There was no sound in the dark, hushed church; the gloom grew
darker over Findelkind's eyes; the mighty forms of monarchs and of
heroes grew dim before his sight. He lost consciousness, and fell
prone upon the stones at Theodoric's feet; for he had fainted from
hunger and emotion.
When he awoke it was quite evening; there was a lantern held over
his head; voices were muttering curiously and angrily; bending
over him were two priests, a sacristan of the church, and his own
father. His little wallet lay by him on the stones, always empty.
"Boy of mine! were you mad?" cried his father, half in rage, half
in tenderness. "The chase you have led me!--and your mother
thinking you were drowned!--and all the working day lost, running
after old women's tales of where they had seen you! Oh, little
fool, little fool! what was amiss with Martinswand, that you must
leave it?"
Findelkind slowly and feebly rose, and sat up on the pavement, and
looked up, not at his father, but at the knight Theodoric.
"I thought they would help me to keep the poor," he muttered
feebly, as he glanced at his own wallet." And it is empty--
empty."
"Are we not poor enough?" cried his father, with natural
impatience, ready to tear his hair with vexation at having such a
little idiot for a son. "Must you rove afield to find poverty to
help, when it sits cold enough, the Lord knows, at our own hearth?
Oh, little ass, little dolt, little maniac, fit only for a
madhouse, talking to iron figures and taking them for real men!
What have I done, O heaven, that I should be afflicted thus?"
And the poor man wept, being a good affectionate soul, but not
very wise, and believing that his boy was mad.
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