggling along behind, 
 their children, the girls with tightly-tied yellow pig- 
 tails, the boy very scrawny in the leg, very bulgy as 
 to the forehead, with a green tin box for natural history 
 specimens slung over his narrow chest. They were all 
 there, all the types that Edwards knew so well. And 
 the city his city was given over to them wholly. The 
 native population had fled. He saw very few faces that 
 he recognized. 
 
 But at the gate of the hospital he was among his own 
 people again. As the wagon passed through, the old 
 Bohemian porter waddled out of his lodge, as his duty 
 was, his hands clasped across his mighty stomach.
 
 326 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Jesses-Maria-und-Josepf !" he grunted. "The Herr 
 Mister!" 
 
 Edwards told the driver to wait. It would not take 
 long to put Joncke in proper care. Then he would drive 
 back to the station, where he had left his luggage, and 
 take a ticket to to 
 
 Exactly where, he had not yet decided. Later on, he 
 could write to the Innsbruck Kredit-Anstalt for letters 
 and money ; he knew that his small quarterly draft from 
 America must be due soon. He would go south, into 
 Italy, on foot. That would be cheap. He would be far 
 from the railway, and people could not reach him. In 
 a month or two he would be forgotten. 
 
 The Psychiatric Clinic is the last of the pavilions at 
 the very bottom of the hospital garden. To reach it, 
 one must pass the walls of the Surgical Division; and 
 there is a break in this wall, shut off by a high wire 
 fence; a break between two wings, that gives on a little 
 inner playground, where the "surgical children," who 
 are convalescing, sit in the sun. 
 
 Edwards took Joncke 's arm and started through the 
 garden. 
 
 There were not many patients about, only a bent old 
 woman or two in the hideous hospital uniform of dirty 
 red and white stripes. But clinging to the inner side 
 of the wire fence that spanned the gap between the two 
 surgical wings, was a small, very thin boy, with immense 
 black eyes. And his eyes, though sunken in circles of 
 blue, were keen. 
 
 He gave a single whoop of delight, in a shrill uncer- 
 tain treble. And as Edwards passed a blue-veined hand 
 shot out through a gap in the wire fence and caught him 
 by the sleeve. 
 
 "Herr Mister!" piped the shrill voice. The hand 
 held fast to Edwards' arm, and the same voice called 
 excitedly, "Quick come quick. It's our Herr Mister. 
 He's come back at last." 
 
 The other children came tumbling, tripping, limping 
 across the grass, a mass of red-and-white striped little
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 327 
 
 figures. Hands were stretched through the iron fence. 
 Questions were shouted all at once. 
 
 "Herr Mister, I'm much better." 
 
 "Herr Mister, I've got them yet, the tin soldiers." 
 
 ''My leg's mended, Herr Mister. I'm going home 
 next week." 
 
 ' ' Herr Mister, when are you coming again ? ' ' 
 
 "When, Herr Mister when ?" 
 
 Then, above the crowded heads, appeared the white 
 flapping wings of a nun's habit. Beneath it was the 
 face of Sister Angelica, a thin mite of a woman with 
 tired eyes. She was excited, angry. 
 
 "Shame, children, shame! You know the Herr Pro- 
 fessor has forbidden you to annoy passers-by." 
 
 A smile slowly softened the sharp angles of her face. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Herr Mister. I might have known it. 
 Are you coming back to us soon?" 
 
 She pushed the children away, but the little lad with 
 the big black eyes clung tenaciously to the wire fence 
 with both hands. 
 
 ' ' You remember him, don 't you ? ' ' the sister went on. 
 "The factory boy that got crushed under a falling 
 weight. You must remember when he was in the exten- 
 sion bandages, with the weights at his head and feet, 
 and you came in and sat by him and set up tin soldiers 
 on his chest. He is to be sent home soon. We can't 
 keep him here. And he's as well as he'll ever be." 
 
 She lowered her voice. 
 
 ' ' But he has been in terror lest he should be discharged 
 before you came back. You know, we expected you in 
 May, when the summer semester began. Ever since he 
 has waited and waited. Each morning, as soon as he 
 was out of bed, he'd come to this fence, where he could 
 see the medical students pass by. The Herr Professor 
 has forbidden it; but he slipped off whenever I wasn't 
 looking. ' ' 
 
 ' ' And he has been waiting all these weeks for me ? " 
 
 The sister nodded, her linen head-dress flapping 
 against the fence.
 
