“Follow me boldly, Carla!” he cried, as he again rode forward.
Carla answered not a syllable.
“It is all over between us,” said the Count to himself; “she will never forgive me as long as she lives.”
They rode on quickly, and had already reached the middle of the hollow, when the Count saw to his horror that the wall of surf, which had stood in the opening of the dunes, was in movement and seemed to be advancing towards them. For one moment he thought it was a delusion of his excited imagination, but only for a moment.
“On! for heaven’s sake, on!” he cried, urging his exhausted horse to its utmost speed with whip and spur. He did not look round, he dared not look behind him; he knew from the fearful roar that the wave had flung itself far inland—behind him!
The panting horse staggered up the slope—saved!
He had no need to pull his horse up; it stopped of itself. Carla stopped by his side. How had she got through? He could not tell, and took care not to ask.
And now he looked back.
For a hundred yards at least of the hollow they had crossed, a single stream now carried its dark waters foaming and roaring far inland. The Count saw it with a shudder; there could hardly be a question that the same wave must have broken through above also, on the other side of the Pölitz’s farm, and then in all probability the waters would have united behind the farm. If this were the case, only two places of refuge remained—the farm itself, or the lofty dune—called the White Dune—between the two hollows. The dune stood higher, but was farther off, and it was doubtful whether they could reach it as lower fields lay between it and the farm; besides, what would become of them up there?
“We will go to the farm,” said he, “if it were only to give the horses a rest in some sort of shelter; they can’t get on any farther.”
He rode slowly on in front, Carla followed. Her silence made him furious.
“Little fool!” he muttered between his teeth; “at the very moment when I am risking my life for her! And now to go to Pölitz—after the scene we had yesterday!—a pretty wind up to the whole affair—possibly to spend the whole night there!—I thought so!”
He had reached the highest point behind the farm garden, and for the first time could see beyond; the whole immense space between the farm and the Golmberg was one sea of wild waves! The sea must have broken through here even earlier.
He could see now too how the stream behind him had joined on the left with the sea before him. There was no communication possible now between this place and Warnow; they were on a long, narrow island, one end of which was lost in the waters towards Warnow, and whose highest point was the White Dune, though it was probably divided again between the farm and the hill.
The Count did not consider the position to be absolutely dangerous, but it was confoundedly disagreeable; and all on account of this mute, perverse young lady, who apparently honoured him with her hatred as thanks for all that he had done for her!
The Count was in a desperate frame of mind, as they now turned the corner of the outhouses towards the entrance to the farmyard. A man, whose rough hair was being blown wildly about his head by the wind, was vainly exerting his giant strength to shut the great wooden gate, the left half of which—the right was already bolted—was fixed to the wall as if by iron clamps by the force of the gale.
“I will help you, Pölitz!” called the County “only let us through first!”
The farmer, who had not heard them coming, let go the door which he had just freed, and sprang into the gateway, where he stood with his gigantic form in his torn clothes, his dishevelled hair, his face convulsed with despair and now with furious anger, and his bleeding hand clenched—a terrible vision to the Count’s guilty conscience.
“Come, be reasonable, Pölitz!” he cried.
“Back!” cried the farmer, catching hold of the horse’s bridle. “Back! we will die alone! Back with your mistress! I have got one of yours already here!”
The man had thrust back the horse with such violence that it almost fell. The Count pulled it up by a tremendous effort, so that it sprang forward. Pölitz started back to seize the pickaxe with which he had been working, and which lay behind him on the wall of the outhouse. At the same moment the unfastened half of the door was shut between him and those outside with such appalling violence, that the whole door was shattered as if it had been made of glass, and as its splinters fell, the beams of the falling roof of the barn crashed down just in front of the horses, who started back in mad terror, and turning short round, dashed across a fallow-field to the pollarded willows which used to stand at the edge of the common, but behind which now eddied the turbid waters of the invading flood; then turning off to the right, led by their instinct, they followed the field to the dune which rose in dusky whiteness before them. To have guided them would have been impossible, even if the terrified riders could have thought of such a thing. They were carried as if by the storm itself to the foot of the hill. The panting horses climbed and climbed, and pressed deeper into the sand, which gave way under their hoofs and rolled down into the stream, which rushed from one hollow to the other where a moment before had lain the fallow field between hill and farm.
Carla’s horse fell. The Count urged his on a few paces farther, and threw himself from the saddle at the instant
