Dorothea came down from putting the little ones in their beds; the
cuckoo-clock in the corner struck eight; she looked to her father and
the untouched pipe, then sat down to her spinning, saying nothing. She
thought he had been drinking in some tavern; it had been often so with
him of late.
There was a long silence; the cuckoo called the quarter twice; August
dropped asleep, his curls falling over his face; Dorothea's wheel
hummed like a cat.
Suddenly Karl Strehla struck his hand on the table, sending the pipe
to the ground.
"I have sold Hirschvogel," he said; and his voice was husky and
ashamed in his throat. The spinning-wheel stopped. August sprang erect
out of his sleep.
"Sold Hirschvogel!" If their father had dashed the holy crucifix on
the floor at their feet and spat on it, they could not have shuddered
under the horror of a greater blasphemy.
"I have sold Hirschvogel!" said Karl Strehla, in the same husky,
dogged voice. "I have sold it to a travelling trader in such things
for two hundred florins. What would you?--I owe double that. He saw it
this morning when you were all out. He will pack it and take it to
Munich to-morrow."
Dorothea gave a low shrill cry:
"Oh, father?--the children--in midwinter!"
She turned white as the snow without; her words died away in her
throat.
August stood, half blind with sleep, staring with dazed eyes as his
cattle stared at the sun when they came out from their winter's
prison.
Pages:
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265