 328 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "If you could spare him a few minutes, this morning 
 perhaps, he'd sleep soundly to-night. Now that he has 
 seen you, there will be no holding him until he has had 
 a chance to tell you a thousand-and-one unimportant 
 things." 
 
 She bobbed a clumsy little curtsey and moved off. 
 
 But the boy still clung to the wire fence. He plucked 
 Edwards again by the sleeve. 
 
 "I say," he whispered, "I am glad. I'll get better 
 now. ' ' 
 
 And as Edwards turned away, the big black eyes fol- 
 lowed him. 
 
 In the Psychiatric Clinic, Edwards went at once to 
 the "Duty Boom," where he knew he should find one of 
 the assistants. A slight young man, with a black fuzzy 
 beard, jumped up from the table where he was writing 
 case notes. 
 
 "You, Herr Mister ! Come in come in. What luck ! 
 You didn't expect to find me here, I suppose. I didn't 
 expect it myself. But the post was vacant. And I 
 hadn't the heart to go to go home. Not this summer. 
 My father I told you about it, I think." 
 
 Edwards held out his hand. He had caught sight of 
 the black trousers below the hem of the white duck tunic. 
 So here was another man who had once been overjoyed 
 at the thought of going home; and now the joy was 
 taken from him too. But he said nothing ; words of con- 
 dolence came hard to him always. 
 
 "Thanks," the little Freiherr von Atems went on. 
 "It is rather hard just at first. And this isn't the sort 
 of duty I like, you know. Tuberculosis is what fas- 
 cinates me. Well, a man has got to do some sort of 
 work or go mad. By the way, are you going back to 
 active service yourself in the Surgical?" 
 
 Edwards shook his head. He thought of Joncke wait- 
 ing on the patients' bench outside the door. Neverthe- 
 less he let his friend talk on. It was pleasant to hear 
 him. The old loved atmosphere of the place gathered 
 about Edwards as he listened. 
 
 "But you will go, of course, eventually. Old Schroe-
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 329 
 
 der has been singing your praises. It seems you 've been 
 doing surgical wonders out there in that god-forsaken 
 place, where I met you a few days ago. He says you are 
 built for a surgeon, anaesthetic hands and all that." 
 
 Edwards hazarded a question. 
 
 "Is he operating then, the Herr Professor? I thought 
 that that ." 
 
 "So did everyone else. But last Saturday he turned 
 up suddenly at the Clinic. There happened to be sev- 
 eral bad cases lying there, hopeless ones almost. But 
 he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. Of those four, 
 he pulled three through. And since then he has been at 
 it day and night, spending long hours in the wards, look- 
 ing into all kinds of petty details that he used to leave 
 to the staff. It's as if he had a sort of grudge against 
 death and wanted to get even." 
 
 Von Atems paused for an instant. Then he added in 
 a lower tone 
 
 "He'd have gone utterly smash if he hadn't started 
 to work. And I'm looking to work to help me. That's 
 where we doctors have our hold on life. People fall 
 ill, and they have to be helped. They have to be. And 
 the losses and troubles that happen to ourselves get 
 pushed into the background. They seem so little. The 
 fight with disease and death is too exciting to leave time 
 for anything less important. "When a soldier's on the 
 firing line he doesn't worry because his collar has come 
 
 unbuttoned. But you've something to tell me. Let's 
 
 hear." 
 
 Edwards sketched Joncke's case as concisely as he 
 could. Then he brought the schoolmaster into the room. 
 
 "We'll take care of him, never fear," said Von Atems. 
 "Speaking for myself, it doesn't look like a 'dementia 
 praecox' to me. He'll probably get over it. It may 
 come on again when he's an old man. But until then 
 he ought to have long, long years of good use out of his 
 think machine. ' ' 
 
 "Then I'm off." 
 
 He came up to Joncke and held out his hand. Uoncke 
 shook his head.
 
