He went to a cupboard, where stood a long line of ragged folios, containing church and parish documents, took out a volume, and, opening it, pointed to a page dated 1807.
"On March 5th, died Hans Eberhard von Schranden. _Ex memoria hominum exstinguatur_."
"Yes, my son," the old man answered solemnly, "that is a palpable, shameless forgery; a stain on my office; and if you choose to report it to the magistrates, I shall be suspended and end my days in prison. Do exactly as you think fit. My fate lies in your hands."
A shudder of mingled horror and reverence passed through Boleslav. He had himself experienced too often the wild _élan_ and reckless delight of making sacrifices for the love of his country, not to understand what impulse had driven the old clergyman to this insane confession.
"With those crosses," he continued, "I buried the man seven years ago--the man who, in spite of his cruelty and ungovernable passions, had till then been my friend. From that day, whoever dared to breathe so much as his name in my house was sent out of it. Then came that night of arson, when these walls were illumined by the reflection of the burning Castle. I jumped out of my bed, and, throwing myself on my knees, prayed God to forgive the incendiaries, for it began to burn at all four corners at once, a sure proof that the fire was not an accident. Now, I thought, not only the deed, but the scene of it, will be erased from men's minds. I didn't concern myself in the least about the spectre that was doomed to haunt the ruins of Castle Schranden. And now you come, my son, and tell me that that spectre was no spectre, but a living creature, who only a few days ago gave up the ghost, and now awaits interment. Well, I forbid it Christian burial, on the strength of this register. I never bury any one twice. Report me, and--and I shall be tried for my offence. But you know I am prepared. Do as you like. Bury the corpse with all the honours you consider due to it; have a procession grander and more imposing than an emperor's, but kindly leave me out of the show."
He settled himself in his green-cushioned armchair, supported his face with his wrinkled, muscular hands, and stared vacantly at the open register. There was nothing to hope from this iron-willed man of God. It would be madness to keep up any illusion on the subject, and that other illusion, that the loved one might still be won on earth after long waiting and renunciation, must be abandoned too. All the shy dreams and hopes that he had yet dared to cherish in his embittered heart now seemed finally wrecked.