 330 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "I am not worthy to take anyone's hand," he said in 
 his toneless even voice. "Have you told the Herr Dok- 
 tor here how I murdered the only man who was ever 
 really kind to me? 'You go to sleep, Emil,' he said, 
 'and when you wake up I'll he here. I'll be here al- 
 ways.' That's what he said. And then one day he 
 wasn't there. Perhaps he didn't know how much I 
 needed him. But I couldn't go on like that, falling 
 asleep and expecting to see him when I woke, and then 
 waking to find him gone: so I killed him. Strumpl- 
 Jonas made the coffin. We saw it drying yesterday in 
 the sun." 
 
 Von Atems rang for a nursing sister and put Joncke 
 in her care. Then, as he shook hands with Edwards at 
 the door of the Clinic, he said 
 
 "I hope you aren't leaving town just yet. You must 
 be within call when this patient of yours starts to get 
 better. Once he recognizes you, his fixed idea of having 
 murdered his friend will seem to him what it really is, 
 a sickness something to be overcome. And that will 
 be the beginning of his recovery. ' ' 
 
 "But if I'm not here " 
 
 "You must let me have your address. It may be of 
 the most vital importance." 
 
 Edwards hurried away. He wished now that he had 
 never come to Innsbruck. On every side it seemed as 
 if people were deliberately binding him with cords, so 
 that he could not get away. And he must go he must, 
 while yet his will held firm. 
 
 Joncke would get better without him. He could not 
 think of others now. His driver was waiting for him 
 at the outer gate and he had no money to waste on cabs. 
 But as he hastened along towards the porter's lodge he 
 caught sight of the wire fence between the two wings 
 of the Surgical Pavilion. 
 
 That child with the big black eyes! 
 
 What would happen if he, whom the child had 
 waited for, never came? The boy would be unhappy 
 for a day or so, but that would pass. Children forget so 
 easily.
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 331 
 
 He told himself this a hundred times. And yet, be- 
 fore he realized it, he had turned to his right and was 
 climbing the steps that led into the surgical wards. 
 
 Once inside the outer door, the clean familiar smells 
 were like incense in his nostrils. On the left lay the 
 waiting-room for the out-patients. He heard a door open 
 and a doctor's voice call out, "Who's next? No, not 
 you, you big hulking lout ! Aren 't you ashamed to push 
 in front of an old woman ? ' ' 
 
 Down the long flagged corridor he went. On this 
 corridor were the small private rooms, reserved for mem- 
 bers of the staff. In one of them, in the room belonging 
 to the ' ' Herr Dozent, ' ' who was First Assistant now and 
 second in command after Professor Schroeder, Edwards 
 had been accustomed to leave his coat when he exchanged 
 it for the white duck tunic of active clinical service, a 
 courtesy allowed him as an older student, and because 
 the Herr Dozent had been especially kind to him always. 
 
 He stopped outside the door. Was his white tunic 
 still hanging there, he wondered. He remembered that 
 Sister Angelica, the little sister in the children's ward, 
 had made him two tunics with his name stitched in red 
 thread under the collar. And if he were going into the 
 Children's Pavilion he could not make his visit there 
 in these dusty travel-stained clothes. That would never 
 do. 
 
 He knocked. No one answered. Evidently the Herr 
 Dozent was on duty somewhere. He turned the handle. 
 
 Yes, there was his tunic, hanging up in its old place, 
 freshly washed, more spotlessly white than ever. 
 
 In an instant he had slipped out of his coat, had 
 turned up his cuffs, and was thrusting one arm into the 
 soft white sleeve, when the door opened quickly and the 
 Herr Dozent came in. 
 
 Edwards began to explain. 
 
 But the other cut him short decisively in the kind, 
 very quiet voice that Edwards knew so well, a voice 
 that was never raised in excitement even during the 
 most complicated operation, when everything was going 
 wrong and the chief was bellowing like a wounded steer,
 
 332 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 a voice that instantly restored confidence even to the 
 most nervous beginner sweating over his first hernia. 
 And as the voice was, so was the man tall, spare, with 
 clean-shaven jaw and steel-blue eyes: a body absolutely 
 under the control of an all-directing will. Not only a 
 \ great surgeon, but one of the best outdoor athletes in 
 > Austria, and withal a most kindly, courteous gentleman, 
 as courteous to the most wretched woman from the 
 slums as to the highest privy councilor who was having 
 his appendix removed in a moment of over-powering 
 terror after eating too much salmon. 
 
 With Baron von Saar his family was of the old Salz- 
 burg nobility there was never any need for explanation 
 or for the embarrassment that precedes it. He under- 
 stood without explanations. 
 
 So Edwards felt now. He was at his ease in an in- 
 stant. 
 
 "Reporting again for duty, Herr Kollega?" said the 
 Herr Dozent, stepping quickly to his desk for a letter 
 that he had apparently forgotten. ' ' That 's right. Glad 
 to see you always. There are three interesting cases in 
 the theater. The chief is doing them all. Better have 
 a look in." 
 
 He started off again towards the door. Edwards knew 
 that every instant of this man's time was completely 
 filled by his never hurrying, never resting activity. Yet 
 a thought had suddenly risen from his subconsciousness. 
 It dominated him. Here was someone whom he could 
 trust a man who himself was sure. 
 
 "Herr Dozent, I know you're frightfully busy; but 
 I I'm in trouble, and I I " 
 
 Von Saar closed the door softly. The atmosphere 
 of intense activity that surrounded him ceased to make 
 itself felt. He had put it aside. And his will, all his 
 attention, was bent on the task before him, the task 
 of listening to someone who had asked for help. 
 
 In a few minutes Edwards had told him all that was 
 necessary. 
 
 "Strip, please." 
 
 Half an hour later Edwards was retying his cravat
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 333 
 
 and listening to the Herr Dozent, who was tapping the 
 table with the rim of his stethoscope. 
 
 "If everyone who had had or who still possessed a 
 few of old Koch 's bacilli in his organism, should sit down 
 and propose to die of 'T-B-C.,' we'd have to stop dig- 
 ging- graves and bury the people by cartfuls; and spit- 
 ting a little blood need not mean that you've only one 
 lung. As a matter of fact you've two. There is one 
 tiny spot that sounds suspicious; but you mustn't im- 
 agine yourself a martyr and think you acquired it in 
 that precious valley of yours. Why, you've only been 
 there four or five months. No, no. Whatever assorted 
 lots of Koch's animals you've got, you've had for some 
 time. I daresay, from one of the cases here. And your 
 heart's all right. Nothing wrong about it organically, 
 only you're too infernally nervous. Take care of your- 
 self, don't worry, get proper food, and above all, live in 
 the sun, with your clothes off, if possible. I've just 
 been up to Lysin to see Rollier's new 'T-B-C.' sana- 
 taria. And I tell you, if the sun keeps on shining, as 
 I suppose it will, people will soon be able to worry along 
 without so many of us surgeons. Besides, when a medi- 
 cal man gets a disease you can be pretty sure he has only 
 got the symptoms, out of his books." 
 
 "But my work " 
 
 "You'll find work right enough. I daresay there are 
 the makings of a surgeon in you. You're too much 
 on edge ever to be an operator after my own heart. But 
 then, it isn't only the absolutely steady hand that takes 
 the surest stitches. See you in the theater, I suppose." 
 
 "Thanks. I am rather upset this morning. All sorts 
 of coincidences have bothered me. It seems as if the 
 universe had stopped still in order to make me do what 
 I have decided not to. ' ' 
 
 The Herr Dozent opened the door. His habitual look 
 of quiet intense activity had come over him again. 
 
 "Better let the universe have its way, unless there's 
 a woman mixed up in it then let her have hers. She '11 
 turn out to be the universe, or make you think so, which 
 amounts to the same thing. Auf Wiedersehen. No,
 
 334 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 please don't thank me. I'm only too glad to be of use. 
 What else are we here for?" 
 
 Edwards slipped into his tunic. 
 
 He had started on his way to the children's ward, 
 when he met Sister Angelica carrying a tray laden down 
 with steaming cups of soup. 
 
 "They'll be eating now," she said. 
 
 "Then I'll come later. What do you suppose that 
 child wants of me?" 
 
 Sister Angelica smiled at him across the mist that rose 
 from her heavy tray. 
 
 "Nothing, I 'spect," she answered, "except to see you. 
 Children are like that. Women too." 
 
 And she staggered off under her burden. 
 
 Edwards turned back and went into the operating 
 theater that served also as a lecture-room during term- 
 time; but the summer semester was over long since. 
 Now rows of empty benches encircled a free space in the 
 center. To these benches there was an entrance at the 
 back. Edwards came in by this door. Then he walked 
 down to the front bench that stood on the very border 
 of the free circular space, and sat down. 
 
 Professor Schroeder was just finishing an operation. 
 He nodded to Edwards. The assistant began to sew up 
 the wound ; the Professor took off his rubber gloves and 
 plunged his hands into hot water. 
 
 Edwards marveled at the change in him. He was 
 no longer the broken trembling old man whom he had 
 met on the road to Liebenegg a week ago. The lines in 
 his face had deepened here and there, but he was him' 
 self again. 
 
 "Next case," he called. 
 
 An operating-table, with the patient lying bound on 
 it, was rushed into the theater. After it a smaller table 
 with fresh instruments. Then there came a pause. The 
 Professor began to fume. 
 
 "Who's anaesthetising ? Dr. Stanning? Well, where 
 is he? Smoking a cigarette in the hall, I suppose. 
 Clever fingers, but a thoughtless head. I can 't wait for 
 him. I've another Gastroenterostomia after this one."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 335 
 
 He turned to Edwards. 
 
 "Herr Kollega, come along, do, and take this case for 
 me." 
 
 Edwards came down into the theater. The patient, 
 an emaciated woman, was lying bound to the table, her 
 body rigid, her eyes shining with terror. Edwards 
 picked up the chloroform mask. As'he bent over the 
 woman's head from behind her to examine her mouth 
 and throat, she looked up at him, and the terror went 
 out of her eyes like a snuffed-out candle. 
 
 "Oh, it's you, Herr Mister," she said. "You must 
 remember me, Frau Dobler, and my little girl who had 
 the appendicitis. There's a some 'at wrong in my in- 
 sides too. But I've been that afraid of being cut up. 
 Specially, when I don't know what they're a-doing." 
 
 "It will be all right, Frau Dobler," Edwards an- 
 swered. He did not remember the woman in the least. 
 "I am going to put you to sleep. You won't feel any- 
 thing. And when you wake up the cutting will be all 
 over." 
 
 "And you'll stay by me while they're cutting? And 
 till I wake up? Well, then, I suppose it will be all 
 right, if you say so. No, I ain't got no false teeth. 
 What? Count? One two three. Like that? What 
 a funny smell ! And you '11 be there while they 're sew- 
 ing me up ? Yes, I '11 count. Four five six. ' ' 
 
 Gradually her voice trailed off; the counting grew 
 slower and slower, less and less distinct. She began to 
 repeat numbers, to make mistakes. 
 
 ' ' Fifty-six sixty-eight sixty-eight sixty-six ' ' 
 
 Then a long deep breath, and the voice stopped. 
 
 Edwards was lifting the eyelid to watch the reaction 
 of the pupil, when he heard the Professor say 
 
 "Preposterous! How dare you bring me a card when 
 I'm beginning an operation? She'll have to wait. I 
 don't care who she is. Get out." 
 
 The servant laid the card on a corner of the wash- 
 stand and disappeared. He was used to being sworn at 
 by Professor Schroeder; and the lady had given him a 
 very fat tip.
 
 336 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 "Is she deep enough under?" asked the Professor. 
 
 Edwards raised the eyelid once more, and bent down 
 to catch the breathing of the unconscious woman. 
 
 "I think so, sir." 
 
 The Professor took up his scalpel. 
 
 Twenty minutes passed in comparative silence. Then 
 the Professor stepped down from the footstool on which 
 he had been standing in order to reach the patient. He 
 was a little man. 
 
 "Anesthetic off!" he said. 
 
 Edwards lifted the mask from the unconscious 
 woman's face. 
 
 "Next case." 
 
 Professor Schroeder took off his gloves and dipped his 
 hands into the steaming water. As he did so he glanced 
 at the card that the servant had laid on the wash- 
 stand. 
 
 "No, wait a moment," he added; "I'll be back pres- 
 ently." 
 
 Edwards busied himself with the woman. The as- 
 sistant had bandaged her, and now two adjutants lifted 
 her from the table on to a rolling bed that stood near. 
 Edwards sat down on the edge of it, and pushed the 
 woman's straggling hair back from her forehead, dank 
 with heavy perspiration. 
 
 At last she opened her eyes. Her head rolled from 
 side to side. He smoothed out her pillow, laid her a 
 little lower down, and buttoned up the coarse night- 
 dress about the scraggy neck. Her lips moved ; she tried 
 to smile. 
 
 "You're there," she murmured. "I am glad. You 
 make a body feel so safe. ' ' 
 
 He got up from the bed to straighten out the blankets, 
 and, as he turned, he saw her. 
 
 So absorbed had he been that he had not heard her 
 come in. And now she stood at the foot of the bed, with 
 little John beside her. 
 
 She held out her hands. 
 
 "We should feel safe with you too," she said. "You
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 337 
 
 give so freely to the least of these. Have you nothing 
 left for us?" 
 
 Edwards hung his head. He was encompassed on 
 every side. He knew that there was no escape. And 
 he was glad. 
 
 "Edwards," said the voice of the Herr Professor, who 
 was making a most tremendous noise over the rewash- 
 ing of his hands, ''we'll take that other Gastroenter- 
 ostomia at once. Perhaps you'll assist me this time. 
 I've never seen you work, you know. Hurry up and 
 wash. ' ' 
 
 "But I can't, sir," Edwards answered. "Just now, 
 I'm afraid that I that I 
 
 "Nonsense," interposed the Professor, holding high 
 his dripping hands, as he crossed the room to the basin 
 of corrosive-sublimate where his fresh gloves lay. "^Why 
 can 't you do both ? ' ' 
 
 "Both?" 
 
 The old man's keen eyes rested for a moment on 
 mother and son. Then they took in the whole Clinic in 
 one sweeping glance. 
 
 "Yes, lieber Herr Kollega, both. And one all the 
 better for the other." 
 
 The woman on the bed, still under the influence of 
 the anaesthetic, opened her eyes again, looked about her, 
 and not finding what she sought, stretched out her trem- 
 bling hand. 
 
 Little John tugged gently at Edwards' sleeve. 
 
 "She wants your hand," he said. 
 
 And Edwards slipped his left hand into the grasp of 
 the sick woman's faltering fingers. 
 
 His right hand was no longer his to give.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THREE years had passed. Father Mathias was riding 
 along the winding road that leads up from the plain to 
 the castle of ' ' Lebensegg. " The Biirgermeister 's old 
 white horse that he bestrode was a little more over in 
 the knees ; his own black straw hat was a little shabbier ; 
 his long hair a little grayer; himself a little fatter. 
 That was all. 
 
 It was a warm April afternoon. The sun had been 
 very hot, and Father Mathias was glad of the thick 
 shade that covered the last part of his long ride. This 
 was his first visit of the year. The road had been too 
 bad hitherto. And he had been down with his gout. 
 The old Benefiziat was dead; he had a curate now, a 
 very correct and pious young man, sent by the Prince- 
 Bishop, and highly approved of by His Grace. 
 
 Father Mathias' approval was not so absolute. How- 
 ever, that was a detail. 
 
 "I hope they haven't quite spoilt the place," he said 
 to himself. "In the last two summers they did more 
 than enough, heaven knows. Well, well. I suppose 
 modern plumbing and an artistic atmosphere don't go 
 together somehow. I didn't mind their changing the 
 name to 'Lebensegg,' 'Life's Corner.' The corner that 
 you turn when you have been ill and have made up your 
 mind not to go any farther on the road to death. Not 
 bad. But then, what was the matter with ' Liebenegg ' ? 
 ' Love and Life. ' You can 't have one without the other. ' ' 
 
 He took out his worn Breviary and began to say a 
 neglected office as the old white horse climbed the hill. 
 
 At the end of an antiphon he closed the book for a 
 moment. 
 
 "I suppose they'll want me to say mass in the big 
 courtyard for the children. Not that they believe a 
 
 338
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 339 
 
 iword of it. The heathen ! May the Saints protect them 
 both. But they conform. I like that. So do our peo- 
 ple. And after all, whether it's a sacrifice of God's 
 Body and Blood or of pure Bread and Wine, it's our 
 common oifering-up of Life to the greater Life around 
 us, so that our Life may be given back to us stronger 
 
 and more worth the living. Now I wonder what the 
 
 Prince-Bishop of Brixen would say to that." He 
 chuckled. "Better not ask him, Father Mathias. 
 You're too old to be burned. Though you'd make a 
 fine fire." 
 
 He finished his office and tucked the book under his 
 arm. 
 
 He was at the top of the hill now. The old stone 
 portal stood there unchanged. And through it the 
 priest rode slowly into the wide green courtyard. 
 
 Whatever alterations had been wrought elsewhere, 
 they were not apparent here. The two round towers 
 still rose majestically above the trees. From one of 
 them flew the black-and-gold of Austria ; from the other 
 what seemed to the priest's weak eyes a very compli- 
 cated banner with red-and-white stripes. There was 
 blue somewhere in it too. 
 
 Over the great expanse of green turf, bounded on the 
 left by the old wall that rimmed the edge of the rock, 
 the sun shone, and shone, and shone. 
 
 It seemed to Father Mathias that never had he seen 
 so much sunshine before. 
 
 In the corner farthest away he noticed people moving 
 about. He shaded his dazzled eyes. There were long 
 lines of white beds. There were parallel bars and sev- 
 eral other kinds of gymnastic apparatus. And among 
 the beds and across the grass, on the bars, the trapezes, 
 and the ladders, there swarmed a horde of quickly-mov- 
 ing little white shapes. 
 
 " They've twice as many this year as last," he said 
 aloud. "But, bless my soul, really, they are very 
 naked, very ! ' ' 
 
 The sound of his horse's hoofs had brought a groom 
 running. A red-headed groom in very baggy breeches
 
 340 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 and very shiny, tight leather gaiters. A groom, I re- 
 gret to say, with a cigarette in his mouth. As he saun- 
 tered magnificently forward he limped a little. 
 
 "What's doing?" demanded the priest. 
 
 The small groom made obeisance and stood bare- 
 headed. 
 
 "It's afternoon 'Visit,' Hochwiirden. Can't you see 
 HIM?" 
 
 "Him?" 
 
 "Yes, HIM." It was a personal pronoun of Majesty. 
 "And the Gracious Lady, too. We've got 'most two 
 hundred now. The older ones have to go to school iii 
 the morning. Herr Joncke has his hands full. And 
 there's a new Herr Doktor, a young one, with a fuzzy 
 black beard. Looks like a Jew. Only he ain't. He's 
 a lord or a duke. Fine, Hochwiirden, ain 't it ? " 
 
 ' ' And the young master ? ' ' 
 
 "Coming next week from school in England. A big 
 strong fellow he's grown to be. Last summer he could 
 swim farther 'an me. He could. Let me take your 
 horse, Hochwiirden. They'll be through in a minute 
 now. ' ' 
 
 But Father Mathias did not seem to hear. 
 
 His eyes were following a figure in a white tunic, ac- 
 companied by a tall woman, whose hair made a golden 
 aureole about her as she lifted her head and smiled 
 whenever her companion turned to her for a moment 
 from his work. And wherever the white figure passed, 
 a child here and there would slip from its couch or leave 
 its play, and follow, catching at the edge of his tunic 
 or holding fast to one of his hands, until he laughingly 
 pushed them all aside and leaned down over another 
 bed. 
 
 The old priest took off his blue goggles and rubbed 
 his red-rimmed eyes. 
 
 "The Good Shepherd," he said aloud. "The Good 
 Shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. And as long as 
 that's true, the Christian religion isn't quite so dead 
 as these two dear people are pleased to believe. It will 
 last out a few years yet."
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 341 
 
 He looked down at the little groom. 
 
 "Toni," he said, "how did it go, that last line of 
 yours in the Passion-Play ? ' ' 
 
 The little groom threw away his cigarette. 
 
 "And so, " he said slowly. 
 
 Together he and the old priest signed themselves with 
 the cross, from forehead to breast, from shoulder to 
 shoulder 
 
 "And so, God bless us all. Amen." 
 
 Then taking the rusty stirrup in his hand, he helped 
 the priest to dismount. 
 
 THE END
 
 THERN REGIONAL LIBRARY .FACILITY 
 
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